Lost at sea

Tales my grandfather would have told me. A sailor's life 1910-1941

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Lost at Sea – 82. The sailmaker’s tale

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Monkbarns at sea, October 1925 - Old Man (Captain William Davies) Russell at helm and 'Sails', Henry Robertson

Monkbarns at sea, October 1925 – the Old Man (Captain William Davies), Ian Russell AB at helm and ‘Sails’ Robertson, private collection E. Bainbridge

One of the rare surviving photos of everyday life aboard Monkbarns shows a handsome man in a cap and leather waistcoat sitting on a low bench on the aft deck surrounded by folds and billows of canvas. His tools and twine are laid out in a neat “housewife” beside him, and both hands are busy as “Sails” looks up from his work to smile at the camera.

The master perches on the saloon skylight nearby in jacket and bow tie, having insisted on changing into his good shore-going gear for the occasion. In the background, a youth at the wheel studiously minds the sails overhead. The sea is calm and the sun is high.

Henry Robertson was 70 when the image was recorded in 1925 by the ship’s final English apprentice, Eugene Bainbridge, who brought a fresh eye and a Leica aboard with him.

“Sails” was a grizzled widower from the east coast of Scotland. He liked his own company and staring into the middle distance with his pipe, the master’s son recalled*, and would recite chunks of Sir Walter Scott’s epic poem Marmion to himself whenever he thought no one was listening.

He had been at sea all his life, the son of the court clerk of Montrose who’d died when he was six, leaving the family to experience “what it was like to have the sheriff officer in the house to take away the clock to pay for poor rates,” as he put it.

Back in Scotland were four grownup children, three daughters and a son, born at five year intervals to the pretty housemaid he’d met at a dance in Montrose in his thirties. She had died of tuberculosis in 1907, leaving the baby to be raised by her eldest daughter and younger sister. “Sails” was devoted to them all and wrote frequently to his daughters, but he preferred to stay afloat.

'Sails' Henry Robertson

Henry Robertson with his son and daughters in Dundee, 1920. Photograph private collection.

The girls concurred. A studio portrait from 1920 shows a handsome family, happy and relaxed around a proud father. But the girls were resilient and resourceful as well as beautiful; sea voyages were long and mails irregular, and for eight months after their mother’s death they’d forged her signature on their father’s allotment note, to keep receiving Henry’s pay and keep the family together. They also embroidered the truth a little locally, making out that he was a ship’s master rather than a sailmaker, and had run away to sea rather than follow in the footsteps of his stuffy town clerk father and grandfather.

In a letter written the year after his wife died, Henry describes being swept overboard in oilskins and seaboots that March during seven weeks of fearful bad weather south of Cape Horn and only narrowly escaping with his life by hanging onto the line he’d been repairing. “All I thought of when in the sea, ‘my bairns are Motherless now they are to be Fatherless’ – but God has had more for me to do, and saved me from a watery grave for a time.”

Ditton had endured “gale after gale, and the wind like to blow the old ship to pieces,” he wrote to his daughters. “I was in the sea a good while before anyone knew I was overboard, so when they did come to pull me up, I could not hold on so away I went again, I was so numbed with the icy seawater … The skipper says he never pulled so hard in his life as he did getting me on board.” The mountainous seas had also smashed the chart and wheel houses and carried away two of the lifeboats, he said.

Full rigged ship Ditton

Ditton – steel full-rigged ship built in 1891, sailed from Hamburg to Santa Rosalia, on the Pacific coast side of Mexico, in 180 days in 1907

It is an account that seems to offer little reassurance for 18-year-old Nell left caring for her three-year-old brother, but when Henry briefly attempted life ashore, his youngest daughter, Jean, later looked back on it as the worst two years of her life. The girls were used to doing things their own way, and Henry hated living on dry land. So back to sea he went. And at sea he remained.

He and Monkbarns were off Chile when the first world war began far away in Europe, and for five years they were kept busy carrying nitrates for explosives, and flour for troops – dodging enemy raiders and submarines and hunger and mutiny described elsewhere. In 1919, Monkbarns finally struggled home manned largely by apprentices. The old master and the young mate, my grandfather, quit. The “Old Man” – as masters are always called – retired to Australia, and Bert Sivell abandoned sail for oil tankers.

“Sails” hung on, and continued hanging on – patching and mending – as the ship and new young crew spent the next two years trying to beat steamers to peace-time cargoes. When Monkbarns was towed to Belgium in 1921 to be laid up alongside some of the world’s other surplus antiquated tonnage, “Sails” signed on as cook and bottlewasher. The master and mate were obliged to be aboard, but “Sails” was there, the master’s son wrote, “because he had no wish to be anywhere else”.

As the three tugs pushed and pulled them across the Channel in thick fog that September, Henry, leaning on the ship’s rail, puffing on his short black pipe as was his habit, will have passed the remains of HMS Vindictive still visible off the mole at Zeebrugge, and the deserted tangles of barbed wire in the sand dunes along the coast. Inland lay a lunar landscape of dead tree stumps, shell holes and trenches.

The U-boat shelters in Bruges

The U-boat shelters in Bruges, June 1919 – photograph: Australian War Memorial

Monkbarns came to rest in Bruges, seven miles from the sea, beside a row of concrete U-boat pens in an outer dock a mile’s walk and a tram ride from the great medieval cathedral and picturesque canals. Beside and behind her were three other laid-up ships, including Laeisz’s Perim and H. Hackfeld, confiscated from the Germans by the Allies as war reparations to the Italians. The ink was barely dry on the treaty of Versailles, ending the first world war, and around them Belgium was a wasteland.

Pretty Bruges itself, however, had survived the war largely unscathed as an enemy-occupied marine base, where German frontline troops came for brief R&R from the mud and blood of Ypres and Passchendaele, billeted on local families or in schools and churches. Officers of the Kaiser’s army came from miles around asking to see the town’s collection of Flemish Primitive paintings. The main damage was “friendly fire” from Allied attacks, parried by the new German Flugabwehrkanonen (Flak).

By Christmas 1921, there were lights and decorations, bright shops spilling light and warmth onto the cobbles, and fantastic chocolate confectionary too amazing to eat, according to Captain William Davies’ son, Ifor, who had arrived for the school holidays in the station cabbie’s horse-drawn landau. His mother and younger brother were already living aboard.

Ifor remembered fondly the warm welcome the Welsh family received from their “well-fed” Flemish butcher and his wife and daughter in the Grand’rue and the genteel patissier where they bought their bread, cakes and groceries. Mijnheer Lobrecht produced cigars for Captain Davies and thick slabs of chocolate for the children, while Monsieur Fasnacht – “a tall slender gracious old man with a sparse imperial beard and gold-rimmed spectacles” – conjured up steaming cups of hot chocolate.

At the moorings, too, a small convivial international community had formed, with lots of visiting. Captains Graziano, da Costa and Mazzoni poured mysterious drinks in tiny glasses and their wives introduced the family from Nefyn to ravioli. Communication was fractured, but no one minded.

During the summer, Sails could watch from the rail as the children played football on the concrete floor of the old German barracks, or rowed on the canal. Sometimes they took a trip on one of the barges plying the waterway to the sea, or helped local farmers picking fruit – returning with bags of fresh produce. In winter the dock froze, and they played on the ice around the ships until Mrs Davies called them in to eat. If the weather was bad, they hung around the warm galley, watching the old Scot prepare their meals, or huddled in the sail locker to watch him pushing the big needle to and fro through the mountains of canvas with his leather sail-maker’s palm.

Laid-up or not, the work of mending the standing rigging and patching and “roping” the sails – sewing on hemp bolt-rope edges for strength and identification – continued.

Arbroath from the harbour

Arbroath on the east coast of Scotland, immortalised by Sir Walter Scott in The Antiquary as “Fairport” (Private postcard)

Monkbarns spent 16 months in Belgium but Henry was only lured ashore once, on Christmas Eve, and then only came out of courtesey to Mrs Davies because, as her son put it, “he was a gentleman”. Mostly he kept himself to himself, refusing invitations to join the family in the saloon and settling instead in the warmth by the galley stove with his pipe. He was a keen reader with a rich booming voice, and loved to recite to himself for hours on end. He knew by heart enormous stretches of narrative poems like Marmion and The Lady of the Lake (“Where shall he find, in foreign land, so lone a lake, so sweet a strand…)

“Most of the time, we respected his privacy,” Ifor recalled. “But once in a while Dick [the mate] would tempt us after supper to leave the saloon and tiptoe towards the galley so that we could hear Sails. If we knocked at the door he would courteously invite us in, tell us to make ourselves at home, and then, without a trace of self-consciousness or condescension, continue where he had left off.”

To Henry, the works of Sir Walter Scott were not merely pleasant recreation but also a link with home. Monkbarns is the main character in Scott’s third Waverley novel, The Antiquary; a well-to-do collector living in an ancient house Scott based on Hospitalfield, Arbroath, the leprosy hospice founded in the 13th century by the monks of Arbroath abbey. Scott had stayed there as a guest. When Sails signed on with Monkbarns he gave his address as 24 Allan Street, Arbroath.

The ship Monkbarns was one of three commissioned for a prominent local canvas manufacturer. He named them Monkbarns, Fairport (as Scott called Arbroath in the novel) and Musselcrag – the abbey’s old fishing village, Auchmithie.

Steam-powered shipping was already cutting the demand for sailcloth by 1895, when Monkbarns was launched, but there was still a living to be made in sail, where the wind was free and labour cheap, and Arbroath was a mass of saw-tooth factory roofs and chimneys to prove it.

Charles Webster Corsar could have invested in steamers to bring in the Russian flax his factories needed, but the last surviving son of the weaver with the vision to buy James Watt’s engine chose instead to build sailing ships, and with a wry flourish he named them after a historical romance.

Henry Robertson and Josiah Arthur

Newspaper cutting from 1925 with Monkbarns ‘old-timers’ Sails Robertson and the ship’s cook, Josiah Arthur

ship's cook

Monkbarns’ cook, Josiah Arthur, photographed by Eugene Bainbridge. (Copyright)

A newspaper cutting from 1925 again shows Henry Robertson sitting on Monkbarns’ deck surrounded by canvas, now with the ship’s black cook, Josiah Arthur, posed beside him. The journalist describes them as “the knight of the needle and the cracker-hash king … survivors of types the world will soon know only in history”. There was hardly a square foot of Monkbarns’ canvas that had missed Henry’s palm and needles in 14 years, he wrote, and Arthur claimed to have cooked more cracker-hash, dandy-funk, and lob-scouse than any ship’s cook left in active service.

‘“No steam-boats for me, massa,” said Josh of Jamaicy,’ runs the toe-curling prose. ‘“I’ve always been used to serving out lime-juice and trimming salt-junk, and at my time ob life, massa, I don’t feel like turning on ham and eggs and peaches and cream for steam-boat sailors.”’

The crew list for that voyage reveals Josiah was in fact from from Barbados not “Jamaicy”, and that Henry had sheared ten years off his age. He still looked good. He could get away with 60.

Four years later, however, the old Scot was dead. Captain Davies, too, was dead, probably of stomach cancer. He fell ill on what was to be Monkbarns’ final rounding of the Horn and was buried in Rio. Monkbarns herself had limped back to the UK only to be sold for a coal hulk. The boy with the camera failed his sight test and never sailed again.

Monkbarns sailmaker Henry Robertson and his leather sailmaker's "palm", in the Signal Tower Museum, Arbroath

Monkbarns sailmaker Henry Robertson and his leather sailmaker’s “palm”, in the Signal Tower Museum, Arbroath

After a lifetime at sea, Henry Robertson finally went home to his children and grandchildren, and he lies buried with his Kate in Sleepyhillock cemetery, Montrose.

His sailmaker’s palm, a last tangible link with the ship, sits on a glass shelf in the Signal Tower museum in Arbroath – beside one last view of Henry surrounded by billows of canvas, stitching in eternal sunshine aboard Monkbarns.

 

*J Ifor Davies, Growing Up Among Sailors, 1983

 

A sailor’s life – 19. Monkbarns & the sailmaker’s palm

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Monkbarns sailmaker Henry Robertson and his leather sailmaker's "palm", in the Signal Tower Museum, Arbroath

Monkbarns sailmaker Henry Robertson and his leather sailmaker's "palm", in the Signal Tower Museum, Arbroath

Arbroath is a brief stop on the railway line that runs down the east coast of Scotland from Aberdeen; a cluster of brown terraces between a ruined abbey and an old harbour wall, beyond which the North Sea growls grey and empty to the horizon.

After nightfall, which is at four o’clock in the afternoon by late October this far north, the smell of wood smoke and fish wafting from open smokery doorways along the waterfront cheers a weary traveller, but the boat yards and slipways that once lined the foreshore are gone and the power looms that once produced 450,000 yards of sailing ships’ canvas a week are silent.

Brothock mill, where James Watt himself came to install the town’s first steam-powered engine as a very old man in 1806, stands empty. The river no longer runs hot with waste from the spinning mills, and the fishwives no longer scrub their laundry at Danger Point where it meets the sea. The forest of masts that brought flax from the Baltic has gone and housing estates have sprung up on the bleaching fields.

Nowadays Arbroath is quiet, a shadow of its heyday as an industrial port, but the mid-week streets are dense with Scotland’s history – the least part of which is the story of the Corsars’ “flying horse” fleet, as it was known to the boy apprentices who would chronicle the last days of sail.

The Corsars were canvas manufacturers, the sons and grandsons of a young handloom weaver who had seen the arrival of Watt’s great spinning engine in Arbroath and liked it so much (in the immortal words of the late Victor Kiam) he bought the mill.

David Corsar senior had started out in a small way, buying yarn from the country folk who gathered in the high street outside the Town House in all weathers every Saturday to sell what they’d spun during the week, and employing other men to weave it into cloth in their own homes. In those days almost every grocer in the burgh had its notice in the window advertising “lint and tow given out to spin”, and the click of handlooms could be heard from tenement windows across the town.

The Signal Tower museum, Arbroath

The Signal Tower museum, Arbroath

Linen was a cottage industry in Angus, employing whole families heckling and spinning the rough flax fibres to thread, and even the smallest children were set to work winding the yarn onto ‘pirns’ for sale to the merchants who supplied the flax.

Corsar bought his first manufactory in 1823, and despite a wobble three years later, which closed nearly every mill and factory along the Brothock after the banks “in their competition for business offered unwarrantable facilities to men without capital, and many without experience or judgement”– which sounds strangely familiar today – by 1842 there were fifteen mills in the town, and twenty loom shops weaving the heavier canvas in which Arbroath was to specialise. In 1849 Corsar & Sons launched mass production of their top quality Reliance sailcloth, every bolt of which left the Spring Gardens powerloom manufactury stamped with the name, Reliance, over a little flying Pegasus, and to sell it to the shipping industry a merchanting office was set up in Liverpool.

Steadily, more and bigger ships plied to and fro across the Baltic, supplementing the Scottish flax with bales from Russia, Latvia and Estonia, tied with lead seals stamped in Cyrillic letters that are still being dug up today.

D. Corsar & Sons prospered. When the oldest son, William H., died in 1886, the youngest and sole surviving partner, Charles Webster, inherited an estate “valued at some hundreds of thousands, I know not how many,” according to his brother-in-law, a local preacher retained by the Corsars on a stipend of £50 per annum. Three sisters were to receive £10,000 each, and two nephews £4,000.

It was a lot of money. Corsars’ child workers earned 3s 6d a week for a ten-hour day, spent half sweeping floors and replacing bobbins, and half attending Mr Howie’s school on Lordburn. Women mill hands got 5s 3d – and time out to cook the family dinner – and the men 15s. Even a skilled hand “hackler” working at a piece rate of 2s 6d a cwt of imported Russian flax in 1900 could only achieve £1 in a good week.

By the time Charles Webster died, in 1900, he left a fortune valued by the Arbroath Herald at about a quarter of a million pounds, in flax, yarn, cloth, stores, machinery, mills, factories – and ships. Nine ships in all.

The Corsars’ first ship is thought to have been acquired by chance in Arbroath harbour in 1852, possibly in settlement of a debt. But the 174 ton Canadian brig Haidee proved so serviceable on the Australian run that three years later they replaced her with a larger sailing ship, built in Arbroath for trade with the West Indies, and over the years more followed. By 1872, although the family’s main business was still in flax and still in Arbroath, Corsar & Sons had interests in several ships.

In 1884, in what can only be seen as a canny bit of marketing, Charles W acquired two iron-hulled four masters, Pegasus and Reliance. The Corsars’ flying horse line was born.

Over the next ten years, he bought and commissioned more, some with traceable Corsar links such as “WH Corsar” and “Cairniehill”, the family home, and some more obscure. At least to me.

Steam-powered shipping was already cutting the demand for sailcloth, but there was still a living to be made in sail, where the wind was free and labour cheap. Charles W’s last three ships were built in 1895, by which time the view from Cairniehill, Arbroath, was a mass of saw-tooth factory roofs and chimneys. He named the vessels Monkbarns, Fairport and Musselcrag, after Arbroath as it was depicted by Sir Walter Scott in his third Waverley novel, The Antiquary.

The joke – and surely it was a joke – may not have been apparent to the apprentice boys who wrote the final accounts of Britain’s last sailing ships, of which Monkbarns would be one. But they will have understood the nod to literature, and the author of Ivanhoe, because the old sailmaker who helped teach the young officers-to-be their business for the last 14 years of Monkbarns’ sea-going life had grown up in the shadow of Arbroath abbey.

Arbroath to this day is proud of its connection to Scott, (as sacks full of responses from readers of the Arbroath Herald attested when I wrote asking about the names a hundred years after the three ships were launched,) and Charles Webster Corsar was evidently a fan.

The central character in The Antiquary is a crusty old amateur historian known as “Monkbarns”, after his house, modeled on the stately Hospitalfield pile at the entrance to the town. Scott called his town Fairport, and Auchmithie, the abbey’s former fishing village round the headland from Arbroath proper, he named Musselcrag.

Charles W. Corsar could have bought steamers, but the last surviving son of the weaver with the vision to buy Watt’s engine chose instead to build sailing ships, and with a wry flourish he named them after a historical romance.

Sadly, there is no happy ending. In 1911 the Corsar business came crashing down due to an “ill-advised will”, according to one of Charles W’s great-great-grandsons. The premature death of his oldest son, at 44, triggered a clash of trusts and a firesale to protect the girls’ portions.

That March, the Arbroath Herald reported, the old-established firm “which has an honourable place in the history of Arbroath” went into sequestration due to a falling out between the heirs. “Gratifyingly” there were no trade creditors, it said, but 400 workers faced unemployment and “it is hardly likely that the beneficiaries under Mr Charles Corsar’s settlement will receive anything like the provision he hoped to make for them”.

A bankruptcy hearing in April was held in private, but the Herald was able to print the full list of assets and liabilities: three spinning mills, the weaving factory, a bleachworks, three warehouses and a waterproofing plant, plus stock, including the counting-house furniture and sundry investments, were valued at £153,220.

Unfortunately the liabilities left a deficiency of £22,312 (and 16s 7d), including £25,000 left to each of Charles W’s three daughters, trusts totalling £81,000, a mortgage on Monkbarns, and a £31,000 contingency fund set aside for litigation involving two other ships, Gunford and Chiltonford.

Corsars’ shipping ventures offer a snapshot of the times. Princess Alice had been wrecked in 1872; George Roper went down on her maiden voyage outside Melbourne in 1883 – due to tug error; Cairniehill suffered a mutiny in 1895 and was sunk by fire in New York in 1896; WH Corsar was wrecked in 1898; Glencaird was stranded off Staten Island in 1901; and Reliance burnt out loading saltpeter at Iquique in 1907. Even Monkbarns had her troubles. In 1906 she was stuck in ice round the Horn for three months, visible to passing ships but beyond reach of all assistance, and her captain died there. Then, in 1910, the new master, James Donaldson, collided with a German ship in Iquique in Chile, damaging the famous flying horse figurehead and unleashing more litigation when the ship docked at Hamburg.

Gunford meanwhile had run into a reef off Brazil in 1907 and been lost. Or rather, she ran into three reefs, over several days for reasons which were not clear because the relevant pages of the ship’s log were subsequently “stolen by pirates”, according to her captain. The ship had not made a profit for several years and was found to have been heavily over-insured, not just by the owners (which was deemed legitimate) but also – and privately – by the ship’s manager, which was not.

There was an inquiry at which the captain, an elderly German who had not been to sea for 22 years, lost his licence for a year. But a court hearing in 1909 eventually ordered the insurance company to pay up. Deliberate wrecking was hard to prove. The case was taken up in the House of Lords, resulting in a change in maritime law, and was still rumbling on in 1911 when the Corsars went bust.

By then, Fairport, Musselcrag and Pegasus had “gone foreign”, and Almora and Chiltonford were limited companies under new management. The Corsar mills and plant were sold that June, and the firm was taken over by a Glasgow company.

Monkbarns – still laid up in Hamburg – was sold to John Stewart & Co of Dundee for £4,850. And by August 17th eight new teenage apprentices had stowed their sea chests in the cramped half deck and taken the first creases out of their brand new dungarees.

In Arbroath, a scrap of reinforced leather lies on a glass shelf under a photograph of an old man stitching in the sun on Monkbarns’ deck. Henry Robertson, aged 52, of 24 Allan Street, Arbroath, joined the ship the same day as Bert Sivell, aged 16, from Ryde, and after a lifetime at sea lies buried up the coast in Sleepyhillock cemetery, Montrose.

His leather sailmakers “palm” in a glass cabinet in the Signal Tower museum, Arbroath, is the last surviving tangible link with Monkbarns.

Read on: Pommie boys and Aussie girls, Newcastle NSW 1912
Previously: Corsars’ flying horse figurehead

Work in progress: the book I never wrote about the sailor grandfather I never knew, from his apprenticeship on the square-rigger Monkbarns to his death by U97, presumed lost with all hands aboard the Shell oil tanker Chama in 1941 Blogroll


A sailor’s life – 18. Corsar’s flying horse figurehead

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Monkbarns' flying horse figurehead - built to advertise Corsars' sailcloth

Monkbarns' flying horse figurehead - built to advertise Corsars' sail canvas, (private collection, Australia)

Monkbarns was a wet ship. Even in moderate seas timber breakwaters had to be put up to shelter the door to the officers’ accommodation aft as a foot of water ran up and down the deck. The steward carrying the master’s dinner from the galley amidships during a “blow” had to dodge up on to the poop deck and down the companionway (stairs) by the wheel, greatly to the glee of the crew who kept their own feet dry by balancing on the pin rails where the ropes were fastened.

She had been built in 1895 in Dumbarton, Scotland, one of three off-the-peg iron-hulled sailing ships commissioned by a flax mill owner from Arbroath with romantic leanings and canny notions about commercial branding somewhat ahead of his time.

Charles Webster Corsar was a large jolly man, a pillar of the church and community, often to be seen striding between the frames and looms of his family’s steam-driven mills, his coat snowy with the choking clouds of flax dust. Monkbarns was a cargo carrier, an ocean-going freighter built neither for speed nor beauty, yet he gave her fine teak fittings, a handsome saloon, and reportedly every labour-saving device available for working cargo and sails, except a powered winch. He even provided comfortable accommodation for the fo’c’sle hands. But what made his ships memorable to dockside loungers around the world were the tiny white winged horse figureheads on their prows.

Corsar & Sons had been founded in the early 19th century by a handloom weaver who had seen James Watt set up the first mill engine in the town in 1806 and went on to buy it. Charles Webster was a younger son who had entered the business in the shadow of older brothers, but by the time he was senior partner, the family owned some 60,000 to 70,000 spindles, hackling, spinning, bleaching and weaving flax from the Baltic into yards of Reliance sailcloth that carried the name of Corsar around the world, stencilled onto each bolt over the image of Pegasus, the flying horse.

Read on: The sailmaker’s palm
Previously: The devil provides the cook

Work in progress: the book I never wrote about the sailor grandfather I never knew, from his apprenticeship on the square-rigger Monkbarns to his death by U97, presumed lost with all hands aboard the Shell oil tanker Chama in 1941 Blogroll

A sailor’s life – 16. Monkbarns: learning the ropes

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Square rigger Monkbarns, John Stewart & Co, Bert Sivell's collection

Square rigger Monkbarns, John Stewart & Co, Bert Sivell's collection

Bert Sivell recorded that he had arrived on board Monkbarns on August 14th1911, but the ship did not sail until the 22nd. In between, the new apprentices were “learning the ropes” – essential for working an unlit sailing ship at night in a storm when the wrong move was life and death. Everyone — even the cook — had to know the ship’s gear by feel, from the layout of the belaying pins where the running rigging was fastened, to the hemp edging identifying the back of the square sails. If a boy did not know the ropes, if he slackened or hauled on the wrong one in the blackness, he risked drowning them all.

Being neither officers nor crew, and unpaid to boot, apprentices were given all the nastiest jobs aboard, from polishing the brasswork to sanding the deck every morning on hands and knees. Bert spent the first week painting and cleaning, loading food and canvas, and working as a stevedore before the hired hands turned to. But off watch, in the boys’ rank dank little glory hole amidships, squatting on their shiny new sea chests, there were yarns and horseplay and friendships were struck up that would last a lifetime.

Out at sea, the chipping and greasing and swabbing and pumping continued unabated, at the beck and call of the Mate, or chief officer. The boys had to strike the bells on the poop that kept the ship’s time and heave the log, which measured speed and drift, and keep the compass binnacle (the stand) polished and the oil in the lamps topped up. They scrubbed the decks with great  ‘holystone’ blocks for hours at a stretch until their backs and knees ached, to prevent the timbers becoming slippery, and sluiced them with salt water to prevent shrinkage.

When there were ropes to be hauled on* [As any fule kno, there is in fact only one rope on a ship, and it is attached to the ship’s bell, the rest are halliards, braces, lines and hawsers, see below, Ed.], the boys pulley-hauled behind the crew and coiled the ends away. They helped take in sail and let out sail, and learned rapidly to jump aloft in all weathers and at all hours, feet splayed along the wires slung under each swaying yard, to grease a mast or slacken off the lines that gathered the canvas “bunt”, to prevent the sails chafing.

Within weeks they were clambering like monkeys, high up among the sails beyond the last tarred rope ratline, from where the ship far below looked like a blade cleaving the sea.

Read on: The devil provides the cook
Previously: Why would you?


Halliards haul up yards, braces swing yards, clewlines haul up the clews or corners of sail to the yard, buntlines gather the body or bunt of the sail to the yard, hawsers are for mooring. Some would say the ship’s bell hasn’t a rope either but a lanyard…

A sailor’s life – 14. Monkbarns apprentice

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Monkbarns running under lower tops'ls, from the private collection of John Fall

Monkbarns running under lower tops'ls, from the private collection of John Fall

Day after day and night after night there was nothing round the ship but the howl of the wind, the tumult of the sea, the noise of water pouring over her deck. She tossed, she pitched, she stood on her head, she sat on her tail, she rolled, she groaned, and we had to hold on while on deck and cling to our bunks when below…

From Youth, Joseph Conrad, published 1902 

In 1912, the year Titanic sank with her band playing and the men deep in her engine room drowning to keep the electric lights blazing across the icy waters, Monkbarns was a throwback to a darker age.

Lit only by the smelly kerosene lamps that lurched in the cramped living quarters fore and aft, Monkbarns had no generator to winch cargo or weigh anchor, no auxiliary motor, refrigerator or Marconi.  She had no great steam boiler growling in her bowels fed by a mountain of coal and a dozen stokers, condensing drinking water and drying wet clothes as it pushed them onwards across the sea. On Monkbarns the only sources of heat were a couple of cast iron bogey stoves and the coffee pot bubbling on the galley fire — until the cook chased you away. Down among the narrow bunks where the men off watch ate and slept, from the crew in the cramped fo’c’sle — where the waves boomed and crashed under the bows — to the officers in the cramped saloon aft, the ship reeked of wet oil skins, Stockholm tar, pipe smoke, and the dank straw mattresses known to sailors as donkey’s breakfasts.

It was a groaning, moaning, banging world 267 feet long and 23 feet wide, contained within a squat rust-streaked hull and dominated by three masts festooned with hemp and steel lines and wooden spars. Overhead, acres of weather-beaten canvas strained and slapped, tearing muscles and ripping fingernails to the bloody quick.

There was a raised deck fore with the anchor and a raised deck aft with the great wheel, open to the winds, and in between, set apart from both the men and the masters, two deck houses, one for the apprentice boys and one for the “idlers”: the cook, the sailmaker and the ship’s carpenter. Below them and sometimes stacked around them, was the cargo: wood or grain or coal or wool, but always “saltpetre” (nitrate) back.

When Monkbarns left Hamburg bound for Santos, in Brazil, on Bertie Sivell’s first trip, there were 14 men in the fo’c’sle, mainly Germans, Danes and Swedes, plus a Finn and an Austrian, and Bert was one of nine gangly apprentices in the boys’ house, conspicuous in their crisp new dungarees. Although the ship was Liverpool registered, only the boys and the young 1st and 2nd mates were English, and not all of them. At 16, Bert wasn’t the youngest aboard either. The senior apprentice was 21, but the Old Man – who wasn’t a bad old stick – promoted him out of the half deck as 3rd Mate on Christmas day, the log records.

Captain James Donaldson, master of Monkbarns 1911-1919

Captain James Donaldson, master of Monkbarns 1911-1919

The “Old Man” was a Scot, Captain James Donaldson of West Kilbride. Ship masters are always known to their men as the Old Man, no matter how young they may be, but Monkbarns’ Old Man was old indeed; a tall, thin, stiff, white-haired giant of 62, gaunt and craggy after half a century at sea. The son of an Ayrshire coal miner, he had started in coasting vessels at 17 and worked himself up the hard way through the fo’c’sles of deepwater traders.

By 1912, James Donaldson had been a master in sail for 36 years. But he had evidently not forgotten what it was to be young, for he kept a wind-up gramophone and a few records in the saloon for Sunday afternoons at sea, when his apprentices washed their socks and smalls. There had been a Mrs Donaldson, but the boys the Old Man trained did not recall her later when they themselves were old Cape Horners recounting for posterity their tales of the Monkbarns years. But they remembered their old master with respect and affection, as a “gentleman of the old school”.

And the old school in square riggers was tough. Officers, men and apprentices alike lived in two “watches”, working four hours on and four off day and night, night and day, except for two hours between 4pm and 8pm when they ate their evening meal, and swapped over. Their lives were measured in half-hourly bells, one to eight, telling through the day from black coffee and hard tack at 4am to the graveyard shift at midnight and on to 4am again. Week in week out, miles from land, through sunshine or fog, eight bells sounded the weary end of one watch and the bleary start of another.

In heavy weather, of course, there was no routine and no rest, only the imperious cry of “all hands!” and the urgency of taking in or letting out sails, dragging the yards round to change tack, and the kick of the great steering wheel aft which could break the helmsman’s arms and knock him flying across the poop.

Then, the teenagers clinging spray-drenched to the yards 80 feet above the pitching deck, fighting the bellying canvas with frozen fingers, swiftly learned the first rule of sail, which was “one hand for the ship, one for yourself”. There were no safety harnesses or carabiners. Like the Alpinists of their day, if they let go, they fell off, and once overboard they would swiftly be swept from view.

It was not always possible to turn the ship in heavy weather, nor to risk lifeboats and more lives. Mountainous seas can hide whole fleets let alone a bobbing head and flailing arms. Seamen often deliberately did not learn to swim, to ensure the end was quick.

Read on: Why would you?
Previously: Apprenticeship

A sailor’s life – 1. Beginning, middle and end

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Captain Hubert Stanley Sivell

Captain Hubert Stanley Sivell

My sailor grandfather vanished at sea in 1941, lost with his oil tanker and all hands in the chaos of war. I never knew him, and – worse – nor did his son, my father. My grandmother hoped against hope that he had somehow survived, scouring the blurry newspaper snaps of returning PoWs long after the war was declared over, refusing to mourn him or let her children mourn him for more than a decade. “The children and I have not given up hope,” she would reply stiffly to the well-meant notes of condolence that dropped through the door. She only gave up and agreed to have him declared dead in 1952, by which time the boy with his father’s face had left home for a life of his own, riding the wild winds in aeroplanes as his father had in sail.

This is the story of a career in ships, uncovered in a thousand yellowing letters from a chest by an old woman’s bed when her house was cleared after her death; it is the story of a boy who ran away to sea a hundred years ago. He sailed in the rigging of the last windjammers, survived mutiny and war and Prohibition and the great economic depression, and – probably, yes – died in the burning sea round a Shell oil tanker in a second war, watched by enemy eyes.

These are the stories my grandfather would have told me … found in margins and in pencil marks of records he never knew were kept, the personal flotsam and jetsam of an ordinary man and his perfectly ordinary, extraordinary life at sea in the first half of the 20th century.

This is for Bert Sivell.

A sailor’s life – 2. Runaway, 1910