times chose the eye in preference to the knotted line. The Dutch, in
particular, though they always took the reel and glass to sea with them,
seldom used them. There looks to have been something of laziness in
their habit. An account of the Hollander’s slatternly trick of
navigation may be found in a note to “Voyages to the East Indies by the
late John Splinter Stavorinus,” in 1768–71–74 and ’75. This author tells
us that the Dutchmen of his own and of earlier times steered by the true
compass, or rather endeavoured to do so, “by means of a small central
movable card, which they set to the meridian; and whenever they discover
the variation has altered twenty-two degrees since the last adjustment,
they again correct the central card. This is steering within a quarter
of a point without aiming at greater exactness.” There was the same
guesswork in their dead-reckoning. They hove no log, says Stavorinus.
The officer of the watch corrected the course for leeway by his own
judgment before marking it down on the logboard. They computed their
speed by measuring a distance of forty feet along the ship’s side. “They
take notice of any remarkable patch of froth when it is abreast of the
foremost end of the measured distance, and count half-seconds till the
mark of froth is abreast of the after end. With the number of
half-seconds thus obtained they divide the number forty-eight, taking
the product for the rate of sailing in geographical miles in one hour,
or the number of Dutch miles in four hours.” One finds the same
phlegmatic indifference in their manner of taking sights. “It is not
usual to make any allowance in the sun’s declination on account of being
on a different meridian from that for which the tables are calculated.
They in general compute the numbers just as they are found in the
tables. From all this,” drily adds Stavorinus, “it is not difficult to
conceive the reason why the Dutch are frequently above ten degrees out
in their reckoning.”
The Spaniards and the Portuguese were more wary, if not more knowing,
than the Dutch. Extreme vigilance in conning ship was apparently a
feature of the navigation of those old and famous races of mariners. Sir
Richard Hawkins (Purchas, vol. iv.) is express in this. I will let him
deliver himself in his own quaint inimitable tongue. “In this point of
steeridge (steering) the Spaniards and Portugalls do exceede all that I
have seene, I meane for their care, which is chiefest in navigation. And
I wish in this, and in all their workes of discipline and reformation,
we should follow their examples, as also those of any other nation. In
every shippe of moment, upon the halfe-decke or quarter-decke, they have
a chaire or seate, out of which, whilst they navigate, the pilot, or his
adjutants (which are the same officers which in our shippes we term the
master and his mates) never depart day nor night from the sight of the
compasse, and have another before them, whereby they see what they doe,
and are ever witnesses of the good or bad steeridge of all men that take
the helme.” A later generation of sailors, “Portugalls” as well as
others, knew better than to suffer men on the look-out, whether officers
of the watch or quarter-masters, to be seated.
The common contrivance for taking the height of the sun at sea in order
to obtain the latitude was the cross-staff or fore-staff. It was
composed of a wooden staff, upon which was marked a scale of degrees and
parts of degrees; it was also fitted with crosspieces for sliding along
it at their middle parts. The smallest crosspieces were used for
observing the least altitudes. The observation of the sun’s height was
taken by means of the shadow which the extremity of the crosspiece cast
on the staff when the instrument was adjusted. Contrast this humble,
uncouth engine with the sextant of to-day! The back-staff was another
implement, the invention of Davis, the Arctic explorer, by the help of
which the ancient mariner made his way about the ocean. He had also the
astrolabe. Clarke, in his “Progress of Maritime Discovery,” speaks of
the sea-astrolabe as deriving its name from the “Armillary sphere
invented by Hipparchus at Alexandria.” He finds it first in use among
the Portuguese, perhaps because they claim its introduction into
Portugal by Martin de Boerina in 1485. The introduction of the
cross-staff, on the other hand, is attributed to Warner, who published
an account of it at Nuremberg in 1514. As regards the astrolabe, there
is certainly a mistake in the date, for we find Chaucer writing a
treatise on this instrument in 1391. The method indicated by the old
poet for ascertaining the latitude may be accepted as the one employed
by the mariners of his own and of much later periods. One special
article in his Treatise is entitled by the poet, “Another conclusion to
prove the latitude of a region that ye ben in,” and the whole passage is
so quaint and interesting withal that every nautical reader of this
volume will, I am sure, thank me for transcribing it. I quote from the
edition of the Treatise published by Mr. A. E. Brae in 1870.
“If,” writes Chaucer, “thou desire to know this latitude of the region,
take the altitude of the sonne in the myddle of the daye, when the sonne
is in the hed of Aries or of Libra, for than movethe the sonne in the
lyne equinoctial, and abate the nombre of that same sonne’s altitude out
of 90 degrees, and than is the remnaunt of the nombre that leveth the
altitude of the region; as thus—I suppose that the sonne is thilke daye
at noon 38 degrees of heyght; abate, than, 38 degrees out of 90, so
leveth ther 52, than is 52 degrees the latitude. I saye not this but for
ensample, for wel I wot the latitude of Oxenforde is certain minutes
lesse. Nowe, if it so be that thou thinketh too long a tarrying to abyde
til that the sonne be in the hed of Aries or Libra, than waite when that
the sonne is in any other degree of the zodiake, and consider if the
degree of his declinacion be Northward from the equinoctial; abate than
from the sonne’s altytude at none the nombre of his declinacion, and
than hast thou the height of the hedes of Aries and Libra; as thus—my
sonne, peraventure, is in the 10 degree of Leo, almost 56 degrees of
height at none, and his declinacion is almost 18 degrees Northward from
the equinoctial; abate than thilke 18 degrees of declinacion out of the
altitude at none, than leveth 38 degrees—lo there the height of the hed
of Aries or Libra and thyn equinoctial in that region.”
So, then, all the ancient mariner had to do was to take the height of
the sun, subtract or add the declination, and accept the remainder as
his latitude. An easy process, that gives us Cape Horn on the
fifty-second parallel and Valdivia on the forty-third![76] And yet they
managed excellently well, hove their log, turned their hour-glasses, and
arrived in due course, their ships covered with barnacles and themselves
with glory. In one sense it was the marine age of gold. There were no
Board of Trade examinations, no certificates of competency, no
obligation to find the time by equal altitudes, or the longitude by
chronometer or by lunar observations. The whole art of the navigation of
our ancestors is summed up in the account of a voyage sent by Thomas
Steevens to his father in 1579, in which he tells him that it is hard to
sail from east to west, or contrary, because there is no fixed point in
all the sky whereby to direct a course. “I shall tell you,” says he,
“what helps God provideth for these men.” And he informs his father that
not a “fowle” appears, nor a sign in the air or in the sea which has not
been written about by those who make the voyage—that is, to the East
Indies. “Wherefore, partly by their own experience, and pondering withal
what space the ship was able to make with such a winde, and such
direction, and partly by the experience of others whose books and
navigations they have, they gesse whereabouts they be.”[77]
Footnote 76:
That is, according to one or two old maps I have seen.
Footnote 77:
I have elsewhere quoted this and other passages. Many of these papers
were written at long intervals, and I could not charge my memory with
references already made use of.
And accurately enough they “gessed,” too. But then there was no
dispatch; every owner of a bottom took his own risks, and a few months
sooner or later (chiefly later) was nothing to people who could find a
dry dock on every beach, and a market for trucking wherever there was a
coloured man. Many generations were born and died before real help came
to the mariner, and he was able to sail as securely east or west as
north or south. There was no “Nautical Almanac” till the year 1769. This
invaluable compilation was originally proposed and then calculated by
Dr. Maskelyne, and published by order of the Commissioners of Longitude.
So conservative, however, is the character of the seaman that he
candidly owned himself but very little obliged to Dr. Maskelyne and the
Admiralty. So long afterwards as 1794 I find William Hutchinson,
mariner, in a very admirable and voluminous treatise on Naval
Architecture, writing in defiant terms touching the “Nautical Almanac.”
“The Board of Longitude,” he says, “in order to facilitate the discovery
that is expected to be made by this last-mentioned method,” namely, the
“Nautical Almanac,” “has ordered that the masters for the Royal Navy
must qualify themselves by learning to pass an examination to show that
they understand the ‘Nautical Almanac,’ which is a task, in my opinion,
that cannot be expected from many of our most hardy and expert
navigators, whose education has been mostly from early youth through the
hard, laborious, busy scenes of life at sea, and who have never had the
opportunity to get the learning that is necessary to understand the true
principles of this Almanac.”
Possibly even in this day it might not be hard to find sea veterans who
would secretly agree with Mr. Hutchinson’s protest, and lament the
extinction of an epoch when the quadrant and the log-line were thought
“larning” enough. At any rate, I have a lively recollection of reading
something closely corresponding to such views in the _British Merchant
Service Journal_, the organ of the London Shipmasters’ Society, for
1879–80.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_PLATES AND RIVETS._[78]
Footnote 78:
Written in 1882.
The great shipping question of the day is the loadline. Who is to be
responsible for Plimsoll’s mark? Is the shipowner to go on fixing it at
his own risk, or will the Government fix it for him? and if so, where?
Is the carrying power of a vessel to be calculated by her surplus
buoyancy, or is her clear side to be taken in relation to her depth of
hold?—and is it possible to fix one loading point for all vessels,
whether they be well-decked ships, or flush-decked ships, or
hurricane-decked ships? All these are scientific conundrums, which will
have to be solved sooner or later. They are certainly of the gravest
possible moment to the shipping interests. As the law now stands, a
shipowner is permitted to determine at what height on the vessel’s side
a loadline shall be fixed; but, if, in the opinion of the officials, the
loadmark does not furnish sufficient freeboard, the ship can be stopped,
and forced to discharge as much of her cargo as shall raise her to the
height the officials may consider she requires. The injustice of this is
tolerably obvious. Practically, the Board of Trade have their
preconceived theory of the proper freeboard of every vessel. They or
their representatives say, “Yonder is a vessel of three thousand tons.
She needs so many feet of clear side. Her owners, in our opinion, are
overloading her. But let them proceed. When she is full, her stores,
crew, and passengers aboard, and everything ready for the voyage, we
will stop her and force her to disgorge.” Now, if the Board of Trade can
decide after, why can they not decide before? Why should shipowners be
obliged to guess at the theories of freeboard which the Board have in
their mind, and be visited with the penalty of a costly delay if their
conjectures should be wrong? The Government authorities say, We will not
fix the loadline: you must do that at your own risk. But practically
they _do_ fix the loadline by empowering their representatives to stop
ships which look to be overloaded. Surely it would be more consistent
with common sense and common justice to determine a loadline for the
shipowner before he fills up his ship than to keep the determination
carefully concealed from him until his vessel is about to start or
actually has commenced her voyage.
This, then, as I have said, is the great shipping question of the times,
and it is the outcome of the wise and humane consideration how to
diminish the perils of the deep for those who have to seek a living upon
it. It is to be hoped that the numerous scientific controversies which
have grown out of the subject of the loadline may not overcloud and
conceal the object the Plimsoll disc was intended to effect. That object
was to prevent owners from sending human lives to sea aboard ships so
deeply freighted that the first heavy gale of wind was bound to sink
them. Unhappily departmental timidity has gone very near to neutralizing
a great and beneficent measure without satisfying the class who were to
be appeased and quieted. Many overladen ships contrive somehow to sneak
off to sea unnoticed by those functionaries whose duty it is to stop
such vessels. If they founder with all hands the law considers itself
sufficiently avenged by mulcting the owners and imprisoning them.
Unfortunately, this does not save the sailor’s life. It is another
illustration of the truth that every special interest is bound to suffer
from the lack of thoroughness in the measures of those to whom it looks
for protection. One seems to find the same perfunctoriness in most of
the legislation that deals with sailors. It was a good thing to
extinguish the old floating coffins. And yet it was but a half-measure,
too. It was merely the lopping of a few twigs from a great rotten
branch. A much larger evil than the despatching of unseaworthy ships was
left untouched—I mean the construction of unseaworthy ships. It was
monstrous, indeed, that men should be allowed to send on a dangerous
voyage vessels which had been afloat for years and years, cobbled-up old
fabrics which leaked like sieves, but whose safety was a matter of
profound indifference to their owners, because of the insurance that
must make whatever happened good luck to them. But it seems to me much
more monstrous that men should be allowed to build ships—every one of
which carries as large a company of souls as would equip a whole fleet
of the old condemned coasters—whose iron frames and whose iron plates
are fit for nothing but to be branded with the word “Murder,” so that
when the metal fragments come ashore the beholder may know for what
purpose they were designed.
Legislation has protected the sailor; but read the reports of the marine
inquiries held. Take the trouble to count for yourself the number of
missing ships—missing nobody knows how or why—which are catalogued in a
short twelvemonth. Glance at the depositions of the men brought ashore
from vessels which have foundered under their feet. Here are facts
speaking with a trumpet-tongue, sounding a deep and bitter reproach upon
our British ears, and converting our legislative efforts into mere
irony. Will any seaman pretend that Plimsoll’s mark, as we now have it,
has abridged, by so much as one sixty-fourth part of the whole, the
perils he had to face before the question of freeboard was ever made a
subject of discussion? Will he assert that the extinction of the
“floating coffin” has increased the chances of his safety, in the face
of the innumerable iron ships which are, month after month, slipped
along the ways into that ocean whose bottom they are bound to sound in
due course? I am not speaking of the great ocean passenger steamship;
she, no doubt, in point of construction and strength, may be as perfect
as she looks, with the exterior gilt and paint, and the interior
sumptuousness of velvet, and silk, and polished panelling. I am
referring to the class of vessels which are doing the work of the old
condemned coasters, and more than the work, since we find them pushing
into seas into which the “coffin” never ventured. “The vessel did not
arrive at her destination,” runs the report of a recent inquiry held by
Mr. H. C. Rothery; “it may, therefore, fairly be concluded that she has
gone to the bottom, and the object of the present inquiry is to
ascertain, if possible, how she has been lost.” If possible!
To show the character of that possibility the _Annex_ prints it thus
“...”
Could anything be more eloquent? Will the builder interpret those points
to signify his rivet-holes?
Or take from a late deposition the narrative of a shipmaster, who
relates that “he proceeded;” the wind was so and so; such and such a
light bore N.W., the land was three miles distant, the sea smooth, and
the vessel steaming full speed. On a sudden it was noticed that the ship
was down by the head. The engineer sounded the forehold, and found
nearly four feet of water in it. Then all hands were called on deck and
the steam pumps set to work. But the water gained on the pumps, and
meanwhile the vessel steadily continued to settle down by the head. The
fore hatches were removed, and nearly six feet of water found. The pumps
continued working, and the crew baled with might and main with buckets.
But all was of no good, so deponent got the boats ready for use. He
tried to drive his ship shorewards, but she would not answer her helm,
on which he stopped the engines and lowered the boats. They were picked
up by another vessel, and shortly after they were aboard the ship they
had quitted went down head foremost.
This occurred close to the land, where there was plenty of help, and so
we get the poor shipmaster’s deposition. But it might have occurred
leagues out at sea, where there was no succour, and then the ship would
have been missing, “nothing heard of the crew,” and the formal marine
inquiry would have wound up with another handful of dots. And what
caused that steamer to go down head foremost on a fine clear day, and in
smooth water? There was no collision; there were no shoals. Had a butt
started? Had a head-plate worked loose? One is inclined to say _ex pede
Herculem_ of such disasters as this. They should save marine courts a
deal of brain-cudgelling over incidents which, in the days of teak, and
oak, and treenails, would truly take very solemn rank among the
“unaccountables.”
This deposition worked very strongly in my head the other day when I
happened to find myself standing under the bends of the towering iron
skeleton of a ship that, when completed, would be 100 A 1, and qualified
to carry three thousand tons of merchandize. The hammering all about me
was sharp and furious, the sparks flew wildly, and as the white-hot
rivets popped out of the holes they were cut and hammered by the men as
though they were carrots. There were other ships on a line with this,
one completely plated and painted, another half-finished, a third a mere
outline of frames and keelson and stern-post and stem-pieces. The scene
was an imposing one, and especially imposing was the appearance of the
completed ship with the polish of her clean metal run and the gilt
tracings about her figurehead and quarters. And yet when I turned my
eyes from her to the skeleton under which I was standing I felt a good
deal of my admiration leaking away from me. I called to a man who was
hammering close beside me. “Do you know what clagging is, my friend?”
“Ay,” said he, looking at me with a broad grin, “ye dorn’t need to go
very fur to find out the meanin’ o’ that word.”
“These things,” said I, striking a long curve of metal, “which in a
wooden ship would be spoken of as ribs, are called frames, aren’t they?”
“Ay, those are the frames,” he answered.
“I suppose they have a good deal of weight to bear, a good deal of
pressure to resist?” said I.
“Why,” he replied, “they’re pretty nigh the ship, man!”
“Then what do you make of that flaw there, and that crack there, and
there, and there?” said I, pointing to the places as I spoke.
“Pooh!” said he, “when the plates are on that’s all covered up.”
“Yes,” said I, “so I suppose; but do you know I don’t see a frame that
hasn’t three or four—and yonder is one with six—of those cracks and
flaws plain to be viewed upon it. Considering the dimensions of this
vessel, do you think it wise—I’m speaking in the interest of human
lives, my man—to put in such defective iron as this?”
He made no answer, and was about to resume his work.
“Here,” said I, “there is no thirstier work than hammering,” and I gave
him a shilling. “How do you get the iron plates which cover these ribs
to fit?”
“They’re rolled,” he replied, pocketing the shilling with a look around.
“The part of the plate that overhangs another,” said I, “is, I think,
called the landing?”
“Ay,” said he, “the lannin’, that’s right.”
“Do you see this landing, here?” I asked. “I’m not sure that I couldn’t
put my little finger between.”
“Oh, the rivets ’ll draw that into its place,” said the man.
“True,” I exclaimed; “but you wouldn’t call it a fit?”
“No,” he answered; “I wouldn’t call it a fit, but the rivets ’ll make it
one.”
“But, don’t you see,” said I, “that by prizing these plates together
with the rivets you are putting work on the rivets for which they are
not designed? If the blow of a sea springs the rivets, the plates must
yawn. At this rate it seems to me that the rivets not only keep the
plates together, but actually give the hull its shape.”
“What are ye, sir?” said he to me; “a surveyor?”
“No, my man,” I replied; “if I were, I should be talking to your master,
not to you. Here’s another point that strikes me as worth noticing. Look
at these rivet-holes. They’re all punched, I observe.”
“Certainly they’re punched,” he answered.
“But don’t you think they ought to be drilled?” I asked. “Punching is
bound to weaken the rivet-holes, by cracking and dislocating the fibres
of the metal around them, and rendering them the less fit as a hold for
the rivets.”
“Drilling ’ud be much better, of course,” said the man; “but it ’ud
pretty nigh double the expense, and that ’ud be going the wrong way to
what the shipowners want.”
“But here again I see another curious feature,” said I. “Look through
these rivet-holes, one after another, as many as you choose. There’s not
a single hole in the front plates that corresponds with the holes in the
plates at the back. How on earth are you going to drive a rivet through
such a hole as that, for instance?” said I, pointing to a hole so much
lower than the hole behind it that the apertures where the two plates
met resembled a half-moon.
“Oh, we’ll rivet ’em somehow,” he answered, laughing, and without even
glancing at the holes to which I sought to direct his attention.
At this juncture somebody who might have been the manager came sniffing
curiously about me; the man went on with his work, and I moved off.
Before quitting the yard, however, I walked over to the other
vessels—the incomplete ones, I mean—and had a look at them. Here I found
precisely the same kind of workmanship and material—the frames full of
cracks and flaws, the rivet-holes roughly punched, and not a single hole
corresponding with the holes behind; the “landings” yawning and waiting
to be prized and warped and severely strained into their places by the
rivets. I am not writing learnedly; I am avoiding all technicalities, as
I wish the land-going public who know nothing about marine terms to
understand me. Neither do I assert that this shipbuilding yard which I
inspected is a typical one. But this much I will say, and as a man who
has some small knowledge of the power and fury of the sea in a time of
tempest—that were I a forecastle-hand and had to choose between one of
these brand-new, A 1 iron steamships of from two thousand to three
thousand tons gross and one of the old coasters which have long since
been condemned and rendered impossible, I should be perfectly content to
let the toss of a coin decide for me, satisfied that, so far as security
at sea goes, there would be just as much promise of my speedy
dissolution aboard such a brand-new steamer as aboard the sieve-like old
coffin. It is not hard to understand what a reproach this kind of vessel
is to us as a maritime nation and how it has come about. The same fierce
competition that covers our tables with butter made of fat, and coffee
made out of old beans, is covering the ocean with the sort of ships I am
writing of. The problem is now how to build the cheapest steamer to
carry a maximum cargo on a minimum draught of water, and to pass the
surveyors as fit to go to sea. The shipbuilders are not to blame. They
will do good work for good money; but if good money be not forthcoming,
though some kind of work be expected, then they will give you frames
which are only fit to sell for old iron; the workmanship will be mere
“clagging,” the plates will be wrenched and warped into any kind of
abominable fit by the rivets; the whole structure and the lives of the
people who commit themselves to it will be made to depend upon points
which no honest shipwright would dream of reckoning as factors in the
binding and holding powers of the fabric; and the false and frail
contrivance, doctored up and smothered over with paint, will be launched
with all haste, and the next order proceeded with at once.