A Ship's Tale (2 page)

Chapter 1

KENT, ENGLAND, OCTOBER 1946

The weathered masts were reaching into a driftwood sky that morning when I first saw the derelict ships, old square-riggers from a bygone era. Chained to makeshift moorings, they tugged like giant seahorses, but with nearly all the life gone out of them. Tattered rigging, loose fittings, and green unpolished bright work enough to make a sailor cry. They were the monarchs of sail in their day, but their day had long passed. Their once proud masts now served as perches for the occasional passing gull among the twisted trees along the south shore of the River Thames. No more would they await the arriving tug for the tow upriver, with their holds full and lads eager to walk the shore again. They were used up and turned out like whores in the wind.

Gone were the days of the great clipper and packet ships, once a common sight here. They had fallen victim to progress. The steam engine had made them obsolete, and upriver, bridges of a newer more efficient time now restricted the passage of tall ships forever. Oh, but they made a magnificent picture when under full sail with a stiff wind at their backs! No wonder that hundreds of writers and millions of spectators have expressed the opinion that this was among the most splendid sights ever to be witnessed. Alas, even the greatest of spectacles fade from favour with the passage of time.

The three ships lay moored together along the Kent side of the Thames Estuary, not far from the great river's mouth, across the mud banks and sand that were tied together by a field of tussocky grass. Looking upriver I could see a number of support ships from the War painted grey and identified only by white numbers and letters rusting in the rains. Farthest from shore wallowed the remains of a once proud four-masted barque, now a rusted hulk long since demasted. Rivets and steel plates had been peeled back to reveal the main hatchway in an attempt to use her as a coal barge, the ultimate humiliation for any sailing ship. She lay awash in the mud as if serving as a breakwater for the other two, and that she did quite well.

The ship closest in was a three-masted barque with a steel hull. She looked more sound than the wooden three-master in the middle, which had some of her yardarms either missing or in disrepair. The shoreward vessel had a gangway down to the nearby bank, so it appeared that one could use it to board all three. I took care walking across the wood and metal planking that made a path across the marshes and had a closer look. The name was still discernable on her bow:
Bonnie Clyde
.

As I wandered along the shore, I thought of all they had been. Aboard these ships seamen once lived in quarters that today would be considered intolerable; their diet dreadful, their work hard and extremely dangerous. Voyages often took months to reach destinations, and it was not uncommon for a man to spend several years travelling different trade routes before returning home with little money to show for his efforts. Voyages were always dependent upon the hope of favourable weather. Sailing had long been regarded as one of the most hazardous ways to travel, for ship disasters were commonplace. Vessels sometimes disappeared without a trace or clue as to their fate.

The busy Thames was every bit as challenging as the English Channel, for collisions and obstacles were a constant hazard to all craft navigating these waters. So it had been for centuries, but seafaring men were still drawn to sign on and ship out before the mast. Now the masts were gone, except for these.

I spent time walking along the bank looking each ship over, remembering when a friend arranged passage for me aboard such a vessel, and what a fine adventure it had been! I stood a long while at the bottom of the gangway waiting for some sign of life, but saw no one about. With absence of ceremony, I climbed the ageing wooden planks to the deck.

As I came aboard, there was no officer of the watch to speak with, so I was left to wander her deck alone. I thought of the past few years that had brought me from the War in Europe to this peaceful spot. It was a year after the War and there were not enough jobs for sailors, or anyone else for that matter. Times were hard for those of us returning home as well as those who fought the War on their own doorsteps.

I looked about with a sigh at the twisted cable and untidy ropes. It was sad to see her in such a state. Her wooden deck was in remarkably good condition, as were the steel masts and standing rigging, with every yardarm accounted for. In fact, there was new rope around the main yardarm, showing that work had recently been done. Surely everyone here knew and cared little that these ships were nothing short of wrecks awaiting some grim fate. Damned shame, I thought. Damned waste of a good ship here!

Walking up through the fo'c's'le, I passed two new mechanical brace and halyard winches designed to ease the backbreaking task of hoisting and turning the enormous yards. With their use, much of the arduous work at the capstan could be avoided. Walking the capstan round is backbreaking work, as anyone knows who's done it.

The winches seemed out of place here, a little too modern for an old ship. They didn't look as though they were completely installed either. The main yard had been lowered, and rested on the port and starboard rails, lashed with new chain and good running rigging all around. I ducked under the huge yard and headed towards the stern. Of the two starboard lifeboats I passed, one had rotted out and collapsed on its chocks, the wood warped and split. The others were equally dismal, and were not even capable of retaining rainwater. I sighed. What a mess!

It was a crisp afternoon on the water. Turning my collar up and reaching for my pipe and lighter, I put one foot up against the old boat chock and struck the lighter. With a hand cupped around to deflect the wind, I was enjoying my third puff when the old timber under my foot suddenly gave way to my weight, sending me to the deck with a resounding crash. An indignant wharf rat scurried off down the deck to hide elsewhere, and a gull, equally offended, took wing. I was glad that the lifeboat didn't fall as well.

I collected myself and began to rise. I was startled as a booted figure, clad in a heavy sweater and with piercing blue eyes, appeared out of nowhere. With an embarrassed smile, the hello had just left my lips as he burst out in a hard Scottish burr, “What the bloody hell d'ye think ye're doin' here?”

“Well,” I replied, “I was just passing, and—”

“Ye've been sent by those government officials, have ye?”

“What? Which officials?” I said, bewildered.

He pursed up his leather-like face and raised the brim of his cap an inch. “Those who want tae take her tae her grave,” he answered darkly.

“Take who?” I gasped. I didn't know if he was just trying to scare me or was some old crank gone mad. Still, he was a bit frightening.

“This 'ere ship, lad. Are you telling me ye know nothing of it?” he demanded.

“Look, I'm…that is, I just returned from the War and…”

“In the War? Army, eh?” he scoffed.

“No, Navy.”

“Well! We have a sailor here, do we?” he said, looking me over with a keen eye.

“I was a ship's officer in the Royal Navy aboard the—”

“I don't bloody care about the Royal Navy!” he snapped. “This ship had nae a gun on her, but by gaw for two years we sailed through the U-boats carrying ammo and shells whilst the Jerries thought our hold was filled with guano.”

“Guano?” I asked.

“Aye, bird shit!” he grimaced, taking his pipe from a pocket.

We laughed at having thus established ourselves as fellow seamen; then went and sat down on the main hatchway to relight our pipes and chat. Looking at this old man, a deep water square-rigger sailor, I could hardly wait to hear his story.

As I struggled with my lighter, the old man reached into his pocket and brought out a box of Swan Vestas to light his own pipe first, before passing the box to me without comment. The flaring match revealed every wrinkle in his face and hands, evidence of his many years of gruelling shipboard toil. He looked over at me, out of the corner of his eye, as I grew more self-conscious. I felt less like a naval officer, and more like some callow cabin boy.

The old man cleared his throat ceremoniously. “Now then,” he began, “I've been at sea fifty-two years, man and boy. I was a master on other rigs thirty-some years and then five years master aboard this one. My taking charge of her now, is what any captain would call his last command. I hate tae waste a good ship because of government fools, who sit in small rooms and make big decisions. Three years ago they took her oot o' service and left her here to rust with the last of them. She's been a fine ship. Now it's either cut them up or scuttle them. If the government officials get their way, they'll take them out for target practise. And still another tap-dancing political twit thinks she'd make a fine pub if they put her up dry!”

“You mean permanent dry dock?” I asked.

“Aye,” he said sadly.

“Well, I suppose that's better than the other two options.”

“That's no bloody option at all!” he cried. “This ship belongs on the water and nae here getting weather beaten by the North Sea gales. Well, it's a mercy that at least the auld barque on the seaward side still makes a fair breakwater. Never wished any ship harm, except them German ones. She was slammin' into baith o' these, so we sank her to the mud, and a good job too.”

“You sank her?” I exclaimed.

“You ask a lot o' questions, young man. For all I know you're in with some o' those government officials.”

“I've got no reason to lie to you sir. I told you, I just returned —”

“Aye, aye from the War. I heard ye. Can't be too careful. Anyway, I expect ye're too young.”

“Too young! Too young for what?” I said, bristling.

“To be one of those government officials,” he growled. “Are ye nae listening, lad?”

“Yes, well, I just wasn't sure what you meant,” I said. I hadn't the slightest idea what he was on about and was about to tell him to put a sock in it.

He gave me a quizzical look. “What did ye think I meant, eh? Here, just what is your name, laddie?”

“Flynn,” I said, putting out my hand.

“Right,” he answered. “And Bowman's mine.” He wiped his hand on his trousers and extended it to me. His grip was as firm and rough as his words. “Now answer me, Flynn. What was it you thought I meant? Eh, lad?”

“I thought you meant I was too young to understand the way you feel, and it isn't so. When I was fifteen, I sailed with the maritime service on the
Jackson
, a four-masted barque, training for entry into the Merchant Navy. I put in some good years, and just when I was ready to qualify, along came Hitler. I finished up as a lieutenant aboard a destroyer in the North Atlantic, escorting convoys. Wretched duty, that was.”

The old man's mouth opened as if to speak, and then clamped down on his pipe. He sat quietly reflecting behind clouds of smoke. I hoped he had developed a bit of respect for me for the training I'd received, along with the dangers I'd faced. To this he said nothing.

I could hear only the sounds of the water and the creaking of the ship. The old man sat with eyes fixed, gazing within and beyond. The late afternoon sun was fading, and a fog was forming out beyond Sheerness. Still he took scant notice, and sat without a word. I could hardly continue sitting near without trying to make some conversation, so I pondered exactly what to say. I stood up and stretched, looking at the masts towering above us.

“Kind of romantic, the era of sail,” I said, then stopped, realising how trite that sounded.

The old man jumped up as if he'd been stung by a bee. “Romantic!” he cried. “Romantic? Aloft, hauling in wet canvas sail in a damned cold ocean gale, hands so frozen they can hardly grip, with only the wind at yer back holding ye against the yardarms, hoping ye can make it down the ratlines without taking a fall to the pitching deck below? Ye hae a damn strange idea of romance, Flynn. Little wonder ye're not married.”

“I didn't know it showed,” I said in surprise.

“It does,” he answered.

“And you?”

He knocked the ash from his pipe and refilled it before speaking. “Thirty-two years we were,” he said at last in a low voice. “Lost her in the bombing. Stayed in London where we thought it safe. And at first Hitler only sent his packages over to the military targets. Nineteen-forty…October, it was. Direct hit on our house and me down river. I could hear the planes coming in from the deck of this very ship and the sirens wailing like lost souls…Aye well, at least after that we had no more need to worry over one another when I was at sea. ‘Missing,' they said.” He cleared his throat. “She was a fine lass, my Meg.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Bowman,” I said quietly.

“No matter.” He turned and walked aft up the ladder to the bridge deck so I followed him up to the helm. He then sat with one hand on the large double wheel, which I saw had a foot brake to help control or slow the turning of the helm in rough seas. “Put in many an hour at this helm. It seemed only fitting that I should be caring for the auld
Bonnie
once she was retired.” He patted the wheel in a comforting manner.

“What do you do now?” I asked.

“Answer stupid questions,” he said, turning away. After a moment he looked back at me almost apologetically. “I'm a pensioner of the company now. Enough to keep me in food and almost enough to keep the rain off me head.”

“You live aboard?” I asked.

“Aye, till they drag me off,” he said, looking grim.

I wasn't too sure who they were, the old shipping company or the government officials, but I said, “They wouldn't do that, would they? Surely they wouldn't bother you. After all, you've taken care of things around here.”

“They don't want us around, Flynn. Taking care of things isn't what they want either. And bother us? Why ye'd think they'd naught better to do.”