by Graeme Lay
San Nicolas was now moored firmly to the quay, all her sails furled. The sailors not yet on leave still scampered about her rigging, and the cries of the officer who was the cause of their agitation reached James. He continued to watch for some time, absorbed by the scene. What must it be like to serve on such a ship in time of war? What courage and discipline must there be to ensure that she was not destroyed by cannon fire or taken by the enemy as a prize. He turned away, intending to take supper at the Mermaid Inn. There, in a little while, he knew there would be sailors on shore leave from the San Nicolas. They would be recounting their experiences of the sea battles they had lately survived. And the old Whitby sea dogs would counter these stories with their own. Men like old Charlie Wilkinson, who had sailed with Woodes Rogers on the great circumnavigation of 1708–11, and who had helped rescue the castaway Scotsman Alexander Selkirk from the Juan Fernandez Islands, off the coast of Chile. And James would eavesdrop on their conversations, hearing the seamen’s extravagant boasts, knowing full well that there was nothing in his experiences on Whitby’s quayside that could remotely compare with theirs.
The port of Whitby became busier by the month, in spite of the fact that the War of Austrian Succession was at last over. Although this meant that there were far fewer naval vessels calling, there were still constant shipping movements, mainly the Walkers’ colliers bound for the Tyne and London. Then, at last, in September 1747, James went to sea.
His first voyage was aboard the appealingly named collier Freelove. She was a cat of 341 tons, built at Yarmouth, and James sailed on her with nine other apprentices and seven crew. Like the rest of her class, Freelove was broad in the beam and had a shallow draft, which made her well suited to sailing the coastal and estuarial waters of England’s east coast.
The sturdy vessel sailed north from Whitby to Tyneside. There she tied up for a week beside the river, first unloading her ballast stone, then taking aboard her cargo of coal, 170 chaldrons in all. All the apprentices helped with the loading. It was grimy work, and James and the others were greatly relieved when the ship was cleaned, the taxes on the coal and ballast paid and they cast off the lines, cleared the heads and were at sea again.
They then sailed south, with a predominantly following wind, to the Thames and London. The city and its river captivated him at first sight. So many ships, so much energy and activity! But there was no time for him to explore the dockside. After their dark cargo was discharged, they back-loaded timber for the Walkers’ Whitby boat yards and returned to Freelove’s home port in time for Christmas. There the collier was laid up and wintered over in the shipyard until February.
During his eleven-week maiden voyage, James was forcibly struck by the difference between studying navigation in the comfort and warmth of the study in Grape Lane, and being at sea. Employing a sextant while safe on a hill above Whitby could not be compared to standing on the deck of the collier and using the instrument while the vessel and crew were being lashed by winds of thirty knots, as happened between Whitby and the Tyne. On the voyage he also spent hours in the chains in these conditions, swinging the lead. In coastal waters this was a duty of utmost importance, and he was pleased that he proved equal to the challenge. Several times he was given a turn at the helm, overseen closely by Freelove’s master, John Jefferson, and feeling the ship respond to his turning of the wheel to follow the compass needle thrilled him. By the return sailing he was used to employing a handspike to heave on the windlass, eating while standing upright as the ship pitched sharply, and setting the barometer. In this way he was learning everything of what Mr Walker called ‘The three L’s’ — lead, latitude and lookout. He couldn’t wait to be sent aloft, but Jefferson did not allow that promotion until the apprentices were on their second voyage.
Sailing, James realized after that first voyage, consisted of combating a combination of the elements: wind, water and tide. But wind, water and tide could also, by deploying certain time-honoured skills, be exploited. And this was what skilled seamen did. The sea itself was utterly indifferent to the fate of those who sailed upon it and was to be at all times respected. But it could also be taken advantage of and, occasionally, defeated.
The sea excited James in so many ways. The exhilaration of a strong following wind, the setting of a course, the hoisting or reefing of sails, the timing needed to tack effectively into the wind, the skills involved in measuring depths or manoeuvring the ship towards a harbour light, the satisfaction of making it safely alongside the wharf at Tyneside and in the Pool of London — it all amounted to a life which he knew would fulfil his ambitions and capabilities. Even the discomforts — the long hours on watch, the cramped spaces below decks, the rain and wind — did not dismay him, for the satisfactions of sailing compensated for them. The onboard food was plain and unvaried — salt beef or pork and ship’s biscuit, mainly — but he had never been one to complain about what he must eat. He had once roasted on an open fire, then eaten, a weasel that he had killed with his slingshot on Roseberry Topping.
The life of an apprentice merchant mariner was arduous, but aware of how much he was learning James now wished for no other. John Jefferson was a man who had been at sea for most of his life. He and the mate, Robert Watson, were not only greatly experienced seamen, they were also fine instructors in all the arts of seamanship. James obtained more knowledge from them during the eleven weeks that he was at sea on Freelove than he had during his previous fourteen months of land-bound study.
But a short time later, from Great Ayton, there came painful news.
11 MAY 1748
My dear parents,
Yesterday I received a letter from Christiana, informing me of the death of little William. This news greatly distressed me, and I can imagine the grief the child’s passing has caused you all. That our dearest William should have been taken by the ague at the age of just three years is a lamentable event, and I feel doubly anguished that I am not with you to offer my consolations in person. He was such a lively little fellow, full of fun and mischief. Christiana also informed me that my little brother has been interred in All Saints’ graveyard, in the sad company of Jane and our two Marys — all taken from us far too soon. I cannot help but wonder: what kind of God is it that does not permit so many children to flourish and attain adulthood? It is enough to make me question His very existence, although I am well aware that these thoughts will not be yours. Your faith, I know, will be unwavering.
It was of some consolation to also learn from Christiana that she is betrothed. I must confess to some surprise at this news, as she seems to me to be so young, but on reflection, at seventeen, she is of a natural age to marry. I wish the couple every happiness following their nuptials, which Christiana informed me will be held at All Saints’. No doubt you, John and Margaret will be in attendance. Christiana provided few details of her fiancé, Mr Jonathan Cocker, apart from the fact that he is a carrier. But from memory the Cockers are an old north-east family so he should be of sound stock. I will look forward greatly to receiving news of the couple’s nuptials and events subsequent to them.
Life here in Whitby continues busy, both by day and in the evenings. There are my studies — mainly navigation, astronomy and chart-making — which Mr Walker oversees, and which I find I have some aptitude for. It is good too that I have an attic room at the Walkers’, and a desk for my drawing and note-taking. The Walkers’ housekeeper, an elderly childless lady, Mistress Mary Prowd, seems to have adopted me as she brings me mugs of hot milk and cake when I am studying into the late hours. She is very kind.
Of my studies, astronomy in particular fascinates me. Mr Walker has kindly given me his copy of Compleat System of Astronomy and it has absorbed my spare hours for the past weeks. After sunset on clear nights I cannot forbear to walk to the top of the cliff above the town, lie on my back on open land and observe through a glass the phases of the moon, the placement of the planets and the sky’s constellations. The planet Venus has been particularly bright these past
few weeks, and captivates me on a clear evening.
The contents of this missive will be read to you by Christiana, and by the time it reaches you I will be at sea again, on one of the Walkers’ colliers. But wherever I may be, my thoughts are always of you both, and of John, Margaret and Christiana. Once again, my condolences on the loss of poor little William. Although I cannot be with you to share your grief, my thoughts are much with you at this time of our great loss. Now, in my twentieth year, I look back on my own childhood with the deepest affection. I will be forever grateful for the kindness, wisdom and sober habits you imparted to me, and it is my sincerest hope that I also can lead such a life.
Your loving son,
James
After another two years of study and crewing on Freelove, James’s prospects as a professional seaman appeared favourable. In April 1750 he completed his seaman’s apprenticeship. Now there was a rumour that a longer voyage was in the wind, on a new collier, Three Brothers, whose destination would be a Baltic or Scandinavian port. Anticipating this voyage caused James’s pulse to quicken. The new vessel had first to be fitted and rigged at one of the Whitby yards and he was assigned to assist in the work, which excited him too, as he knew he would learn even more about the rigging of a cat. As indeed he did.
It was in the spring of 1751 that he sailed to his first foreign port.
‘Take the helm, James. Steady as she goes.’
The master, Robert Watson, moved away from the wheel and James took his place. He glanced down at the compass, then up at the billowing mainsail. Watson stood a little way away, watching him closely. James knew he was under surveillance, but held his nerve. Peering up ahead, he moved the wheel a few points to starboard, to catch more wind, and Three Brothers responded. Her hold was filled with Tyneside coal, and she moved sluggishly, slowed further by the out-flowing tide. James looked around him. Minutes before they had entered the great sound, Sognefiord, whose rock walls rose up sheer from the water. Dark clouds covered the tops of the fiord walls, sheets of rain streaking from them. Half an hour later the breeze dropped to a zephyr, and James called for more sail. Two hands scurried aloft and loosed a second foresail, and Three Brothers surged forward. James, feet planted wide apart, was exhilarated. There had been storms in the North Sea, and the collier had taken a beating, but in this enclosed, silent world she was moving eastward steadily towards the headwater. James turned and called to William Steed on the afterdeck. ‘Break out the Norwegian flag.’
Steed unfurled the flag and it hung limp alongside the Jack. Watson chuckled. ‘You remembered then.’
James nodded. Another test passed. But as it was his first time in Norwegian waters he was unlikely to neglect the protocols. Glancing to larboard, he saw that the water was almost black, since little sun light penetrated the sound. No need for soundings here, he knew from studying the charts the night before. The water in the fiord was hundreds of fathoms deep. Scope to his eye, Watson said, ‘The mill’s on the eastern shore. Two points to starboard.’ James obeyed, squinting into the distance. He saw a wharf, a bare-poled ship tied up there, and stacks of logs on the shore. Three Brothers’ back-load. There would be casks of turpentine, too, for stowing.
Watson nudged James’s side. ‘I’ll bring her in.’
James gripped the wheel. ‘No, I’ll do it.’
‘Are you sure?’
Another test. James held the spokes tight. ‘Yes.’
‘Do it then. And when we’re just off the wharf, bring her round into the wind.’ There was a pause. ‘You did well, James,’ Watson said gruffly.
As Three Brothers inched closer to the shore, James called for the topsails to be lowered and six of the crew scurried up the shrouds. The ship moved forward under its own momentum for a few minutes, then he spun the wheel and she came around into the light air. A cutter rowed by six sailors put out from the shore and began moving towards them, two uniformed Norwegian customs officials standing in the stern. An hour later, his vessel securely moored, James stood on foreign soil for the first time.
Several more years passed. Promoted to the rank of able seaman and then to mate by the Walkers after fourteen voyages on four different ships — Freelove, Three Brothers, Mary and Friendship — James had brought all his cats safely to ports as distant as Oslo and Kiel, then back to Whitby. And with each voyage the sea entered deeper into his bloodstream, until it seemed to be as one with it. Even after only a few days ashore he found himself longing to be back at sea. On land, all days seemed the same; at sea, each day was different.
But as he gained more experience, the more his discontent with the collier trade grew. Passing into his twenty-seventh year, the restlessness within him intensified. The very sight of a three-decker naval vessel being sailed majestically from the Chatham dockyard to the Pool of London, or an elegant East Indiaman moving downriver, setting forth on a voyage to Cape Town and ports beyond, was the source of both admiration and envy for him. How could working on Whitby cats possibly compare with the challenge of serving his king on a ship of the line, or on a trading voyage halfway across the world?
One evening in May 1755 there was a knock on the open attic room door, then a call. ‘James?’
He stood up. ‘Mr Walker. Come in.’
His employer entered. Looking at the open book in James’s hand, he said, ‘What’s that you’re reading?’
James held it up. ‘A Voyage to New Holland by William Dampier. It was lent to me by Charlie Wilkinson.’
‘Wilkinson? He cannot read, surely.’
‘He has learned to, since retiring from the sea.’ James paused. ‘Do you know this book?’
The shipowner scowled. ‘I know of Dampier. He was a rogue. A pirate.’
‘Perhaps so. But he was also a great voyager. Three times, he sailed around the world. No other man has gone so far, not even Sir Francis Drake.’
‘That is true, but his conduct while he did so was unbecoming. He was not an honourable man.’
‘A brave one nevertheless, sir.’
Walker laughed. ‘You’re a stubborn man to come up against in an argument, James.’ Placing his hands behind his back, he flexed his shoulders, the way he did when he wished to discuss matters of business. ‘I need to talk with you. And not about Dampier.’
‘Certainly. Here or in your study?’
‘Here will do.’
James set the book aside and the shipowner took the chair beside his writing desk. Stroking his chin thoughtfully, Walker said, ‘How long is it since you first came to Whitby?’
‘It will be nine years in October.’
‘It does not seem that long to me.’
‘Nor me, sir. The time has gone by swiftly.’
Walker nodded. ‘And you’ve done well. Uncommonly well. Not just completing your apprenticeship in three years, not just passing the examinations to become a mate, but the way you’ve sailed Three Brothers and Friendship. On this coast, and in Scandinavia. You’re a born seaman, James.’
James laughed lightly. ‘My parents would be surprised to hear that, sir, being people of the land. And remember, I was born in a farm biggin.’
Walker gave a grunt. ‘Well, you’ve certainly put that life behind you. I’ve seldom seen a more natural sailor. Your practical nature, your diligence in your studies, they produce a rare ability. Friendship has been sailed profitably and safely with you as her mate.’
James did not reply. Instead he wondered what this was leading to. John Walker rarely dispensed praise in this manner. Instead he repaid diligence with other encouragements — incidental promotions, financial disbursements, invitations to express one’s opinions frankly. Verbal commendations were far less forthcoming.
Walker leaned back in his chair. Again he placed his hands behind his back, signalling that something significant was coming. James noticed the hammocks of flesh beneath his green eyes, the crêpey flesh of his jowls. He looked weary. But when he spoke again, his voice was as it always was: authoritative and decisive.
‘James, it greatly pleases me to say that I’m offering you a command. Of Friendship. Starting with her next run. To Kiel.’
James was jolted. A command? Of the very ship he had sailed on for more than two years. The one he had navigated to Tyneside, to Wapping, through the Skagerrak, and to Rostock and Stockholm. She was a sturdy ship, and one that he had come to greatly respect. And now she could be his, not just to navigate, but to command.
Walker was looking at him expectantly, eyes half-closed, his mouth set. Aware that his offer to the seaman opposite him was irresistible, he was relishing the fact. Meeting the older man’s expectant stare, James paused for some time before replying, and when he did so his voice was firm. ‘Thank you, sir, for the offer. But it is one which I will not accept.’
Walker looked as if he had walked into the edge of a door. His head twitched, then twitched again. At last he found his voice, saying carefully, ‘Am I to deduce from that statement that you intend to leave the sea?’
‘No, sir. The sea has come to be my life, and I hope that it always will be.’
‘Pray then, why—’
‘I intend to join the Royal Navy, Mr Walker.’
‘The Navy?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘James, are you mad?’
‘I sincerely hope not, sir.’
‘Then why—’ An expression of exasperation replaced the one of disbelief. ‘Here are some reasons why that is unthinkable.’ Holding up his left hand, Walker began to count with his right forefinger in an admonitory way. ‘One, there are the hazards of battle. Two, the pay is meagre. Three, the food is abominable. Four, the discipline is brutal. Five, there are the diseases of long voyaging: scurvy, typhus—’