Unsolved Mysteries of the Sea

by Lionel

  It was their professional legal work that linked Bacon with William Anson and the intriguing secrets of Shugborough Hall, the most enigmatic of which is the strange Shepherd Monument that stands in the grounds. The authors have studied it in the most minute detail — just as they have studied Poussin’s original painting Bergères d’Arcadie, on which the Shugborough monument is based.

  These strange old anchor and ship watermarks date back at least to the fifteenth century. What curious secret messages did they convey to Drake, Bacon, and Anson centuries later?

  The authors examining the mysterious Shepherd Monument in the grounds of Shugborough Hall, Staffordshire, U.K. It may link Francis Bacon and the Ansons with the mysterious treasures of Oak Island, Nova Scotia, and Rennes-le-Château in France.

  Detail of the inscription at the foot of the Shepherd Monument in the grounds of Shugborough Hall. It has never been satisfactorily deciphered.

  The enigmatic Nicolas Poussin was born in Les Andelys, France, in June 1594. He died in Lucina, Italy, on November 19, 1665. This made him a contemporary of William Anson and Francis Bacon, and who better than a professional painter like Poussin to understand and create watermark codes? Although the evidence is tenuous, Poussin seems to have had access to some very important secret of the time. Nicholas Fouquet, the immensely wealthy and powerful minister of finance for King Louis XIV (the so-called Sun King), had a younger brother who was a seventeenth-century version of James Bond. This young man encountered Poussin in Rome and sent a message to his influential elder brother to the effect that Poussin had an amazing secret that he was willing to share with the Fouquets. The young spy’s dramatic and sensational letter conveyed the idea that this secret was so well hidden that unless it was deliberately revealed by someone who knew how to decipher it, it would remain hidden until the end of time.

  Poussin’s secret — whatever it was — seems to have been entwined with the ancient Arcadian myths and legends, and in particular with the cryptic phrase: Et in Arcadia ego. This can be traced through Publius Virgilius Maro, better known to classicists as Virgil. Born in 70 BC near Mantua, Virgil visited Rome for the first time in 41 BC, when he was in his thirtieth year. He was a brilliant intellectual who had contacts in the highest Roman circles. If there were strange secrets circulating in the Rome of the first century BC, Virgil would almost certainly have been a party to them. He used the famous Et in Arcadia ego phrase as part of his fifth eclogue. Poussin incorporated it into both versions of his Bergères d’Arcadie where he depicts three Arcadian shepherds and a shepherdess paused thoughtfully beside a tomb bearing Virgil’s solemn words. The superficial meaning seems to be: “Even in the carefree, idyllic, bohemian land of Arcadia, I, Death, am waiting.” But some academic folklorists and experts in mythology have put different — and much deeper — interpretations on the inscription. To them the “I” of the Latin “ego” in the Arcadian phrase does not symbolize Death, but rather the arcane power itself, the mystical treasure, the secret, awesome, hidden knowledge.

  If, as is strongly suspected by some researchers, these strange secrets behind Virgil’s words and Poussin’s paintings really exist, then understanding them appears to be the prerogative of deeply secretive and carefully concealed brotherhoods and sisterhoods, skilfully camouflaged cells, societies, and communities of the wise. Such Illuminati and Cognoscenti are thought by some researchers to go a great way back into prehistory: these were the true, ancient, and original Arcadians, people who allegedly knew Atlantis and Lemuria.

  The mystery of Poussin’s Bergères d’Arcadie canvases is compounded by a table tomb that once stood in the hamlet of Arques, very close to enigmatic Rennes-le-Château on its miniature mountaintop in the foothills of the Pyrenees. In 1885, the Parish priest of Rennes, Father Bérenger Saunière, inexplicably became one of the richest men in southern France. The secret of his wealth and power has never been satisfactorily explained, but it is believed by some researchers that it was connected with the Arcadian treasure because the tomb at Arques is identical to the one in Poussin’s picture.

  Lionel measuring the tomb of Arques near Rennes-le-Château — identical to the Arcadian tomb in Poussin’s painting.

  Was the tomb copied from Poussin’s Arcadian design, or did Poussin visit Arques and see one that was already there? The tomb the authors examined during one of their many visits to Rennes-le-Château was barely a century old and contained the coffins of two lady members of the Lawrence family. There is, however, a considerable body of evidence indicating that only the table part was recent, and that the lower excavations of the tomb of Arques went back at least to the Middle Ages. The tomb certainly had a deep interior, going well below the two visible coffins, which were about four metres down when we examined it in the 1970s.

  Two decaying coffins belonging to the Lawrence family about four metres down in the tomb of Arques.

  Curiously, a later owner of the site demolished the Poussinesque tomb. Why? The most intriguing mysteries are the ones that are hardest to verify and authenticate.

  One fully authenticated and closely recorded result of Anson’s amazing circumnavigation, however, was that he undoubtedly returned with so vast a treasure that it filled thirty-two wagons and was guarded by nearly 150 of his loyal and trusted shipmates on its way from Portsmouth to London on Monday, July 2, 1744. But it had not been an easy voyage. A great deal had happened since Anson’s good ship Centurion had weighed anchor when she left England in 1740.

  Extracts from Anson’s own journal include: “1741, 8th May. Heavy flaws and dangerous gusts, expecting every moment to have my masts carried away, having very little succour, from the standing rigging, every shroud knotted, and not men able to keep the deck sufficient to take in a topsail, all being violently afflicted with the scurvy and every day lessening our number by six, eight and ten.”

  Anson’s difficulties can be understood, when the problem of controlling a large sailing ship in such conditions are made clear. Another entry reads: “1741, 1st September. I mustered my ship’s company, the number of men I brought out of England, being five hundred, are now reduced by mortality to two hundred and thirteen, and many of them in a weak and low condition.”

  Seamen weighing anchor with the capstan prior to sailing.

  Taking in sail was difficult enough in fine weather. In a storm it was a formidable problem.

  On November 12, they had great success against the town of Payta. Anson’s men occupied it for three days, while his ship’s boats were busy plundering it. But by December 7, the original force of 1,872 men had been reduced to fewer than five hundred.

  There was great treasure taken on June 21, 1743. Anson reported looting the following items:

  112 bags of silver,

  6 chests of silver,

  11 bags of virgin silver,

  72 chests of dollars,

  various bags of dollars,

  114 chests of dollars,

  100 bags of dollars, and

  4 bags of wrought plate and virgin silver.

  That was, in fact, the supposed tactical reason for his Pacific Squadron being deployed against Spain and her allies. In 1739, the British Admiralty felt that war with Spain was inevitable. They also realized that Spain needed the income from Latin America to finance that war. Sir Charles Wager at the Admiralty devised a tactical plan to send two squadrons to the Pacific to rob Spain of her essential war chest, and so weaken her war effort to a point where it could not continue because of lack of money. Anson was one of the two squadron commanders that Wager chose.

  In the summer of 1744, at the end of Anson’s four-year adventure, he returned triumphant with his bare handful of survivors and his thirty-two wagon loads of treasure. It was widely accepted at the time that the bulk of the treasure had indeed come from his raids on Spain’s allies by land and sea.

  Yet there may well have been quiet speculation among those who shared certain secret, arcane knowledge that not all of Anson’s vast treasure had come from L
atin America or from prizes like the Nuestra Senora de Cobodonga, a Spanish treasure galleon that he had encountered. Anson’s Centurion had outgunned the Nuestra Senora de Cobodonga, and his cannons had raked her again and again with a combination of ball and grapeshot.

  A high-ranking naval adventurer who had been legitimately scouring the Spanish Main and beyond could find it an attractive and convincing cover for a little private money-laundering. But what form of wealth was it that was so secret that it had to be laundered?

  Admiral Anson’s gunners were experts with cannons like this one.

  The essence of those unvoiced speculations undoubtedly lay in Anson’s close connections with the enigma of Shugborough Hall and the mysteries of the legendary Arcadian treasure.

  Johann Nepomuk Salvator (1852–91) was a Habsburg, a son of Leopold II of Tuscany. He enjoyed a successful military career, but in the difficult, reactionary, ultra-conservative political world of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, he unwisely made it plain that he was a liberal and a radical reformer. Johann was intelligent, sensitive, artistic, musical, and anti-clerical. He made an unsuccessful bid for the throne of Bulgaria in 1887, which predictably upset the hard, cantankerous, and unforgiving old Franz Joseph.

  Johann was a close friend of Franz Joseph’s son, the tragic Crown Prince Rudolf, another radical liberal, who was almost certainly murdered. In 1889, his body and that of his teenaged mistress, Mary Vetsera, were found in their bedroom in the hunting lodge at Mayerling in a highly compromising situation with their brains blown out and the gun in Rudolf’s dead hand. Politically sophisticated readers will be highly suspicious of the official “lovers’ suicide” version of their deaths.

  It is highly likely that Johann and Rudolf had been involved together in a number of political intrigues, which put Johann in great danger now that Rudolf was dead. Johann renounced his title, calling himself plain Johann Orth instead; married his beloved mistress, Milli Stubel, a beautiful and vivacious ballerina; got himself qualified as a skipper; and sailed away with his wife aboard the Saint Margaret. He then provided another unsolved mystery of the sea by vanishing with his lady and his ship somewhere off Cape Horn in July 1890. He was not officially declared dead until 1911.

  There is evidence that the two of them had obtained something of great importance from Bérenger Saunière of Rennes-le-Château: something connected, perhaps, with the mystery of the Arcadian treasure. Did Johann and Milli escape with it after Mary and Rudolf were murdered? Was the Saint Margaret’s appearance in the vicinity of Cape Horn connected in any way with the circumnavigation mystery of Admiral George Anson over a century earlier? There are persistent rumours that the lovers landed safely at a remote spot in South America, changed their identities, and vanished, as far as Franz Joseph and the Austro-Hungarian secret police were concerned.

  Many years later, Milli’s sister sold her memoirs to a Viennese newspaper. In them, she testified that there had been a vitally important steel strongbox containing coded documents of the highest significance. She also recorded that just before his death, Rudolf had given this box into the safe custody of Countess Larisch, with strict instructions that it was to be given only to someone using the password R I O U. On the day of Rudolf’s funeral, Countess Larisch was given a message that included the password. Later in the evening, when a heavily cloaked and muffled Johann came to collect it from her, he said that the documents it contained would have meant certain death if Franz Joseph had seen them. That strongbox was believed by some researchers to have been aboard the Saint Margaret when she disappeared off Cape Horn. Is it reasonable to assume that its incriminating contents — whatever they were — went to the bottom of that cold, southern ocean? Or did Milli and Johann keep them as a form of insurance? Did Johann’s crew come secretly ashore with him and Milli, after scuttling the Saint Margaret in some quiet but deep bay off the coast of South America?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Baychimo and Similar Mysteries

  In 1914, the thirteen-hundred-tonne Baychimo, product of an excellent Swedish shipbuilder, belonged to the Hudson Bay Company. She was a well-designed, well-constructed, steel-framed cargo vessel built to withstand the pressures and problems of the dangerous ice in the perilous northwestern waters. Her single funnel, her long, high prow, and her specially devised bridge made her a welcome and familiar sight among the fur traders and other residents of the Beaufort Sea coast, Victoria Island, and the Northwest Territories. Her regular two-thousand-mile round trips carried vital food and other essential supplies in one direction and furs in the other. The Canadian mariners who commanded and worked the Baychimo ranked among the toughest and most skilful sailors in the world. They knew each time they set out that the voyage was going to be difficult and demanding, and July 6, 1931, did not seem to hold any different prospects as the Baychimo weighed anchor in Vancouver, British Columbia. Captain John Cornwell had thirty-six excellent men at his command when they sailed that day.

  By the time they reached Victoria Island, most of their essential supplies had been unloaded, and the holds were packed with pelts. Cornwell and his men completed their Victoria Island business and headed the Baychimo back towards Vancouver. The winter of 1931 was a bad one, and it came earlier than usual that year in the lonely lands of the north. The whole area froze very quickly, and the pack ice closed in on the Baychimo like hounds surrounding an exhausted stag. By the end of September there was barely any space to steer her through, and by the start of October the encircling ice had done its worst: the Baychimo was trapped.

  The nearest habitation was an Alaskan settlement called Barrow. The Hudson Bay Company maintained several strong shelters there for emergency use. Captain Cornwell’s seasoned eyes knew that severe blizzards were on the way. He told his men to get off the Baychimo and find what shelter they could in the Company’s buildings. They made it safely to the life-saving huts, but were trapped there for two or three days while the blizzards raged on.

  Unexpectedly, the Baychimo somehow freed herself from the encircling ice — that event alone seemed almost supernatural in view of the prevailing weather — and her complement boarded her again with all speed. With the full power of her sturdy engine, the Baychimo throbbed away to the west as fast as the hazardous ice would allow. Then, after only a few hours, the gallant little steamer was again trapped in the ubiquitous ice.

  There was a major problem on October 8, while some of the Baychimo’s crew were playing football on the ice. The ice cracked in entirely the wrong place for the trapped ship, and she began moving irrevocably landwards. The experienced mariners were certain that she would be crushed. Urgent SOS messages brought two rescue aircraft from Nome and twenty-two of the crew went home aboard them. This left the fearless Captain Cornwell and fourteen of his toughest and most resolute Canadian sailors to handle the Baychimo — if, miraculously, she ever broke free of the encircling ice. There was no knowing how long they would have to wait: at the worst it could be a year! Accordingly, they constructed a well-insulated shelter and settled down on the pack-ice to play a waiting game with the deadly ice.

  November 24 brought another crisis. As her stalwart crew sheltered in their hut, the Baychimo disappeared under nearly thirty metres of ice! They searched everywhere for her without success, and decided that the ice had finally done her in. As they began the long trek home over the frozen mainland, they met a friendly and helpful Eskimo seal hunter. When he heard their story, he told them that he’d seen the Baychimo about seventy kilometres to the southwest! Cornwell and his implacable men slogged to the spot their informant had described — and found the missing ship! They took what few furs they could transport, and with heavy hearts left the indomitable old Baychimo to her fate in the ice. The captain and crew were finally flown safely home.

  Reports came in regularly from Eskimo hunters that the Baychimo had been sighted repeatedly, and in 1932 an explorer named Les Melvin came across her as he travelled from Herschel Island to Nome with his dog team. Les actua
lly got aboard and checked out the furs — most were still in excellent condition — but there was no way that one man on his own could sail her to safety.

  In 1934 a botanist from Scotland, Isobel Hutchinson, found the Baychimo and got aboard her as Les had done two years before. The ship was seen again in Alaska in 1935. In 1939, just after the outbreak of World War II, Captain Hugh Polson encountered the Baychimo, but was unable to rescue her from the ice — despite his best efforts. Eskimo fishermen saw her in 1962, floating a few kilometres out into the Beaufort Sea, and again in 1969 when she was reported trapped in the ice between Icy Cape and Point Barrow.

  Is she still around? She may well be! Her designers and builders can feel justifiably proud of their creation, which has defied the ice and polar storms for so many decades.

  Sightings of the ill-fated Erebus and Terror have been far rarer and less well substantiated than the many sightings of the Baychimo. Nevertheless, there have been tenuous reports that both vessels have been occasionally sighted over the years since they vanished in 1845 along with the whole team who accompanied Sir John Franklin’s fatal quest for the elusive Northwest Passage. Named after the legendary gateway to the nether regions of Greek mythology, the Erebus was officially rated as a Hecla-class bomb ship. She had three masts and measured over thirty metres in length, with a breadth of nine metres and a draft of four metres. Her stout wooden hull gave her a displacement of nearly four hundred tonnes. Designed by Sir Henry Peake, the Erebus was built in the Pembroke Dockyard in Wales, U.K., in 1826. Her companion on her final, tragic voyage was the Terror: very similar to the Erebus in design, but nearly fifty tonnes lighter. Also designed by Sir Henry Peake, the Terror was built at Topsham, England, in 1813, while the threat from Napoleon still lingered in English minds. Bomb ships of that period carried heavy mortars and were intended to bombard enemy coastal towns from the sea. The heavy mortars they carried weighed up to three tons each and had a ponderous recoil. Any ship firing them had to be powerfully reinforced — which was what made the Erebus and Terror particularly appropriate for expeditions to the northern and southern zones of ice.