Barons of the Sea

by Steven Ujifusa

  She was to be christened Rainbow.

  Regardless of the competition, the Lows kept their eyes on the prize, and Palmer kept Brown & Bell on schedule.18 At Russell & Co., Robert Bennet Forbes, although not directly invested in the ship, followed the construction closely. “Let me know a week before you launch so that I may go in her, your fine ship Houqua,” he scrawled eagerly to Palmer.19 But she would not be ready for some time.

  *

  New York’s East River was home to many other shipyards in addition to Brown & Bell. Employing thousands of men and boys, the yards built everything from China packets, to river steamers, to naval warships. Prior to the 1830s, there were no set hours for work. It took a number of strikes for the shipyard owners to concede to a series of short breaks throughout the day, marked by the ringing of the so-called Mechanic’s Bell, set in a high wooden tower at the intersection of Lewis and Third Streets. Cast from hundreds of gold, silver, and copper coins donated by the shipyard workers, the Mechanic’s Bell was an audible symbol of tradesman solidarity, its tolling a daily reminder to the bosses of the hard-won twelve-hour day.20 The day started at six in the morning sharp. The men would pause for breakfast between eight and nine, and then continue on until noon. After an hour lunch break, the men would labor until the Mechanic’s Bell tolled again at six in the evening.

  The workers’ attempt at forming a trade union proved futile. The best they could do was the so-called NewYork Journeymen Shipwrights Society, which pooled member contributions into a fund to help workers debilitated by all-too-frequent accidents. The organization’s charter forbade it from attempting to “control or fix the prices of carpenter’s wages in the city of New York.” Wages for skilled working-class shipyard workers, considered a good job at the time, seem shockingly low by today’s standards. During the 1840s, a teenage apprentice might earn $2.50 a week, plus $40 a year “in lieu of meat, drink, washing, lodging, clothing, and other necessities.” A master shipwright could expect to earn up to $1.75 per day. Such pitiful wages barely allowed these young men to survive in the big city.

  Low wages aside, the highly skilled men of New York’s shipyard were very proud of their craft, which demanded a combination of physical strength and extreme attention to detail. The first step in the actual construction of a ship such as Houqua—and all subsequent clippers—was laying the keel. This was the backbone of the ship; if the keel broke apart in rough seas or on the rocks, the ship had a “broken back” and was a total loss.

  Keels were made of rock maple or another type of tough, rot-resistant wood. For maximum strength, a shipbuilder preferred to use a section of lumber from a single tree. Because Houqua was more than 130 feet in length, her keel probably had two or more sections made into a single unit by a so-called scarph joint. To make a scarph, the workers cut a diagonal at the ends of the two keel pieces and then linked together the pieces with wooden wedges, iron pins, or a combination of the two. On larger vessels, which required extreme strength for long ocean voyages, the keel might be composed of three vertical layers: the shoe (the bottom layer), followed by upper and lower tiers. The shoe was considered “sacrificial.” Its main purpose was to protect the structural keel itself from damage from grounding, and hence it was constructed in short sections.21 A crooked keel would wreak havoc on a ship’s steering, so the shipwrights would carefully eyeball the sections to make sure they were straight. After that, the workers would then join the keel sections with pins and wedges. They would then use axe-like adzes to cut a groove into the keel known as a “rabbet.” The garboards—or first range of planks—would be secured into this rabbet.

  The keel defined the so-called centerline of the ship. With it in place, the shipwrights would then erect the ship’s front and rear sections. Ideally, the front of the ship, known as the stem, would also be made of a single section of wood, usually white oak, with a grain that went with the curve of the bow. If made of two or more sections, the stem was scarphed together, just like the keel. The whole assembly was then joined by metal bolts (ranging in diameter from 7/8 to 1 1/2 inches) to the rest of the keel by a section of wood known as a filling piece. Ideally, rust-resistant copper bolts would be used for areas of the ship below the waterline, and iron or composition bolts for the areas above it. Copper was weaker than iron but much less likely to corrode than the ferrous metal. As for the iron bolts, corrosion (to a point) was a positive thing: when exposed to sea air, the iron bolts would expand in their holes, adding to the strength of the connection, something shipyard workers called “holding fast.” Yet if they corroded too much, the entire ship would become “iron sick,” in which continuous exposure of iron bolts to seawater would cause the ship to fall apart.22

  A so-called false stem projected out from the front of the stemson—this was where the ship’s bow met the water. The sternpost, which, projected upward from the rear of the keel, was never made from sections but rather from a single piece of wood, usually the lower section of a tree trunk. In the words of maritime historian William Crothers, “the chosen log had to be of unquestionable soundness in order to withstand the variable stresses imposed upon it by the rudder.” It was secured to the keel by two additional massive wood pieces: a vertical inner sternpost and a stern “knee”—a piece of wood with one branch attached to the inner sternpost and the other joined to the keel.23

  The next step was the framing, which spread out like ribs from the ship’s keel and gave the ship structural rigidity. The angle of the frames from the keel would define how steeply the ship’s sides rose upward, an angle known as deadrise. The higher the deadrise, the more closely the hull cross section resembled a V, while the lower the deadrise, the more closely it resembled a flat-bottomed barge.24 The frames were assembled flat from a moving platform, and then raised into place and secured as a completed unit. The lowest frame section was known as the floor, followed upward by the first futtock, second futtock, and lastly the top timber, by which time the frames curved upward from horizontal to the vertical rail stanchion.25 At the bow and stern, skilled carpenters crafted intricate framing for the “stern knuckle” and the “knightheads.”

  Above the keel, workers added additional timbers into an assembly known as the keelson. Usually made from hard pine, its purpose was to secure the ship’s frame into the keel, as well as to provide additional longitudinal strength to the hull. For fine-hulled vessels such as Houqua, a strong keelson was critical to keep the ship’s bow and stern from pulling downward (a process known as hogging) from the midship section. Naval designers realized that could be the stronger the keelson, the trimmer and more elegant a ship’s lines. In the years to come, as clippers grew bigger and leaner, with less buoyancy fore and aft (in the bow and stern), the keelson would grow in size and complexity to compensate. The single keelson timber might have up to three “riders” on top, and three “sister riders” on each side. As Crothers observed, “If there was one structural feature proprietary to the clipper ship, it was the keelson.” The beauty of the hull’s exterior was made possible by the brute strength of the keelson timbers from within. Yet the increased size of the keelson had two negative size effects: severely diminished cargo capacity and increased weight.26 The keelson also had to be strong because the masts were anchored to it, and it had to withstand the forces not just of the weight of the masts but also the immense force of wind pushing against thousands of square yards of canvas.

  To support the decks, workers crafted beams that would be installed between five and seven feet apart, and then clamped to the vertical frames. What actually held the beams to the frames were knees, which performed the same function as the component that linked the keel with the sternpost. In Crothers’s words, the knee’s job was to provide a “mechanical connection between two parts that worked in different directions but were located in one plane.”27 Up to 1,500 such knees could go into the construction of a single ship, and, ideally, the natural grain of the wood would conform to the angle of the knee. As nineteenth-century production
began to deplete American forests, there was an increasing shortage of tough woods such as hackmatack, and shipbuilders would start using wrought iron knees instead.

  With the frame completed, the entire ship was planked with three-or four-inch thick boards, usually of white oak, that were steamed into shape and secured to the frames with wooden treenails. These one-inch wooden dowels, made from locust or other were hardy wood, hammered into bored holes with iron hammers. When in contact with water, the treenails swelled, tightening the connection between the frames and the planks.

  Afterward, workers added sheets of copper to the hull below the waterline. The purpose of this expensive layer was to save money in the long run by stopping the Teredo navalis, or shipworm, a bivalve that gorges on submerged wood and wreaked havoc on hulls. The Teredo thrived in warm climates, making ships in the China trade particularly susceptible to destruction. After much experimentation, the Royal Navy had pioneered the use of copper sheathing in the mid-eighteenth century, which not only protected the hull from the Teredo but also impeded the growth of aquatic plants and barnacles. The practice soon spread to British and American merchant vessels. US merchants found another reason for the heavy initial outlay in coppering their ships’ bottoms: increased speed.

  After her bottom was coppered and her sides painted in lustrous black, Houqua was finally ready for her launch into the East River.

  *

  On July 1, 1844, under the command of her designer, Captain Nat, Houqua cast off and set sail from New York. Palmer ordered all hands to lay aloft and let loose the gaskets from the yards. The black-hulled little craft suddenly sprouted wings of billowing white canvas, which thundered downward and caught the wind with a deep rumble.

  Compared with the hefty packets berthed around her at South Street, Houqua was a trim, fragile-looking vessel. As one reporter noted, the ship was the “prettiest and most rakish looking packet ever built in the civilized world … as sharp as a cutter—as symmetrical as a yacht—as rakish in her rig as a pirate—and as neat in her deck and cabin arrangements as a lady’s boudoir.”28 Yet she was far from dainty: like the opium clippers on which she was modeled, Low and Palmer had built Houqua as an auxiliary warship, and mounted sixteen guns in case of an attack.

  The ship carried a letter from Abbot Low to Warren Delano in Hong Kong, with Low writing that Houqua, if she “has not been unduly commended, ought to arrive in China in less than 100 days.” Her cargo included four hundred tons of goods, “principally Domestics and chiefly outfreight,” as well as an invoice of cotton goods worth $30,000 and a $15,000 letter of credit, most likely from Baring’s bank. “Together these will yield as much as I shall wish to have sent home in the ship on my own account and Captain Palmer’s,” he continued, “so that there will be no need of calling upon you for an additional sum.”29

  The passenger list included perpetually cash-strapped William Henry Low, now on his third voyage to China, charged by his brother with making an “early disposition” of the ship’s freight, especially if Houqua should make “a good passage and anticipate other vessels on the way.” In the post–Opium War era, the Americans were now shipping lots of heavy freight for sale in Hong Kong, most likely to be sold to supply the new British colony. Common cargo included pig lead, cotton sheetings, and naval stores: pitch, tar, and turpentine.30

  As she sailed out to sea, the partners of A. A. Low & Brother held their breaths, wondering if Palmer’s experiment would capsize or plunge under at the first gale, taking their most valued captain, his crew, and passengers down with her. In addition to William Henry, another Low relative was on board: Francis Hillard, the youngest brother of Harriet Low’s husband, John. Francis, according to Abbot Low, was “seeking a situation in some mercantile house and is furnished with good letters to your firm and others. He is a fine seaman & well qualified to act as a bookkeeper.”31 As for the third mate, Abbot knew that his cutup kid brother Charlie was in good hands under Captain Nat’s rough but firm tutelage.

  The voyage was smooth. In the ship’s main saloon—adorned with rich wood paneling and plush upholstered sofas—the passengers whiled away the evenings by singing songs and telling long stories until the flickering whale oil lamps were extinguished at ten o’clock. Liquor was available to the captain, officers, and passengers, but not the crew. Food was ample if not varied. All ships carried a floating barnyard—pigs, chickens, geese, goats, and ducks—which were gradually slaughtered as the voyage continued.32 Although fresh fruit and vegetables gave out within a few weeks, the ship carried tinned food. One China trade captain (not Palmer), famous for his malapropisms and proud of the spread that he could now have at dinner, told his passengers proudly, “Yes, gentlemen, those vegetables were put up in tin cans and diametrically sealed.”33 Little did the passengers know that tinned food was often contaminated with lead. What the sailors may have lacked in vegetables, they may have made up for in dearth of poison.

  Captain Palmer would leave the dinner table as soon as a meal ended and either go to his stateroom or keep an eye over the ship’s operations on the quarterdeck.34 Houqua was living up to her designer’s promise, sailing easily and consistently at around ten knots. As they approached the Dutch East Indies, Palmer spotted an English merchantman in the distance, and he prepared to hail it, firing one of Houqua’s guns and raising the Stars and Stripes. The English vessel suddenly reduced sail. Her captain, thinking Houqua was a warship and apparently believing that the United States and England might be at war again, prepared to surrender. As Houqua overtook the British merchantman, Palmer announced that there was no need to fear: this sleek Yankee craft was a merchant ship, not a warship. The British captain, Low remembered, “was mad as a hornet and would have nothing to say to us, but gave order to make sail again.”35

  Seventy-two days after departing New York, Houqua dropped anchor at Anjer in the Dutch East Indies, where the famished crew loaded new provisions: chickens, turtles, and fruit. Twelve days later, Captain Palmer brought her safe and sound into Hong Kong. “A splendid passage,” young Low said.36

  The merchant Houqua never got to see his namesake. He had died at age seventy-five the September before she sailed. However, during construction, Captain Palmer and Charles Low had sailed to Canton to pay him a visit at his grand mansion. There the Americans had presented their mentor with a model of the ship to be.

  Shortly after their arrival in Hong Kong, William Low wrote Palmer about what to do with his cargo, which apparently included a cache of muskets.37 It is not clear whether the guns were intended for the safety of the partners of Russell & Company or were being shipped on consignment. It does, however, appear that whatever their purpose, the guns would be smuggled ashore, as the first mate, Thomas Hunt, had already delivered a ship’s manifesto for customs inspection at Whampoa.

  Palmer had a letter of authorization from the Baring Brothers bank to bring back to New York up to £2,000 worth of British-owned “merchandise” on consignment. The merchandise remains a mystery—it was probably tea—but what is clear is that the British were now interested in using a fast American ship to sell their Chinese goods, hopefully at a higher price than could be fetched in London.38

  Palmer, finding that the Chinese government had no interest in buying Houqua for its navy, loaded her with tea and turned the ship’s bow down the Pearl River and out to sea, homeward bound. As she hurtled through the Indian Ocean toward the Cape of Good Hope, Third Mate Charles Low—by now tall and tan, his hands calloused and nails ringed with black tar—found that he could “turn a dead eye” and “clap on a seizing” as well as any. “I was getting great confidence in myself in regard to taking care of the ship,” he boasted. “I kept the second mate’s watch for more than six weeks.”39

  “A sailor can sleep anywhere—no sound of wind, water, canvas, rope, wood, or iron can keep him awake,” Richard Dana observed in Two Years Before the Mast.40 Charles snug in his bunk as the ship rolled toward home, dreamed that Houqua was in a race against Wetm
ore & Company’s new clipper ship, Montauk, which he had seen arrive in Hong Kong on their heels. As the wind picked up, and the two ships surged ahead, he braced the yards once, twice, and three times, and Houqua gained the upper hand. Suddenly a squall hit the clipper with a terrific burst of wind and spray. The skies above darkened to charcoal black, and waves danced and rolled around the ship’s hull.

  “Let go the skysail and the royal halyards!” Low cried.

  The winds howled and foaming waves smashed over the bow, and Captain Nat and First Mate Hunt ran out of their cabin in a panic. Then there was a great cracking sound, followed by the din of falling blocks, ripping canvas, and shrieking rope.

  “It’s not the main-topgallant mast; it can’t be!” he yelled, and woke with a start in his bunk.

  When he reported for duty, Low told the second mate about his dream and went on with his watch.

  On a later voyage, Charles Low found himself atop the mainmast, hacking away the tangled wreckage of Houqua’s main topgallant mast, which had collapsed during a race against Wetmore’s Montauk.

  “Well, Low, your dream has come true,” the second mate said as Charles climbed down from aloft.41

  Yet they had won the race.

  *

  I. A measure of longitudinal deck curvature. The sheer forward is usually twice that of the sheer aft.

  CHAPTER 7

  FAMILY PRESSURE UNDER SAIL

  Oh, some there I know of now, in exile and captivity,

  Disfriended of their lighted world and where it wanders, who

  Would tramp that hall and raise their hands and shout the heighth and width of it:

  “Give us the Clipper Ships, and then—we shall have Houqua too!”

  —BENJAMIN R. C. LOW, grandson of William Henry Low II, “Houqua, In Memoriam A.A.L.,” (1893)1