He continued: ‘I know you are the ringleaders of the Bloody Forty, 30 of whom I see before me now. I know you have banded yourselves together and have taken an oath to clip the wings of the bloody old Dreadnought and give the skipper a swim. You think that the lid of Davy Jones’ locker has been open long enough for me. Now you see that I know and do not fear you, but am glad to have such men that I think I can teach a lesson to for the rest of your life.’
With that, the Dreadnought sailed and an uneasy truce settled over the ship that lasted until the following morning. Samuels had already noted how shoddily much of the work was being done by the truculent crew and the sullen manner in which they worked suggested that it would only take a small spark for violence to flare.
The provocation
Samuels decided to force the situation and, while the crew were at dinner, he got his chance: ‘I was walking the quarter-deck watching the course, and noticing that the man at the wheel was not steering steadily, I said, “Steer steady!” He made no reply. “Did you hear me speak to you, sir?” I inquired. “I am steering steady,” he answered in a sullen manner. The impertinent tone of his voice caused me to jump towards him. He attempted to draw his sheath-knife. Seeing my danger, I struck the man, knocking him senseless leeward of the wheel. Wallace, my dog, then took charge of him, and kept his fore paws on his chest. I took the knife from him, and called the officers to handcuff him. He was then put in the after-house, and locked up.’
All remained quiet for a couple of hours. The hands returning from lunch were initially unaware of what had happened, but gradually news filtered through and angry snarls were heard forward. At this point the hands were ordered to trim the mainsail and refused, demanding that the man in irons be released. The refusal amounted to mutiny, and Samuels headed to his cabin to arm himself. As he did, the crew raced forward to gather their own. The passengers aboard were utterly terrified. Samuels ordered them below and went to the fo’c’sle to see what was brewing.
As he approached the fo’c’sle, the men rushed out armed with their knives, clearly with the intention of rushing Samuels and overpowering him. They were stopped in their tracks by Samuels and the barrels of his two pistols trained unwavering on them.
Samuels again takes up the story: ‘With a pistol in each hand and a cutlass at my waist I stood immovable. Not a man dared to come within 12 ft of me, knowing that another step forward would seal his doom. My pistol practice had been heard of and I was a dead shot with both hands and my pistols were on a hair trigger. During a momentary lapse in the clamour I said: “Men, you have found your master.” Finding that they would not listen to what I had to say, I retreated. With a yell they rushed forward and pointing my pistols at them, I said: “The first man that advances another step dies.’”
A whaler with fishing vessels off the Labrador coast. Icebergs were a very real threat for vessels like the Dreadnought in the transatlantic trade, as the Titanic demonstrated so dramatically a few decades later.
Two rare photographs of the American clippers Abner Coburn (above) and Panay (below) under way. Like the Dreadnought, they were fuller lined than the earlier extreme clippers and it was these mighty wooden vessels that saw out the twilight of American commercial sail.
This seemed to have the desired effect, as the crew backed off and barricaded themselves forward, refusing to work. Several stand-offs resolved nothing and, with the wind freshening, things were looking bleak. By this time many of the passengers had had enough and begged Samuels to put into the Irish port of Queenstown (modern-day Cobh), some eight miles distant. Samuels refused, stating that the Dreadnought was bound for New York, not Queenstown. The stand-off remained, but the crew had no access to the ship’s stores, and Samuels made it clear that if any of the mutineers stepped abaft the mainmast, they would be shot dead.
The clipper ship Thomas Reed off the San Francisco coast.
So far, Samuels had been fortunate that the weather had remained fair, but the following day the breeze started to freshen. The royals were going to need taking in. ‘Take in the royals,’ Samuels sang out loudly, and was met with loud replies of ‘go to hell’ from the crew. Fortunately the officers were able to take in the royals and topgallants, but Samuels knew they would not be able to handle the lower sails and all through the night he was obliged to carry on in the most terrifying manner as squalls bore down on the Dreadnought. She was truly living up to her reputation as the wild boat of the Atlantic.
The following morning, the overwrought passengers had just about had enough. They begged for Samuels to go forward and make peace with the crew. He refused, whereupon some swore they would go forward and feed the hungry men themselves.
Going aloft to trim the sails was a vital part of a crew’s duty. The refusal of the Dreadnought’s crew to do so was serious dereliction of their duty.
This photo of the Jabez Howes gives a good idea of the size and height of a clipper’s spars. Without a crew, a clipper was totally unmanageable.
Samuels explained in no uncertain terms the folly of their plan: ‘If the mutineers conquer me they will scuttle the ship, after having committed the greatest outrages on those whom you hold most dear; and at night, while you are asleep, the hatches will be battened down and the ship sunk, while they will take to the boats, expecting to be picked up by a passing ship, and making up stories as have frequently been told – that the ship had sprung a leak and sunk, leaving them the only survivors. These men know now that they have subjected themselves to years in prison.
‘You see, therefore, that these men intend to take my life and to escape in the boats rather than subject themselves to such penalty. I mean to bring them to subjection through hunger, and I forbid you to give them food or aid them in any way in their mutinous conduct.’
Crisis point
By now the crew had gone 56 hours without food and Samuels realised that a crisis was imminent. Two crew members came aft and surrendered to the skipper, which was a positive sign. His next step was to persuade a group of German passengers to help him out. They agreed and were armed with iron bars from the hold. Samuels knew from the defecting mutineers that the crew planned to rush the galley. At 3.45 am he headed forward with his dog to bargain with the crew.
New York in the days of sail. This picture dates from 1883, the year that the Brooklyn Bridge was opened.
‘When Wallace reached the forecastle a deep growl indicated that someone was hidden forward of it,’ Samuels recounted. ‘I knew Casey and Sweeney would lead the attack and so it proved. I was proceeding cautiously with pistol in hand to the edge of the house when they both jumped out at me with arms raised and knives in hand ready to strike. In an instant I levelled my pistol at Casey and the dog jumped at Sweeney’s throat. Casey, seeing the danger, backed up to the forecastle scuttle while the other two men shouted down to the forecastle scuttle: “Jump up, boys! Let’s murder him now!’”
A plan had been put in place for some of the men to sneak round the other side of the fo’c’sle and surprise Samuels, but he in turn had stationed the German passengers to put a stop to this – which they did by beating the mutineers with their iron bars.
Samuels’ account continued: ‘Seeing themselves defeated and me reinforced, the men retreated to the starboard side forward where I held them at bay with my pistol levelled. “Death to anyone who dares advance!” I shouted. “I will give you one moment to throw your knives overboard.” Finnegan now spoke up: “You shall be the first to go, you damned psalm singing bastard.”’ The rest of the crew, however, had started to see things differently and sought a bargain of returning to work provided the captain did not prosecute them for mutiny on arrival in New York.
The bows of the ‘wild boat of the Atlantic’ hang over the wharf of South Street, New York.
However, Samuels said: ‘I will make no bargain with you. Throw your knives overboard and get back to work.’ Sensing the will of their master, one of the crew piped up: ‘Well, boys, it’s no use. He is too
much for us, here goes mine.’ And his knife flew over the side. The rest followed suit, leaving Finnegan and Casey isolated and hopeless. Finnegan was ordered to apologise and on refusing was clapped in irons below.
The men were promptly assigned the unpleasant task of scrubbing the decks. Their spirits utterly broken, they turned to and scrubbed with a will. After several hours of diligent scrubbing and polishing, Samuels called the crew aft. ‘We seem to have reached an understanding,’ he said, with admirable understatement. Only after this was the hungry crew allowed some food. The mutiny was quelled and, for the rest of the voyage, the behaviour of all was exemplary.
A whaler carrying low sail in anticipation of bad weather. There must be a big blow expected as the upper yards have been sent down to improve stability.
By the time the lights of New York hove into view, Samuels was in a quandary as to what to do with his crew. Ultimately he opted to do nothing, simply imploring them to think about their lives and what they were doing. As the crew departed, he was treated to three rousing cheers from a desperate band of men. The wild boat of the Atlantic and her forceful master had finally tamed the Bloody Forty.
Rudderless in mid-ocean
For the next three years Samuels continued to ply the Atlantic aboard the Dreadnought, but his adventures were far from over. The next catastrophe to fall upon his ship would not only confirm that Samuels was a consummate sailor, but would also finally split him and his proud command asunder in the most dramatic of circumstances.
Two tugs attempting to aid a disabled clipper. This illustrates the difficulties faced by the French merchantman endeavouring to rescue the Dreadnought.
Repairs to the rudder were undertaken in Horta, Faial.
The Dreadnought was working her way across a stretch of the Atlantic nicknamed the ‘devil’s blow hole’ when she was battered by winds far stronger than any Samuels had experienced previously. He had been almost a decade in charge of the Dreadnought and never once felt the need to heave her to, but now he knew he must. As skipper and crew waited for the right moment to brace up her mighty mainyard, the old clipper shipped a huge sea that hurled her captain forward and left him senseless under a pile of spare spars. One leg was broken and also a wrist, his head was badly gashed and he was half drowned. During a lull in the storm, the crew succeeded in extricating him from the pile of spars and took him below.
Samuel’s main problem now was that the only person even vaguely resembling a doctor aboard the ship was him. Most vessels relied on the captain and a trusty copy of the ship’s medical journal to come up with a solution to any problem. Thus Samuels set about setting his own leg with the help of the steward and two crew.
In retirement, Samuels took up yacht racing. In 1866 he commanded the Henrietta in the first offshore race of note (above) and, 21 years later, he skippered the Dauntless in a transatlantic race against the Coronet.
A desperate jury repair to a tall ship’s steering gear. The wheel was often damaged as it was vulnerable to following seas. This made helming in heavy seas a real test of nerve.
A dramatic depiction of an unknown clipper ship battling with immense seas similar to those which disabled the Dreadnought.
Three strong men were unable to set the leg back in place, not realising that you had to bend the limb to relax the muscles. Half mad with pain, Samuels made the decision to self-amputate and prepared a knife and tourniquet. Thankfully he was dissuaded by the second mate, who had some limited medical knowledge, and the leg was simply lashed up and left. The second mate had actually come below to report that the Dreadnought’s rudder had been ripped off and the vessel was drifting helplessly. Samuels spent an agonising night being thrown around his cabin, all the while aware that his vessel was in dire straits.
The following morning the storm had abated, but the situation was still grim. Samuels was confined to his cabin, but determined to command the ship as best he could from there. He promptly sent for the carpenter to discuss a jury rudder, only to be informed that the man had died the previous night. This was a severe blow, and from thereon Samuels was to know little but adversity. A jury rudder was built, but it somehow ended up being lost over the side before it could be fixed into position.
Down below, helpless in his cabin, Samuels seethed. There was great frustration aboard as the vessel was only 360 miles from the island of Faial in the Azores and there was a favourable breeze blowing her in that direction – if only the Dreadnought could be persuaded to turn her nose that way. All attempts failed and, several days later, a French merchantman came upon the helpless clipper and agreed to tow her around so that she could run before the favourable breeze.
A full day of attempts failed and, at the end of it, the Frenchman departed and Samuels fired his first mate. He now determined to sail backwards to Faial in the light winds, while the rudder was repaired. After 180 miles of running in this unorthodox manner, a second jury rudder was completed and this time fitted successfully. Two weeks after the accident, the battered vessel dropped her anchor at Faial and Samuel sought a surgeon. At the time, his left leg was two inches shorter than his right and he engaged on a brutal course of resetting and stretching to repair the mangled limb.
He also remained in command of the Dreadnought and fought hard with the insurers who stated that the vessel must have all of her cargo removed in order to replace the rudder. This was due to the lack of a dry dock and was going to prove extremely costly to the owners. Samuels refused and instead trimmed the ship well down by the head so that the sternpost was almost clear of the water and the new rudder could be dropped on with ease, saving the vessel’s owners a great deal of money. The Dreadnought, with Samuels still aboard, then carried on her voyage to New York, arriving without further incident. Samuels found himself confined to his bed for the next year as his mangled leg healed. It was his last passage on the Dreadnought.
A grey day in the Atlantic; an officer ventures out of the deckhouse and braves the elements.
Nevertheless, this was far from the end of his seafaring days. Samuels, along with his compatriot Joshua Slocum, was one of the few deep-water sailing men who switched their attention from racing clipper ships to racing yachts. He found further fame when he was asked to skipper the Henrietta in her 1866 race across the Atlantic against the Fleetwing and Vesta. This was the first offshore yacht race of any note and it is fitting that a veteran of the Atlantic packet service should have won. He later endured disappointment when in command of the Dauntless in her race against the Cambria from Queenstown to New York in 1870. He almost fully recovered from his horrific leg injury and professed to only a slight limp in later years.
Wrecked near Cape Horn
The final irony for the Dreadnought came when she was wrecked in 1869. By the mid-1860s it was clear that the days of the sailing packet were over and the Dreadnought was moved to the New York–San Francisco run to make way for the steamers. In 1869 she was heading for the Le Maire Straits near Cape Horn when she found herself becalmed beneath the dark, foreboding coastline of Tierra del Fuego. A heavy sea was rolling in and, to everyone’s horror, a strong current was setting the ship inshore.
The ship lay motionless, all sails set in the eerie calm. There was no possibility of anchoring as the coastline was sheer and plunged immediately down to unfathomable depths. As the Dreadnought closed with the inhospitable shore, a desperate attempt was made to pull her off using the ship’s boats, but it proved fruitless. This legendary vessel, veteran of a thousand storms, slowly drifted onto the rocks and into her grave in the most prosaic manner imaginable. She was slowly dashed to pieces by the relentless Cape Horn swell.
CHAPTER SIX
THE GREAT CHINA TEA RACE OF 1866
Donald MacKinnon fiddled distractedly with a giant sheaf of papers and glanced longingly out of the window at the glistening waters of the Pagoda anchorage, desperately hoping that the clerk would stamp his paperwork and liberate him from this purgatory. The Chinese method of clearing customs wa
s a civil servant’s dream and, in the midday heat of Foochow, it was unbearable. MacKinnon looked across at George Innes, who was enduring the same torment, and wondered when he was going to blow his top. Not long, he reckoned.
The pair commanded the clippers Taeping and Serica respectively and as veteran skippers should have been calm in the face of this rigmarole. Yet departure day was a tense one for any captain and when you were one of the first boats away in the prestigious annual China tea race, you had every reason to be nervous. Both skippers were desperate to be the first ship back to London with new teas, and they had already had to endure the galling sight of the beautiful new clipper Ariel slip out of the Pagoda anchorage in the first light of dawn. However, since then, something else had happened that had turned tension into rage.
George Innes paced around the customs office. He was trembling with fury and MacKinnon knew he was on the verge of apoplexy. Ever since the vessels had begun loading tea, Captain Robinson of the Fiery Cross had taken every opportunity to wind up Innes. Now he had gone too far and Innes seemed to be reaching incandescent rage. The customs clerk returned some of his bills of lading with a quizzical look, and something snapped. Hurling his papers to the ground, Innes stormed out, leaving MacKinnon to glance apologetically at the perplexed customs officer. He too was vexed, though.
Clipper Ships and the Golden Age of Sail Page 8