Dawn of 6 September 1866 revealed two mysterious racers running up the English Channel.
Past the cape, the Taeping got a good slant of wind and took the lead so long guarded by the Fiery Cross. Further back in the pack, the Serica started to fly and passed the Ariel to take third place for a short while, before dropping back again. By the time the equator had been crossed, the Ariel, Taeping and Fiery Cross were all level, with the Serica a couple of hundred miles behind. Meanwhile, the Taitsing was rapidly closing the gap to the leaders. Bringing a breeze up behind her, she was making the best time of the fleet.
On 9 August there was much excitement aboard the Fiery Cross when a sail was spotted on the starboard beam. To the trained eye of the sailor it was clear that she was one of the China fleet, and there was frenzied speculation as to which one. It didn’t take long to work out that she was the Taeping and the pair remained in company, racing side by side for eight days. There was very little to choose between them. The tension aboard both vessels was palpable and spirits were high. Both were fairly certain they were at the head of the tea fleet and to race along so evenly matched was perfection itself.
On 17 August, however, the Taeping finally gave her rival the slip. At the time both boats were lying listlessly in a flat calm, about half a mile separating them. As the crew of the Fiery Cross eyed their rival, they saw the sea nearby darken and ruffle as a gentle cat’s paw played with the water. The Taeping’s sails gently filled and she ghosted off, gathering speed as the wind filled in. Yet the breeze missed the Fiery Cross altogether and the ship was left sweltering in a clock calm as the crew, cursing volubly, watched their rival disappear, sail after sail, over the horizon.
As the ships raced up to the Azores, some magnificent fluke of the winds seemed to be pushing them together. The Taitsing continued to gain on the leaders, the Fiery Cross again caught and overhauled the Taeping and the Serica was level, too. The result was that, with the exception of the Taitsing, all the ships passed the island of Flores on the same day. The order was the Ariel, followed by the Fiery Cross, the Taeping and Serica, with the Taitsing passing the island 48 hours later.
From here, south-westerly winds hurried the racers to the Western Approaches. All aboard were in high spirits and it’s likely that each skipper believed he had won the race. Robinson and MacKinnon may have had their doubts after their lengthy duel near the equator, but the rest probably thought they had done enough.
The Taitsing off the Chinese coast. She was a new ship in 1866 and her maiden passage home from China was to be the fastest of her entire tea-carrying career. Her owner, James Findlay, also owned the Serica and must have wondered why his newer, larger ship was beaten by his older one.
Unloading tea in London Dock. This illustration captures the bustle of activity and haste when a tea-laden ship arrived with her precious goods.
Prior to 1866, the fastest passage back from Foochow against the monsoon had been 101 days, set by the Fiery Cross. All five clippers were on target to equal or better this and logic dictated they would be first home. They ran on joyously now, spreading every stitch of canvas and flying before the big Atlantic swells, which tumbled them home to London Dock.
On the home stretch
The morning of 3 September found the Ariel running hard before strong south-westerlies, one reef in the mainsail and full topsails. It was a helter-skelter run up the North Atlantic, with the south-westerly breezes kicking up a big following swell that threatened to overwhelm her dainty stern. At the wheel, the helmsman kept his eyes steadfastly ahead, as a glance behind at the tumbling, towering seas was tough on the nerves. As dawn broke, the wind eased slightly and Keay wasted no time in setting sail. One by one, her upper sails and flying kites were unfurled, until the little clipper was staggering along under a huge press of sail. Her captain felt that his rivals were close at hand.
The exhilaration of the race and this wild, tumbling run home had got under his skin now, and he felt he knew exactly what his vessel could stand. Eyeing the straining rig speculatively, he ordered the fore lower stunsail to be set. It was a big sail, and the hands looked at each other fearfully. Yet they turned eagerly enough to set the sail. With a quick flog and a squeal of the tackles, the stunsail was pulled home and a huge acreage of canvas cracked once and started to hurl the ship bodily forward. ‘That got her where she lives,’ someone murmured, and it was true. The motion of the ship had changed and she flew like a bird on the wing from wave to wave, skipping across the smoking seas. No longer wood and canvas, a thing alive.
A vessel about to be taken under tow by a tug. The securing of a tow was to prove very important to the outcome of the 1866 race.
A tug runs alongside a tall ship bargaining a price to be towed up to London.
By evening, the Needles were in sight.
A pilot boat and her gig off South Foreland. Picking up their respective pilots vexed both Keay and MacKinnon.
In the early hours of 5 September the Ariel was racing up the English Channel. In the hours before dawn, the red light of another ship was made out holding the same course as theirs. John Keay stared intently at this pinpoint of light as it dipped and rose, sometimes glowing in a smother of swell. He said but one word to his mate: ‘Taeping.’ He had no particular reason to make this assumption, but he felt in his gut that it would be her. As dawn broke, the mysterious racer revealed herself to be MacKinnon’s flyer. After all those ocean miles, not more than a couple separated the pair. They had left on the same tide and it looked like they would arrive on the same tide.
The Ariel had a slight lead and every possible flying kite was put out to maintain it. All day the two vessels sped up the English coastline, running at 14 knots and more. A more beautiful sight can hardly be imagined as these two perfect ships leant purposefully into the seas that bright September day, tearing past all other shipping as if it were at a standstill. The glamour of the pair was unmistakeable, sails taut and deliberate. Their glowing curves silhouetted against the clear blue sky. Their low sleek hulls glistened and foam flecked in the clear September sun. Untouchable and perfectly matched.
What neither skipper realised was that while they were running their desperate race along the English coast, the Serica was racing along the French side of the Channel, barely more than a couple of hours behind. Innes, whose clipper had lagged for much of the race, had made a wonderful run up the Atlantic and was within touching distance of victory. By nightfall, the Ariel and Taeping were off the Isle of Wight and already Keay was pondering how to maintain his lead and pick up his pilot off Dungeness.
The fogs of the London River were a stark contrast to the soft haze of the Min River.
The Lahloo, built by Robert Steele, was an enlarged version of the Taeping and just as beautiful. She lies in the Thames and there is a tug secured to her starboard side in order to tow her alongside the dock for unloading.
This notice eloquently attests to the disaster created by the four leading clippers arriving almost simultaneously.
The vessels raced on through the night and at 3 am were burning blue lights in preparation for picking up their pilots. Keay, aboard the Ariel, shortened sail. To the horror of all aboard, he and his crew saw that the Taeping seemed to have little intention of doing the same, threatening to overtake and steal the Ariel’s pilot from under her bows. Tales of the Serica’s misfortune the previous year when the Fiery Cross had stolen in ahead flooded back to Keay. He determined to put a stop to MacKinnon. Taking a huge risk, he cut across the Taeping’s bow at close quarters.
It was dangerous to the point of recklessness, but a lot rested on the result of the race and Keay also knew that MacKinnon was a man of impeccable common sense. Thankfully, the Taeping’s skipper backed down and promptly shortened sail. At 5:55 am the Ariel rounded to close to one of a pair of pilot cutters which had sped out from Dungeness to intercept the clippers. Captain Keay was saluted as the first ship from China, but he was in no mood to celebrate. ‘Yes, and what is tha
t to the westward?’, he replied, ‘We have not room to boast yet.’
There was a good deal of money riding on this result and neither skipper felt the race was at an end. Not until the Ariel was secured to the dock could Keay be certain of victory – provided that another clipper hadn’t already got in ahead. As the vessels continued up the coast, the race was closer than ever and it wasn’t until dawn that they started to make preparations for towing up the Thames Estuary.
Here, the Taeping was fortunate and picked up a far superior tug to the Ariel. Keay, however, consoled his crew as both vessels would have to await the tide at Gravesend to get into London Docks. If needs be, he would hire a second tug for the final lap. It was only at Gravesend that both skippers relaxed, receiving telegraphs from their respective owners stating that they were the leading boats and that because the race was a dead heat, the premium would be split between the two vessels. In the end, the Taeping arrived 20 minutes earlier than her rival and MacKinnon could satisfy himself with the knowledge that he was the ultimate victor.
The race was over and the most remarkable draw had been achieved. Yet the drama continued to unfold. An hour after the Ariel was warped alongside the East India Dock, word spread about that the Serica was towing up to the West India Dock. Sailors crowded the dock gate to watch her pass by. It was remarkable: the three ships that had departed Foochow on the same tide had arrived in London within an hour and 20 minutes of each other. All had made the passage in 99 days – the quickest voyage made with the new season’s tea to date.
The question on Innes’ lips as he stepped ashore was whether the Fiery Cross had arrived and his satisfaction at discovering he had beaten his exasperating foe mollified his disappointment at losing out on the premium for being the first ship home. Robinson’s Fiery Cross had been unfortunate with her winds in the mouth of the Channel and arrived 24 hours or so behind her rivals, with the Taitsing a day further back. Both were 101 days out and, in normal circumstances, they would have won the race at a canter. This year had been different, but Robinson’s disgust at being beaten in this manner was hard to conceal. Next year, he swore, he would avenge this defeat.
The biggest losers of all in the race turned out to be the tea importers, for the arrival of five vessels in such rapid succession caused a glut on the market and led to a dramatic crash in market prices.
Victory was also bittersweet for MacKinnon; he died the following year, outward bound on the Taeping. His death was believed to be due to an internal injury sustained while heroically rescuing the Tiree ferry as he travelled home to a hero’s welcome. Meanwhile, Innes, on arrival in London, was said to be so physically and mentally drained from the strain of racing that he could barely bring a cup of tea to his lips because he shook so.
As for the crews, they would soon be ready for the next round of racing; in the meantime they took leave of the beautiful ships with the old shanty ringing in their ears:
I thought I heard the Old Man say:
Leave her, Johnny, leave her.
For the voyage is done and the winds
don’t blow
And it’s time for us to leave her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE SIR LANCELOT DEFIES THE ODDS
The Bay of Biscay in mid-December is a lonely place to be. Gale after gale sweeps over this uncompromising stretch until great icy whitecaps stir and boil the grey water. Huge rollers, carrying with them the whole rage of the wintry North Atlantic, gather at the mouth of Biscay where they seem to mass in sullen fury, before racing on and hurling themselves on the jagged fangs of the French coast. Anyone unfortunate enough to have been out here on the afternoon of 13 December 1866 would have perceived the shadowy form of a clipper ship beating through the maelstrom on her way to China. Her rain-sodden sails were almost black in the shadowy evening light and her dark hull was sometimes almost completely obscured by spume as she sliced through the water into the teeth of the south-west gale.
Every now and again the clipper would be enveloped in a sleety squall, only to emerge unbowed a few minutes later, water streaming white from her scuppers as she continued her headlong progress with grace and purpose. The mysterious ship was the Sir Lancelot, bound for China under the command of the redoubtable Captain Richard Robinson.
If you were able to inspect the clipper more closely, you would have perceived, in the midst of this magnificently bleak scene, a tiny pinprick of light radiating from the deckhouse. Smoke emanated from a chimney as the stove did its work within. If you had looked through the brass porthole, you would have seen the men of the port watch inside, desperately trying to get some rest after several exhausting days of beating down the English Channel. However, sleep was hard to come by as the men rolled and cursed in their bunks. They had been ashore too long and were as yet unused to the rhythm of the ship. They had not long left the Sir Lancelot’s pitching deck after being called upon to help clew up her foresail and mainsail and knew they needed some rest before coming back on duty.
With rain-darkened sails, an unknown clipper races down the Channel.
The French coastline had just been blotted out by a filthy-looking squall and all knew there was trouble ahead. The rigging thrummed in the rising gale and experienced crew members sensed, even as they drowsed, that conditions were worsening. On deck they could hear the impatient tread of the skipper and the yell of orders above the din of flogging canvas. The very fabric of the clipper shuddered as she slammed into the big waves, throwing up great smothers of spray as she beat away from the treacherous coast on her way to freedom.
At 4 pm the port watch returned on deck. It was early December and night had already swallowed the clipper. The occasional star shone out, cold and remote through tattered clouds. Astern, the light of Ushant and the savage coastline of Brittany were rapidly receding. The ship was wild and beautiful as she surged along. The crisp air was charged with salt and keen as an ice-cold blade against the skin. Up on the poop, Captain Robinson surveyed his ship, an excitable gleam in his eye. He was in his element here, free from the shackles and drudgery of shore life. He paused to examine the ever swinging compass, but remained still only for a moment, then he leapt forward again, issuing a volley of orders.
In the gloom, he had spotted an approaching squall and all turned to in order to get the clipper snugged down. As the squall closed in, visibility dropped dramatically and the wind howled balefully in the rigging and rose to a crescendo of screaming until you couldn’t hear yourself think. Then, above the wind, came another noise: a sound like a thousand sheets being ripped apart, accompanied by the ominous cracking of timber and rending of canvas.
Dismasted in the Bay of Biscay
In horror, the crew looked forward and perceived through the confusion that the bowsprit had snapped off short under the weight of the wind. The headsails were thrashing around wildly, hurling the shattered spar around in a lethal manner. The unruly, demented canvas was booming deafeningly. Almost immediately, the foremast, no longer fully supported, crashed over the side. The mainmast and most of the mizzen followed. In two minutes the trim clipper had been almost completely dismasted, the order of spars and rigging replaced by utter chaos. In the shrieking gale, the men rushed forward, armed with axes and knives, and desperately hacked away at the rigging in a frenzied attempt to cut it free, for the spars were now overboard, acting like giant battering rams against the hull.
A moody coastal scene with the promise of foul weather to come.
Several hours later, the worst of the wreckage was clear. Only the mizzen lower mast was still standing and the Sir Lancelot was in a desperate situation. The south-west gale was driving her inexorably back to the French coast and inevitable destruction.
Dawn found the clipper 30 miles off Ushant and things were looking bleak. Yet fortune, which had been frowning upon Sir Lancelot for some time, offered a crumb of hope to the beleaguered vessel. To the immense relief of everyone, the wind shifted to a full-blown southerly, giving the skipper and cre
w time to rig a jury mast and square away for Falmouth. Two days after the accident, on the evening of 15 December, she dropped the hook in Carrick Roads and all on board breathed a collective sigh of relief.
For Robinson, it was a serious setback. As he trod the crackling, icy cobbles of Falmouth the next day, he pondered his misfortune. That same autumn he had endured the enormous disappointment of losing out in the 1866 China race, so he had been delighted when James MacCunn, owner of the Sir Lancelot, had asked him to take charge of his newest clipper. She was a sister ship to the Ariel and Robinson saw in her the extra speed he required to regain his dominance in the China run. Now she was set for a heavy delay and there was a real danger she would miss the China race completely.
For James MacCunn, the Sir Lancelot’s owner, the unscheduled arrival of his ship in Cornwall was greeted with mixed feelings. Mainly he was relieved that his enterprising new skipper had saved the vessel, but he was also aware of the logistical nightmare in trying to re-rig her. All through December the shipwrights and riggers worked like fury to get the ship ready for sea. The hull needed to be repaired after the battering it had received from the spars, while new masts were brought in and lowered into place.
The Sir Lancelot dismasted and drifting helplessly into the Bay of Biscay.
Clipper Ships and the Golden Age of Sail Page 10