Beautiful Star & Other Stories

by A D Swanston

  Father’s message, telling us that weather permitting he would leave in a convoy on Friday afternoon, arrived on Thursday. It was a relief that the skippers now felt able to set sail and that all should soon be safely home, but the winds were still more than blustery in the north. We could only hope that their journey would be quick and safe.

  On Friday the two boats that had left on Tuesday arrived safely in Cellardyke. They reported strong winds but an otherwise uneventful journey. My mother, whose quiet calm had been rather shaken by the ferocity of the storms, was visibly relieved.

  ‘Thank God for their safe arrival,’ she said. ‘It’s an anxious enough time when the boats are far away and we all know what an autumn sea can be like. Let’s pray we see the others home tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ said James testily. ‘They’re fine boats with the best skippers and crews there are. We’ll see the first ones tomorrow morning, I shouldn’t be surprised.’

  The winds now being no more than moderate and the skies clear of rain, James was surely right. The storms had passed, and the passage home should be good. We went to bed that night in good spirits.

  But in the early hours of Saturday morning I was abruptly woken. Screeching and furious, the wind had risen again. Even more powerful than before, it crashed against the cottage as if trying to rip out our front door and smash through our windows. It woke us all. Shocked at its sudden ferocity, we knew that a storm of that strength would not be narrowly confined and was probably lashing the coast from Wick to Lowestoft. Worse, it would be at its most destructive out at sea, where as far as we knew, thirty-one boats, including Beautiful Star, were trying to get home to Fife.

  There was no improvement during that long, sleepless night. We sat silently together, listening to the storm and waiting anxiously for dawn. When it came at last, we dressed in our warmest clothes. There would be no school that day and we might be spending much of it outside.

  By the time we had eaten, the wind was noticeably less fierce and in mid-morning Mother suggested we might venture out to see what damage there was and to offer whatever help we could. ‘Agnes, please stay here with Alexander. The rest of us will go down to the harbour,’ she said, ‘to see if any boats are back.’ Beautiful Star would not yet be back, having only left Yarmouth the day before. Father would have ridden the storm out at sea, then made for a safe harbour. He would send word from there.

  We made our way cautiously to the harbour over cobbles made dangerous by rain and debris. There we found the piers crowded with family groups huddled together against the east wind and an icy spray. All heads were turned to the sea and all eyes searched intently for a hint of sail on the horizon. Mr Gourlay, the harbour master, had received a telegram confirming that the remaining boats had put to sea on Friday morning and that the storm in the south had been the worst anyone could remember. Half- or three-quarter decked Fifies of forty feet or so would have been tossed about like corks. We could only guess at what it must have been like for their crews but when the boats which had left Yarmouth on Wednesday arrived safely, we would all feel better. The others should soon follow.

  The reading on at the mercury barometer, which had been installed by the town council on the gable end of Mr Robinson’s house in the square, was almost as low as it could be. We walked out along the central pier where we found our aunts Janet Paterson and her sister Jessie Allan. They told us that Quest had left Yarmouth on Friday in convoy with Beautiful Star and Thane. Jessie’s nephew, Andrew Allan, was on Thane. Her sons, Robert and William, were on Quest. Janet’s son Robert was with his father William on Beautiful Star.

  The boats carried neither compass nor navigation lights and depended for their survival solely on fortune and the skill of their crews. God willing, all would be safe, but at sea in such a storm it would be a miracle if there were no loss of nets or equipment. All that morning we stood together on the pier. At midday Mother sent us home. She stayed at the harbour with Janet and Jessie. When at last she did come home, shivering with cold, no boats had arrived, no sails had been sighted and no telegrams had been received.

  We sat around the range, six of us, saying little. Margaret and I took turns with Alexander. He knew something was wrong. The afternoon light was fading when there was an urgent knocking at the door. Mother rushed to open it. It was Willy.

  ‘Mrs Paterson, all the line fishers in the north are safe, four boats from the south have just arrived and they say two more went to Cellardyke. All are damaged and some Cellardyke men are lost. I ran to tell you.’

  Mother shepherded Willy into the parlour. ‘Thank you, Willy, I’m glad you did. Sit here and tell us the news.’

  ‘I don’t know much more, Mrs Paterson. Only that one of the McRuvies is missing and someone from another boat. Lots of nets are lost.’

  The McRuvies were a Cellardyke family, but well known in St Monans where they had relatives. The loss of nets was a serious blow to a fisherman. They were expensive and would have to be replaced out of his own pocket.

  ‘Where did you hear this, Willy?’ I asked.

  ‘Mr Jamieson was talking to Mr Gourlay. I heard them, but not everything. Then I came here.’

  ‘Anything else, Willy?’ I asked.

  ‘Nothing else yet. But the rest of the fleet will be back soon. Beautiful Star should be home tomorrow.’

  Willy did not stay long. When he had left, Margaret and James went out to see if any more news had arrived, while Mother and I prepared supper. She seldom asked for help with cooking, but we both needed to be occupied. As it was a Friday, we made oatmeal herring. The routine helped.

  The food had not been in the oven long when Margaret and James returned. They did not need to speak for us to know that the news was bad. Both were ashen. Margaret spoke first.

  ‘Two men are lost. Alexander McRuvie was swept overboard from the Excelsior, which was trying to get back to Grimsby when it happened. Just seventeen, and his poor father could only watch him drown. The other was also a Cellardyke man, John Watson. He was young too. Lost when his boat turned back for Yarmouth. They say the wind suddenly shifted from north-west to north-east and may well have driven the fleet towards land. Any boats near the Wash will have been in the most danger.’

  Mother shut her eyes and clasped her hands in silent prayer. None of us spoke. There had been no news at all of the three boats carrying ten members of our family. That night, Mother did not even try to sleep. She sat silently by the range. We took turns to sit with her.

  On Sunday morning we were down at the harbour by six o’clock. Church, for once, would be missed. It was still stormy and a good deal colder than the day before, yet the piers were crowded even at that hour. Every boat and every man would be welcomed back. No-one would walk home alone. There was no sense of panic, no sounds of distress. Everyone waited and watched in silence, shoulders hunched, hats and bonnets pulled down, boots stomping for warmth on the stones of the pier. Not knowing how long they might be there, everyone wore their thickest hooded coats, woollen gloves and scarves.

  Mr Nevin was there. He went from one group to another before walking back along the pier towards East Shore. Returning ten minutes later, he said, ‘Julia, I’ve been to Mrs Cook’s house. She’s boiling kettles for tea. Please go round and tell everyone.’

  Mr Cook was one of the fish merchants who lived close by the harbour. Sarah Cook was a pupil of mine and I knew their house. I did as I was asked, glad to have something useful to do and oddly pleased that many made their way there. Most families left at least one member on the pier while they went for the tea, not wanting to desert their vigil entirely.

  Before long, Willy appeared and came over when he saw me. ‘Have you had tea, Willy?’ I asked. ‘There’s some at Mrs Cook’s if you want it.’

  ‘No thanks, Julia. I came to watch for the boats but I can’t stay long. Ma wants to go to church.’ He put his arm around me and hugged me tightly; I rested my head on his shoulder.

  ‘Mother is terrifi
ed,’ I whispered. ‘And so am I. Please, please, let Beautiful Star come home safely. She will, won’t she, Willy?’

  ‘Of course she will. I’m sure of it. She’s the best boat we’ve ever built and your father’s a fine skipper.’

  * * *

  It was about midday when the first shout went up. Sails had been glimpsed on the horizon and all eyes immediately strained to try and identify them. As they approached we could see that there were three boats, apparently undamaged, and making good progress towards the harbour. The leading boat soon entered the outer pier, followed immediately by the other two. By then all three boats had been identified and their families had run round the pier to greet them. The crews had barely stepped off their boats when they were engulfed by women and children. But the tears and kisses did not last long. There were others still waiting, others whose kisses might never be bestowed. The overwhelming joy of the moment was quickly restrained.

  All the men except one went straight home. Thomas Smith, skipper of The Haven, reported to Mr Gourlay. He said that three Cellardyke boats had joined up with them on the way back and would by now be safely home. The storm had been the fiercest ever experienced by any of them; some boats had probably put into harbour wherever they could, and there would certainly be a great deal of damage to boats and equipment. But, worse by far, the storm had arisen so suddenly and had been so unremittingly ferocious that there were fears that some boats might have been driven ashore or even have gone down. Any boat near the Wash when the wind changed direction would have been in the gravest danger because the banks and shallows in those waters could be perilous even in calm conditions.

  We had no way of knowing if any boats had been caught in the area of the Wash. All we knew was that of thirty-one that had left Grimsby and Yarmouth by Friday, nineteen were still awaited. That number was soon reduced to seventeen when Mr Gourlay received another wire to say that two boats, one from each village, had managed to put back into Grimsby that morning and were safe. But by nightfall, one hundred and eight men were still not accounted for.

  The knots of watchers on the pier gradually dispersed as early darkness fell. There was no point in our remaining there through the night – no skipper would attempt the harbour entry in the pitch black – and many of us had been there all day. We had to eat and rest and allowed ourselves to be taken home. Having barely slept for three days, Mother was exhausted. Margaret and I put her to bed as soon as we got home. She did sleep that night but we did not. It was our turn to wait for news.

  By morning none had come, so James and I went again to the harbour. Margaret and Agnes stayed with Mother and Alexander. We found Willy among the watchers and our aunts and cousins. Willy had been to Cellardyke after church the day before. He said that the mood there was just as it was in St Monans – anxious, fearful and desperate for news. Telegrams had been sent to Lowestoft and Yarmouth but the replies told us only that nothing more was known about the missing boats.

  During the course of that day twelve more boats returned, four to Cellardyke and eight to St Monans. All were damaged, some badly. Eighteen nets had been torn to pieces, eight boats had sails cast off, and planking and masts would have to be replaced. There were grim reports from all the skippers, some of whom spoke of miraculous escapes. David Ballingsall, skipper of The Welcome, could scarcely believe that he and his crew had survived. He had felt the boat touch bottom more than once and had expected to be holed at any moment. But, as he said, by the grace of God, they had been swept away from the shore in time and had just been able to ride out the storm at sea.

  Five boats had managed to get to Holy Island where their crews were well taken care of and two had got under the lee of Farne Island so close that they could shout to the lighthouse keeper, although they could not get ashore. One skipper threw into the sea a bottle containing a message asking the finder to contact his wife to let her know they were safe. We heard later that the bottle washed up at Cullercoats but not before the boats had returned safely.

  Another, The Brothers, skippered by James Stevenson, sailing in convoy with three others on Wednesday evening, had been saved from being wrecked on Dowsing Lighthouse by a damaged fishing smack from Grimsby which led her into Wytham harbour. From there they had managed to send a telegram home. But when they set off again, they were blown into Scarborough, where they had to be hauled into the harbour by twenty men on the pier. Twice more they tried unsuccessfully to return before eventually taking advantage of what they called a ‘prosperous breeze’ which took them home.

  One of the Cellardyke boats carried a seriously injured man. Robert Brown had been struck on the head by the foreyard. The crew were too occupied trying to save the boat to help him; they got him home but he was not expected to live. Another, skippered by John Wood, had also been caught near the Farnes on Friday night. He and several others had cast their nets and made sail for home. Among them was Janet Anderson, a new boat skippered by James Murray, the man whom Robert had accused of ‘rubbing up’ for luck. It had last been seen in grave difficulty and there was little hope of its survival.

  As each boat limped into harbour the watchers on the pier became fewer, the joy of each arrival tempered by the misery of those still waiting. It was harder by the hour to believe that any boat that had set off on Friday would not have made it safely home by Monday or sent a message, unless it had met with disaster. By that evening, three St Monans boats and twenty-one men were missing, as were two boats from Cellardyke with thirteen men. Among these were the uncle and cousin of Alexander McRuvie, who had earlier been lost overboard. The boats for which we still waited were Janet Anderson and Vigilant from Cellardyke and from St Monans, Quest, Thane, and Beautiful Star.

  Miss Brown had announced that she would not re-open the school until the fate of all the men was known. ‘No-one will be able to concentrate on a lesson,’ she said, ‘least of all me. Fifteen of our children are still waiting for their fathers to return. They should stay at home with their families.’

  After another dreadful night we went again to the harbour. The families of all the men on the three boats were there but, in truth, we had given up hope. Perhaps we felt it our duty to be there, perhaps we simply did not know what else to do. Wives, fathers, sons, brothers and sisters, we stood together, many weeping, all desolate and struggling to grasp the terrible reality of what had happened.

  In mid-morning Sir Robert and Lady Anstruther of Balcaskie arrived in their carriage. The Anstruther family was one of the most distinguished, and by then one of the most respected, families in Fife. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries they had treated their tenants cruelly, even throwing them out of their own homes for little reason, but Sir Robert’s father, Sir Ralph, was admired in the area for his courtesy and kindness, especially to the poor, and Sir Robert himself, as a Member of Parliament, landowner and philanthropist, did much to help those in need. They walked out on to the pier to speak to those of us still there, gently encouraging us to go home. The pier gradually emptied until just a few men were left to keep watch. That night, five boats and thirty-four men were still missing. They had not been heard from for four days.

  * * *

  The next news came on Wednesday. It was brief and dreadful. Mr Gourlay received a telegram from King’s Lynn to say that the previous day Quest had been sighted keel up off Wells and had been driven ashore that morning at Blakeney, on the Norfolk coast. There was no sign of any of the crew.

  Mr Gourlay had the terrible task of informing Jessie Allan and her family. In addition to our Uncle David and his sons Robert and William, Alexander Irvine, father of seven, Alexander Hutt, Alexander Latto and David Easton were lost. Seven men were presumed dead, leaving three widows and eighteen children. The whole village grieved but worse was to come. When more news arrived, it was terrible, stark and final.

  On Friday, the Sea Nymph, skippered by a Captain Samuel Farr, was on its way from Hull to Lynn. Six miles east of Trusthorpe, she came upon a flooded and dismasted fishi
ng boat, which was towed into Lynn and laid in the Boal Fleet. As the tide fell, Captain Farr’s son made out the head of a man under water in the cabin.

  Next morning, the police were called and the water was baled out of the wreck. They found not one but five men in the cabin, one on his knees with his arms resting on a sleeping berth, another lying in a bunk and a third, thought to be the skipper, lying on the floor with a fractured skull with two men lying over him. All were dressed in sea boots and oilskins and had money in their pockets. The skipper was found to have a letter dated 31October in his jacket. It had been rendered largely illegible by the water, but began ‘Dear Father and Brother’ and was signed ‘Your loving son and daughter’. James and I had written that letter. The skipper was our father. The boat was Beautiful Star.

  Another telegram was despatched to Mr Gourlay, who again had the task of taking the news to the families. We knew when he knocked on our door that it would be terrible. It did not take long. He told us what had happened, offered his sympathy and left quickly. We sat together and wept.

  As the bodies had to be formally identified, the Lynn police had requested that someone able to do this travel there without delay. David Duncan, who knew all the crew of Beautiful Star, had volunteered to make the journey. He left by train on Monday evening.

  On his arrival in Lynn the next day, Mr Duncan confirmed to the coroner that the five bodies were those of my father, James Paterson, his brother and nephew, William and Robert Paterson, David Allan the shoemaker and David Davidson. It was assumed that my brother Robert, and David Allan’s son James, must have been washed overboard. Our father was dead, our brother was dead and every one of the crew on our trip to the Isle of May was dead. Between them, they left three widows and sixteen children.

  It was thought by the coroner that the crew had exhausted themselves in their battle against the storm and had left a watch of two on deck. While the boat drifted towards the Wash, the sea unshipped the mast, which wedged itself against the cabin door trapping the five men inside. The two missing men must have been swept overboard. Strangely, the recovered bodies were described as untouched by the sea and looking peaceful in death.