Beautiful Star & Other Stories

by A D Swanston

  ‘No at all, my dear. I counted your father and brother as friends and it was one of the saddest times we have ever known in Lynn when the men were lost. You had other relatives on the boats too, if I recall?’

  ‘We did. Ten members of our family died in the storms. Mr Finney, I never understood how my father and four of the crew came to be found in the cabin as they were. Were they trapped?’

  Mr Finney looked surprised. ‘Are you sure you want me to talk about this, my dear?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Very well. They weren’t trapped. The cabin had a sliding door, the mast wasn’t blocking it. James Allan had a fractured skull and two men were already lost overboard, remember, one of them Robert. The other four must have been worn out and when the cabin became waterlogged, they hadn’t the strength to escape. That storm was the worst any of us could remember. It was ferocious beyond words and it seemed to go on and on. The waves would have been enormous. It was a miracle any of the boats survived. And what’s more, the wind swung round to the north-west. Any boat near the Wash when that happened was doomed and there were only four able men left on Beautiful Star. They could not have saved her. Most of the boats which got home were further north when the storm struck and a few were close enough to Yarmouth or Grimsby to make harbour. Your father was not so lucky.’

  He went on, ‘If I may, there is one more thing. I am a man of the sea but I have always loved poetry. May I read you two verses I wrote at the time?’

  ‘Of course you may.’

  Mr Finney produced from his jacket pocket a single sheet of paper, cleared his throat, and read.

  Twas bleak November and the nineteenth day,

  They left the port their season’s labour done,

  Brilliant with hope that they again should see,

  Those friends they loved so dear, their friends at home.

  Swiftly she glides across the raging main,

  The Beautiful Star, with all her manly crew,

  Destined, alas, that they should never gain

  Those shores for which they steer and billows plough.

  Mr Finney must have been a better sailor than poet but he meant it kindly. And he had one more surprise for us. ‘Your father and his crew perished in the storm, my dear, but Beautiful Star survived and in a way still survives, and so, as a matter of fact, does Thane.’

  ‘How is that, Mr Finney?’

  ‘Both boats were salvaged and, under the law of salvage, sold by their finders. Thane is moored on the river and Beautiful Star is in the stream we call Heacham Harbour. Her name has been changed to Jacobina. They are used in the shingle trade. Would you like to see them?’

  We looked at each other and shook our heads. ‘Thank you, no, Mr Finney,’ I replied. ‘But there is someone who will be pleased to know that Beautiful Star has survived. I will tell him when we get home.’

  * * *

  I accepted Willy’s proposal, and we were married in the church of St Monan on the first of June 1878. We live in a small cottage on East Shore from which I often watch the fishing boats putting out to sea and, God willing, returning safely the next morning. Willy is usually to be found in the boatyard where they are now building steam-driven Zulus, but I have persuaded him to venture from time to time into the countryside. We have walked along the coastal paths to Anstruther and Elie and inland to Kilconquar. He now knows a kestrel when he sees one and, on a good day, can even tell a celandine from a crowfoot.

  It was Willy’s suggestion that I write this account. He says it is a story that our family should remember. Our first child is due in the spring. We hope that he or she will one day pass it on to our grandchildren.

  Author’s Note

  The St Monans families were:

  James Paterson = Julia (nee Allan)

  x Robert, Margaret, Julia, James, Agnes, Alexander

  William Paterson = Janet (nee Gowans)

  x Agnes, Alexander, Jane, Margaret, Robert, John

  David Allan = Jessie (nee Gowans)

  x Agnes, David, Helen, James, Jean, John

  The lost boats and their crews were:

  Beautiful Star: KY 1298

  Port: St Monans

  Owner & Skipper: James Paterson

  Description: Decked, two masts, two lugsails, one jib.

  Tonnage: 17.5 tons. Keel Length: 43 feet

  Crew: William Paterson, Robert Paterson, David Allan, James Allan, David Davidson, Robert Paterson.

  Thane: KY 1071

  Port: St Monans

  Owner & Skipper: Thomas Fyall

  Description: Decked, two masts, two lugsails, one jib.

  Tonnage: 17 tons. Keel Length: 41 feet

  Crew: David Lowrie, Lawrence Fyall, Thomas Lowrie, Thomas Fyall, Andrew Allan, Alexander Duncan.

  Quest: KY 221

  Port: St Monans

  Owner & Skipper: David Allan

  Description: Decked, two masts, two lugsails, one jib.

  Tonnage: 15 tons. Keel Length: 39 feet

  Crew: Robert Allan, William Allan, Alexander Irvine, Alexander Hutt, Alexander Latto, David Easton

  Janet Anderson: KY 1176

  Port: Cellardyke

  Owner & Skipper: James Murray

  Description: Half-decked, two masts, two lugsails.

  Tonnage: 17 tons. Keel Length: 41 feet

  Crew: Andrew Stewart, William Bridges, James Walker, Alexander Lothian, Hugh Mackay, William Mackay.

  Vigilant: KY 1214

  Port: Cellardyke

  Owner & Skipper: Robert Stewart

  Description: Decked, two masts, two lugsails, one jib

  Tonnage: 17 tons. Keel Length: 43 feet

  Crew: William Stewart, James McRuvie Snr, James McRuvie Jnr, Alexander Doig, Leslie Brown.

  By the stark measurement of men and boats lost, the events of the 19th and 20th of November 1875 were by no means the worst nineteenth-century Scottish fishing disaster. The final tally of five boats and their crews was much lower, for example, than in the 1848 Moray Firth disaster in which 124 boats were lost, and in ‘The Great Storm’ of 1881 when 189 men, the majority from Eyemouth, perished. But for two very small villages which depended for their livelihood almost entirely on fishing, the loss of thirty-seven men was devastating.

  Although it is not part of this story, both Jacobina and Thane were swept away by the storms which hit the east coast in the winter of 1953.

  The Flying Monk

  1002 AD

  Just as he did almost every evening, Eilmer stood alone outside the west wall of the abbey. He was a slight figure, with brown hair and brown eyes and wearing the tonsure of the order of St Benedict. He looked less than his twenty years.

  After work in the garden or in the library Eilmer nearly always found a little time to himself before Vespers at six o’clock. Shading his eyes against the low September sun, he gazed up at a flock of daws circling overhead. He watched them soar and swoop, then soar again before gliding down to their nests high up in the abbey towers.

  Of all the birds which lived in and around the abbey, it was the daws which Eilmer loved the most. Daws were talkative birds, forever calling to each other in their squeaky voices, and striking in their shiny black feathers interwoven with silvery threads. In flight their wings beat hard and fast unless they were riding the winds which carried them out over the fields and the river in search of the insects and rodents upon which they lived. Not that they were above stealing an egg from a thrush’s nest or a crust of bread from the abbey kitchen. Daws were clever birds.

  As he watched, a pair launched themselves from the top of the wall and, with powerful beats of their wings, rose high into the sky. When they found a friendly current they floated down towards the river, gradually losing height until they flapped their wings again and returned to the safety of their nest. It was as if they had decided to take a final flight before the sun set, just for the pleasure of it.

  The evening was still warm and it was not yet time for Vespers, so Eilmer
smoothed down his habit and sat on the grass with his back to the wall. There was comfort in the feel of the ancient stones, their age and solidity reinforcing the strength of his faith.

  To the west, he could see fields and open pasture leading down to the River Avon which curled around to join the River Ingleburre, together providing a formidable defence for the town. To the south was Malmesbury itself – capital of England and immensely wealthy in possessions and land. The wool merchants and farmers of Malmesbury grew prosperous and ensured their places in Heaven by endowing the abbey with gold, jewels and precious artefacts, each one, to the delight of the abbot, trying to outdo the others. The abbey coffers were overflowing and St Benedict would surely have rejoiced to see such prosperity.

  The bell for Vespers rang and Eilmer got to his feet. The rule of St Benedict called for immediate and absolute obedience and it would not do to be late. Abbot Beorhtold was every bit as strict about adherence to the rules as Abbot Beorhtelm had been. He hurried through the abbey gate and across the yard to the Church of St Mary where evening prayers were said. His brother monks were assembling and he joined the line entering the church. No-one spoke – their order did not demand a vow of silence but discouraged unnecessary speech and encouraged periods of silent contemplation.

  Eilmer nodded to his friend Orvin. During their periods of work together in the abbey garden, they had risked the displeasure of the abbot and talked quietly about Eilmer’s ideas. Orvin was interested and encouraging. In the ten years since Eilmer had entered the abbey as an oblate, he and Orvin had become friends.

  The Benedictine horarium was unchanging and demanding, the monks living by a daily routine of work and prayer. Matins were said at midnight, followed by Lauds at three. Sleep was allowed until Prime, after which the whole community came together for the abbot to give them their instructions for the day and for abbey business to be attended to. After this and a brief period of private prayer, they said Terce and then High Mass. Sext was at noon, followed by None at three, Vespers at six and Compline at nine. All work was done between None and Vespers.

  Eilmer had come to the abbey illiterate and ignorant. Now he could read and write in English, French and Latin and had studied not only the gospels and the rule of St Benedict but also the ancient philosophers and mathematicians, including Aristotle, Plato, Pythagoras, Euclid and Archimedes. Malmesbury was, above all, a seat of learning, and Eilmer loved learning.

  After Vespers Eilmer made his way to the library. Successive abbots from the time of Aldhelm had added to the abbey’s wonderful collection of books and King Athelstan, himself a scholar, had donated more. Eilmer loved to sit by the window with one of the illuminated manuscripts and wonder at the skill and craftsmanship of the scribes and artists who had created such a beautiful object.

  Eilmer took down a book of classical legends from its place on a shelf and carried it to the window. It was a large volume, written in Latin and generously illustrated. He sat on a low chair with the book on his knees and opened it at the story of the Athenian architect, Daedalus. It was a story that he had read so often that he could recite it word for word, although that did not stop him reading it again.

  Daedalus, it was said, had made wings for himself and his son Icarus, with which to escape from the island of Crete, where they were being held prisoner by King Minos. They made the wings from feathers glued together with wax, which worked well until the wax melted when Icarus, contrary to his father’s advice, flew too near the sun and fell into the sea. According to the story they had flown halfway across the Hellespont when this happened.

  Eilmer gazed at an illustration of the two men. Daedalus, long white beard flowing in the wind and winged arms outstretched in flight, looked down in horror as his son plummeted towards the waves, his broken wings trailing behind him.

  The library door opened and Orvin came in. Seeing Eilmer, he too set a chair by the window. When he saw the page Eilmer was looking at, he sighed and shook his head in resignation. Strictly speaking no conversation was allowed in the library, but they were alone and Orvin could not help himself.

  ‘Eilmer,’ he whispered, ‘do you read nothing else? Whenever I come in here, you are reading this same story.’

  Eilmer pretended to be put out. ‘You know very well that I read all sorts of books, Orvin. And I am thinking of writing one myself – about the birds I see around the abbey. You know that.’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ replied Orvin, not wishing to upset his friend. ‘And you are becoming a fine scholar. I only pray that you are not still dreaming of trying to be a bird yourself. After all, look what happened to Icarus.’

  ‘Icarus flew too near the sun. If he had done as Daedalus had told him, they would both have survived.’

  Orvin’s voice rose above a whisper. ‘Eilmer, it’s a legend, a fable. Surely you don’t still believe it really happened.’

  ‘I believe it could have happened.’ Eilmer paused, ‘And it could happen again.’

  Orvin clapped his friend on the back. ‘Well, Brother, if you are determined to kill yourself, I cannot stop you, but do not expect me to join you.’

  ‘Of course not. And anyway I shall need the abbot’s permission, and I doubt he’d grant it.’

  ‘Thank the good Lord for that. You might yet live to see thirty.’

  Eilmer rose from his chair and returned the book to its place on the shelf. From another shelf he took down a smaller volume and brought it over to the window. ‘Have I shown you this?’ he asked Orvin, opening the book.

  Orvin peered at the open page. There was just enough light to make out the words. ‘And who is this Abbas Ibn Firnas?’ he asked. ‘He sounds like another madman.’

  ‘He was anything but,’ said Eilmer. ‘He was an Andalucian scientist and poet who lived to be seventy-seven. He died little more than a hundred years ago. Among other things, he invented a water clock and a means of making clear glass. He also studied astronomy and engineering. I am surprised you do not know of him.’

  Orvin laughed. ‘Don’t tell me he flew to Andalucia from Mecca.’

  ‘No, but he did fly. Look. This report says that he made a pair of wings, jumped off a high place and flew in a wide circle, eventually landing back where he had started.’

  ‘And what happened when he landed?’

  ‘He damaged his back.’

  ‘And no doubt never tried again. Enough, Eilmer. I am going to rest before Compline. You should do the same.’

  Back in his tiny room, however, Eilmer was not in the mood for resting. He sat on his bed and thought about Daedalus and Ibn Firnas. Even if the story of Daedalus and Icarus was no more than a fable, the man who made it up must have thought that flying across the Hellespont was possible and the people who heard him tell the story must have thought so, too. If not, he would have been laughed at and his story would not have been passed from generation to generation for over a thousand years. As for Abbas Ibn Firnas, the account of his flight was well-documented. There was no reason to doubt it.

  Eilmer thought, too, of the dream he often had. In the dream he saw himself in a crowd near a river, unable to see whatever the people around him were looking at. He pushed down with his feet and rose smoothly into the air until he could float over their heads. It was as if he could fly just by believing he could. Before going to sleep, Eilmer always offered a prayer that the dream would come to him. Like all dreams, it had no clear ending, but when he awoke, he felt a sense of elation. He could fly if he believed that he could.

  Eilmer had been fascinated by birds for as long as he could remember, although, had it not been for the Danes, he might never have had the chance to observe them and learn about their ways.

  * * *

  It had been eleven years earlier, when he was a boy. He had been collecting firewood with his parents, Leofric and Ayleth, when a party of fugitives from the east arrived in the village. They said that Danish warriors had come in their longships, armed with swords and spears and carrying their round shields o
f iron and leather, and were cutting a brutal swathe of death across the country. The Danes were raping women, slaughtering their fathers, husbands and brothers, and plundering the Christian churches they despised. Lacking weapons, training, and, above all, a strong leader, the English had little means of defending themselves and many were fleeing westwards. For fifty years there had been peace. Now there was bloodshed and destruction again.

  The arrival of the Danes came as no surprise to Leofric. Although the invaders had been defeated by King Athelstan half a century earlier, the previous autumn he had watched a fiery comet cross the night sky and had feared the worst. ‘It is a sign from God,’ he told Eilmer and Ayleth, ‘He is telling us to be prepared.’

  ‘Prepared for what?’ asked Eilmer, more curious than frightened.

  ‘For whatever he sends us.’ Although Leofric knew in his heart what God would be sending. His own father had told him stories of the men who had first come from across the sea two hundred years earlier. Merciless butchers, he had called them, butchers who drank the blood of their victims. And he had warned that one day they would come again.

  Had it not been for Eilmer, Leofric and Ayleth might have trusted in God and remained in the village, where they owned a hide of good land on which they grew wheat and grazed their sheep and goats. ‘What is the point of hiding from these Godless men,’ asked Leofric, ‘if we know they will steal our animals and burn our houses? We will simply starve to death. We should stay and fight.’

  Some of the villagers agreed with him, but Ayleth could not bear the thought of her nine-year-old son being slaughtered like a lamb or carted off in chains as a slave. She insisted that they leave their land and their animals and seek refuge in the forest. The Danes would not trust their gods to protect them among the ancient oaks and elms that grew so densely up the sides of the hills, and were unlikely to come looking for women and gold there. ‘Even if we return to find everything destroyed,’ said Ayleth, ‘Eilmer will be alive and that is what matters.’