A Ship's Tale Read online

  A Ship’s Tale

  A NOVEL

  by

  N. Jay Young

  Boson Books

  Raleigh

  © 2006 by Neil Young

  Revised Edition ©2009 by Neil Young

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electric, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Published by

  Boson Books, a division of C & M Online Media, Inc.

  Raleigh NC

  www.bosonbooks.com

  ISBN: (print) 978-1-932482-03-4

  ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-932482-12-6

  Cover graphic: adapted from a photograph supplied with permission by the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, LONDON SE10 9NF.

  Back cover photo credit: Ann Callicrate.

  “The Song of a Ship,” by Robert N. Rose from My Ship O’ Dreams.

  Design by Once Removed

  The Song of a Ship

  Ships are the nearest things to dreams that hands have ever made.

  For somewhere deep in their oaken hearts the soul of a song is laid.

  A soul that sings with the ship along through plunging hills of blue;

  and fills her canvas cups of white with winds that drive her through.

  For how could a nail and a piece of wood, tied with a canvas thread,

  become a nymph on moon-washed paths if the soul of the ship were fled?

  Her bosom throbs as her lover’s arms clasp her in fond embrace.

  And the joyous kiss of briny lips is fresh on her maiden face.

  No storm can smother the hempen song that wells in her laughing throat.

  Small wonder then that men go mad for the love of the sea and a boat.

  For the singing sheet is a siren sweet that tugs at the hearts of men.

  And down to the sea they must go once more

  though they never come back again.

  A poem by Robert N. Rose from My Ship O’ Dreams

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  Chapter 1: KENT, ENGLAND, OCTOBER 1946

  Chapter 2: THE BEASLEY INN

  Chapter 3: THE CIRCUS

  Chapter 4: AN EVENING AT THE INN

  Chapter 5: THE ORPHANAGE

  Chapter 6: INTERRUPTIONS AND SURPRISES

  Chapter 7: THE GOOSE, THE CAT, AND HIGH TEA

  Chapter 8: CLOSING DOWN THE CIRCUS

  Chapter 9: ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER GOOSE CHASE

  Chapter 10: A HUB OF ACTIVITY

  Chapter 11: THE SCUTTLING OF AN OLD SURVIVOR

  Chapter 12: MUCH ADO AND THE PIES THAT BIND

  Chapter 13: ANCHORS, SAILS, AND MORE SURPRISES

  Chapter 14: AN ACT OF PIRACY

  Chapter 15: SAILING AWAY

  Chapter 16: CLEARING AWAY AND MESSAGES FROM HOME

  Chapter 17: THE UNKNOWN OBSERVER

  Chapter 18: THE TUG REACHES PORT

  Chapter 19: THE PURSUIT BEGINS

  Chapter 20: THE STOWAWAY

  Chapter 21: RUNNING WITH THE WIND

  Chapter 22: ANOTHER MESSAGE FROM BELOW

  Chapter 23: A HEAVY SEA APPROACHES

  Chapter 24: A STORM AT SEA

  Chapter 25: THE STORM ENDURES

  Chapter 26: THE WEATHER ABATES

  Chapter 27: RUNNING HER HOME

  Chapter 28: SIGHTING THE BONNIE

  Chapter 29: OVERTAKEN

  Chapter 30: A SAD FAREWELL

  Chapter 31: TWO YEARS LATER

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank the following for their assistance and inspiration.

  Admiral Willamette Flamillie Jr.: Clearly showed that an officer doesn’t necessarily a gentleman make.

  Chief Warrant bo’sun William F. Flamillie: Spent time showing me the ropes and masterful seamanship. He was the most resourceful of scavengers in obtaining useful items that appeared almost magically.

  Chief Warrant bo’sun Robert O’Conner: A truly remarkable seaman who had served in the Spanish-American War, World War I, and taught seamanship during World War II. He could rig just about anything, and was a valuable teacher and revered master of his trade.

  Beth Mueller: Was my voice when I could not speak.

  Ann Callicrate: My most avid supporter, without whom this book might never have been published.

  Gayle and Dick Newman: Supported this effort.

  Dr. Viktor Buzin: Helped me install and learn the voice recognition program used to write this book. He also advised me on Russian vocabulary.

  Nancy McAllister: My publisher, shepherded this project into print.

  William Waller: My British research adviser, who grew up near this area during the War.

  Annie Lore: Helped keep my British intact and added some ideas and suggestions.

  Valerie, Al, Stan, and Garnet Rogers: Whose music and quotations were always inspiring.

  Alan Arkin: Told me this was a good story and to “at least write it down.”

  Pahu: My wolf hybrid companion of many years who missed many walks pondering my interest in talking to a computer.

  Martin Harris: Research advisor.

  The ships and crews of many vessels, whose names are too numerous to list, but whose memories will long endure. These seamen and their ships provided me with the most valuable knowledge, lessons, and skills it was possible to obtain.

  I regard Seafaring Under Sail by Basil Greenhill & Denis Stonham of the National Maritime Museum, Greenwich, the most comprehensive reference written on the subject.

  Introduction

  In post World War II England, countless thousands of returning soldiers and sailors wanted a turnaround in the political status quo. Members of the British armed forces were considerably better educated than they had been in the First World War. The soldiers returning from the Second World War were no longer in awe of their leaders, and had extremely mixed loyalties. There was the resentment of unemployment, and men returning from the military were demanding a greater share in the nation’s post-War restructuring. They didn’t trust a conservative government to tackle the enormous social, economic, and political problems that the conservative government had done very little to solve. They demanded that changes be made.

  As a consequence, Winston Churchill, who led Britain to victory during the War, found himself a member of the opposition when the election of 1945 returned the Labour Party to power with a huge majority. Under the Parliament of the new government, some of the greatest changes in Britain’s history began. This meant nothing less than a reconstruction of the entire nation.

  The management of the economy, which proved successful in wartime, was now a major undertaking in peacetime. Stringent financial measures, imposed to meet the enormous war debt, caused undue hardship that was made worse by one of the worst winters on record. Monstrous gales and floods wiped out farms and destroyed agricultural products. A fuel shortage severely curtailed exports, and food was still severely rationed. Even bread and potatoes were rationed, although both had been exempt during the War. This shortage forced the government to sell horses for food in place of beef.

  The fact that there was a black market cannot be denied. Beer and whisky were luxuries that were quite sought after and often times were easily obtainable through the right connections. Ration coupons were issued for just about everything, but not nearly enough clothing coupons were issued to buy much, not even a pair of shoes.

  Stallholders in shops would often strike a bargain by selling or trading extra coupons. Why were transactions carried out like this? Because appearances had to be maintained that things were being done in the proper way.

  Every Briton—
man, woman, and child—was issued a ration card and a National Registration card. The ration cards, sometimes worth more than money, were presented to shopkeepers who cut the appropriate number of coupons for the rationed item at the time of purchase.

  The Ministry of Food determined the number of coupons cut. Sometimes more or less were taken depending on the supply of any particular commodity. Fruits and most vegetables were not fresh unless they were privately grown. Items of food rationed included meat, bacon, milk, and milk powder. Petrol and oil were reserved for essential services. The ordinary person had no or little access to petrol, and not many had cars.

  I doubt that anyone could give you an accurate account of the amount allowed for each item; it was little enough. For one person there was one or two eggs a week and two ounces of butter. The wrapper of a pound pat of butter was printed in two-ounce segments, so that it was easy to cut the allotted portion.

  Heavy workers got the larger amounts of food stores. Miners also received other privileges. And so that was the pattern of things. What one did not eat, others did, and there was swapping among friends and neighbours.

  Rationing did not starve people and the balanced diet benefited the whole population’s gaining in health. For a time the beer was brewed a bit weaker, except in Scotland. Clothing and footwear were made to a wartime standard, bearing a special brand mark.

  Use of the ham radio was forbidden during the War because of fears of spying and espionage. After the War its use flourished.

  And so it was.

  In this story, the Beasley Inn had connections to the black market and access to food that wasn’t easily obtained during rationing. This gave the Inn a small, but loyal clientele. The barman, Martin, had similar connections to obtain beer and liquor, just as Harris and Bowman had through various shipping connections. Subsequently, everyone kept quiet about deliveries that appeared with some regularity. Customers were content to enjoy access to these items and seldom asked how the Beasley Inn was able to stay well supplied throughout the rationing and shortages.

  Mr. Beasley, who died during the Great War, had been aware that in order to bring people into such a small village as Allhallows, the Inn was required to have things one couldn’t find elsewhere. He had been trading and selling to farmers and bootleggers for many years. This gave him the advantage of being well supplied.

  For sailors the Beasleys had cared little and never knew that they were part of one of the biggest black market supply lines coming into the UK by ship. When Mrs. Beasley took over running the Inn, she merely filled out her requests and submitted them to the people doing her deliveries, never asking or caring about their origin.

  Harris had known about these things for years and was connected with a great supplier of items unknown to most. Bowman also knew of these things, but never was personally involved. He often chastised Harris for “bankrolling trouble.” When Harris and Bowman were reunited on the Bonnie Clyde, their connections started coming in very handy.

  Most of the characters in this story are based on people I met while growing up around different waterfronts. I consider myself lucky to learn about ships and the sea from those individuals with actual nautical experience. They gave me firsthand knowledge of a variety of shipboard situations. Some served during actual wartime across the North Atlantic and throughout the area I describe here.

  Although the age of sail has passed, the charm and glory of those days have not. Many ships of this era are being restored and reconstructed by dedicated people, many of them volunteers, who give of themselves so that this chapter in history will endure for generations to come.

  Every nautical buff can be grateful that this heritage is being protected and preserved. These ships do not number many, and keeping them afloat and intact is an extremely expensive endeavour.

  Quite a few countries now use them as training ships and ambassadors of good will. I volunteered many hours when I was younger, helping to restore and maintain ships that were on display for the public and are now used as museums and tourist attractions. It was a deeply gratifying experience.

  During that time, I enjoyed the company of people and animals similar to or exactly like the characters I have woven into A Ship’s Tale.

  Chapter 1

  KENT, ENGLAND, OCTOBER 1946

  The weathered masts were reaching into a driftwood sky that morning when I first saw the derelict ships, old square-riggers from a bygone era. Chained to makeshift moorings, they tugged like giant seahorses, but with nearly all the life gone out of them. Tattered rigging, loose fittings, and green unpolished bright work enough to make a sailor cry. They were the monarchs of sail in their day, but their day had long passed. Their once proud masts now served as perches for the occasional passing gull among the twisted trees along the south shore of the River Thames. No more would they await the arriving tug for the tow upriver, with their holds full and lads eager to walk the shore again. They were used up and turned out like whores in the wind.

  Gone were the days of the great clipper and packet ships, once a common sight here. They had fallen victim to progress. The steam engine had made them obsolete, and upriver, bridges of a newer more efficient time now restricted the passage of tall ships forever. Oh, but they made a magnificent picture when under full sail with a stiff wind at their backs! No wonder that hundreds of writers and millions of spectators have expressed the opinion that this was among the most splendid sights ever to be witnessed. Alas, even the greatest of spectacles fade from favour with the passage of time.

  The three ships lay moored together along the Kent side of the Thames Estuary, not far from the great river’s mouth, across the mud banks and sand that were tied together by a field of tussocky grass. Looking upriver I could see a number of support ships from the War painted grey and identified only by white numbers and letters rusting in the rains. Farthest from shore wallowed the remains of a once proud four-masted barque, now a rusted hulk long since demasted. Rivets and steel plates had been peeled back to reveal the main hatchway in an attempt to use her as a coal barge, the ultimate humiliation for any sailing ship. She lay awash in the mud as if serving as a breakwater for the other two, and that she did quite well.

  The ship closest in was a three-masted barque with a steel hull. She looked more sound than the wooden three-master in the middle, which had some of her yardarms either missing or in disrepair. The shoreward vessel had a gangway down to the nearby bank, so it appeared that one could use it to board all three. I took care walking across the wood and metal planking that made a path across the marshes and had a closer look. The name was still discernable on her bow: Bonnie Clyde.

  As I wandered along the shore, I thought of all they had been. Aboard these ships seamen once lived in quarters that today would be considered intolerable; their diet dreadful, their work hard and extremely dangerous. Voyages often took months to reach destinations, and it was not uncommon for a man to spend several years travelling different trade routes before returning home with little money to show for his efforts. Voyages were always dependent upon the hope of favourable weather. Sailing had long been regarded as one of the most hazardous ways to travel, for ship disasters were commonplace. Vessels sometimes disappeared without a trace or clue as to their fate.

  The busy Thames was every bit as challenging as the English Channel, for collisions and obstacles were a constant hazard to all craft navigating these waters. So it had been for centuries, but seafaring men were still drawn to sign on and ship out before the mast. Now the masts were gone, except for these.

  I spent time walking along the bank looking each ship over, remembering when a friend arranged passage for me aboard such a vessel, and what a fine adventure it had been! I stood a long while at the bottom of the gangway waiting for some sign of life, but saw no one about. With absence of ceremony, I climbed the ageing wooden planks to the deck.

  As I came aboard, there was no officer of the watch to speak with, so I was left to wander her deck alone. I thought of t
he past few years that had brought me from the War in Europe to this peaceful spot. It was a year after the War and there were not enough jobs for sailors, or anyone else for that matter. Times were hard for those of us returning home as well as those who fought the War on their own doorsteps.

  I looked about with a sigh at the twisted cable and untidy ropes. It was sad to see her in such a state. Her wooden deck was in remarkably good condition, as were the steel masts and standing rigging, with every yardarm accounted for. In fact, there was new rope around the main yardarm, showing that work had recently been done. Surely everyone here knew and cared little that these ships were nothing short of wrecks awaiting some grim fate. Damned shame, I thought. Damned waste of a good ship here!

  Walking up through the fo’c’s’le, I passed two new mechanical brace and halyard winches designed to ease the backbreaking task of hoisting and turning the enormous yards. With their use, much of the arduous work at the capstan could be avoided. Walking the capstan round is backbreaking work, as anyone knows who’s done it.

  The winches seemed out of place here, a little too modern for an old ship. They didn’t look as though they were completely installed either. The main yard had been lowered, and rested on the port and starboard rails, lashed with new chain and good running rigging all around. I ducked under the huge yard and headed towards the stern. Of the two starboard lifeboats I passed, one had rotted out and collapsed on its chocks, the wood warped and split. The others were equally dismal, and were not even capable of retaining rainwater. I sighed. What a mess!

  It was a crisp afternoon on the water. Turning my collar up and reaching for my pipe and lighter, I put one foot up against the old boat chock and struck the lighter. With a hand cupped around to deflect the wind, I was enjoying my third puff when the old timber under my foot suddenly gave way to my weight, sending me to the deck with a resounding crash. An indignant wharf rat scurried off down the deck to hide elsewhere, and a gull, equally offended, took wing. I was glad that the lifeboat didn’t fall as well.