A daughter at sea
THERE WAS THE CONSTANT FEAR OF NOT RUNNING FAST ENOUGH TO ESCAPE THE HEAVY SEAS
The daughter of a master mariner, Elizabeth Linklater joined her mother and father on board his ships for voyages of up to a year, all through her childhood. After marrying a master mariner herself, Elizabeth and their two children moved from Penarth to Aberdeen and then finally to Orkney. Her children grew up with her stories of her life at sea which her son eventually persuaded her to write down. Granddaughter Susan Hunt remembers, ‘My school friends all found her fascinating and used to gather around her on her enormous double bed to listen to her tales.’ In his foreword to the book, Elizabeth’s son, the author and traveller Eric Linklater, describes his mother’s childhood and adolescence as ‘so far-travelled and so oddly confined’.
It was during the Norval’s voyage from Liverpool to Calcutta in 1875 that the most marvellous incident of my seagoing life occurred. We had rounded the Cape of Good Hope and were running down our easting, logging 12 knots in a steady wind. The sun was shining and with a fair wind, everyone was in a good humour. Only my mother and I had any cause to complain, for neither of us ever really became really good sailors. In a head wind we were helpless, and even in a fair one, with the ship heeled well over and rushing through the water, we were glad to lie as quietly as possible and not look too long at the huge waves rolling past or tumbling on to the main deck. On this particular day we were lying on long chairs set on the lee side of the poop, well wrapped up in rugs. It was noon, and Father and the mate were on the poop with their sextants raised to take the sun when the man at the wheel shouted, ‘Man overboard!’
Instantly came the order from the captain, ‘Back the mainyard!’ Sextants were hurriedly put away and all hands rushed to work. Way was checked, a boat lowered, and volunteers called for. The second mate and four men were chosen, and they set out to search for the helpless atom afloat in such awful loneliness.
A sailor was sent aloft to look for the lost man and keep the boat in sight. But he could not pick up the man and very soon lost sight of the boat, for the waves were running high and she had disappeared from view in the troughs of the sea.
Not till the boat was away did the captain waste time finding out who was missing. All hands were mustered aft and the roll was called. No one was missing.
Consternation ruled. Who had seen the man in the water? No one but the man at the wheel. Had he made a mistake and only imagined having seen someone? He was positive in his statement, and then said that the man he had seen was baldheaded. That settled the matter again, for there was no baldheaded man on board except the cook, and he was in his usual place – the galley.
Minutes seemed hours. The man aloft had completely lost sight of the boat. The captain climbed the rigging with binoculars, but was no more successful, and a feeling of despair came over all. Were our own boat and crew to pay toll for this wraith of a man? Someone suggested it was Neptune playing a prank on us.
About five hours after the launching of the boat and when hope was fast dying, she hove in sight again, and six men were counted in her. No landsman can realise the excitement of this discovery. What joy that our own boat’s crew was safe, and what wild surmise as to who could be the man picked out of the huge trackless ocean!
All crowded to the lee rail to see the stranger hoisted on board. He was too exhausted to climb as the others did. When he reached the deck he fell on his knees, put his hands together in an attitude of prayer and devoutly exclaimed, ‘Thank God!’ He was put to bed, brandy and hot blankets and everything one could devise for his comfort were forthcoming, and the weary soul slept for many hours.
His name was Frank Lopez. He was a native of the Canary Islands, and had been an A.B. on board the ship West Riding. He had been stowing a jib at 3am that day, and had fallen overboard in oilskins and sea boots. An expert swimmer, he soon got rid of these, and reached a lifebuoy that had been flung to him. In the darkness and with a strong wind blowing, it was unlikely that any effort could have been made to pick him up. While he lay still on the lifebuoy, fish nibbled his feet and he greatly feared a shark. After daybreak, the scorching sun, helped by the saltwater, took all the skin off his forehead, chest and shoulders. He longed to lose his reason. He must have slept or fallen into semi-consciousness, for suddenly he was startled to see the Norval quite close. He threw away his lifebuoy and swam towards her, shouting with all his remaining strength.
He soon regained strength and by his own desire, took his watch with the other men. He was a fine fellow who everyone liked, and what a hero to all on board! I had many a talk with him, and many a time I heard his story. He left ship in Calcutta, and though he could have been sent home passenger, he preferred to work his passage.
A lot would be made of such a strange occurrence nowadays, but as far as I remember the story never appeared in a newspaper and certainly my father received no recognition of any kind. He had indeed, much difficulty in getting paid by the Board of Trade for the clothes with which he had supplied Lopez from the ship’s chest.
As she grew up, Elizabeth learned navigation from her father. She was entrusted with the daily winding of the chronometers, ‘an important duty and one that I valued highly.’ She was occasionally allowed to take the wheel but only ‘in a dead calm.’ She knew that, as a woman, she was there ‘on sufferance,’ as in this account of her final voyage in 1889-90.
We were running with reefed topsails and stowed mainsail and logging 10 or 11 knots. There was a full moon and everyone, fore and aft, was in the best of form, knowing that in a few hours we would be round Cape Horn and our faces set homeward. We had strong fair winds until we were round the Falkland Islands, and no bad weather. But we were not to leave that part of the world without something to remember, and presently we ran into a terrific westerly gale. It began to breeze up on April 12, the barometer slowly falling. By the following afternoon it had fallen to 28.10. For two days the gale raged and we did 12 knots under small sail. It was fine to be speeding homeward at such a rate but I had to keep reminding myself of our good luck to compensate for the discomfort I was enduring. Everything was shut and battened down, and there was the constant fear of not running fast enough to escape the heavy seas that always seemed to be overtaking us. After two days running we actually were pooped. An enormous sea came over the stern and filled the ship fore and aft. In spite of all the precautions that had been taken, the water ran down the companion stairs, the passages were full, so were my room and the starboard after cabin. I put on my rubber boots and helped the steward to bale the water out of the saloon and spare room. The water had got in from the main deck through the sail locker. Everything that had been left on the floors was floating about and our trunks were standing in water. We had to unlash them, put pieces of wood under them and relash them.
How can one describe the feelings of women battened down in a ship’s cabin in circumstances such as these? I don’t mean the water coming into the cabins – that was a diversion that relieved the tension after the first shock was over – but the awful suspense until we knew that the three men on the poop had not been swept away by the terrific force of the incoming wave?’