Neil Hanson - The Custom of the Sea

A seaman could either drink his ration when it was issued or save it, but if he gave or sold it to one of his fellows he would be flogged. Despite these attempts at strict control, the drunkenness that characterized gin shops and taverns ashore was equally rife on board ship.

By 1825 Navy ships were being issued with iron tanks, which kept water sweet for much longer. Small tenders were used to transport water to the boats and the heavy tanks — placed on the keel and replacing some of the sand and shingle formerly used as ballast — were drained and refilled by pumps.

In the tropics the water was treated heavily with oatmeal to purify it, and by the 1860s naval surgeons had at last persuaded the Navy to start mixing it with lime juice. This made it more palatable and greatly reduced the incidence of scurvy. Even with these improvements, however, the supply of water remained a problem for sailing ships, which were often becalmed for long periods.

A method of distilling fresh water from sea-water had been invented 250 years before, and in 1595 Richard Hawkins, known by his contemporaries as ‘the compleat seaman’, took a still with him on a voyage to the South Seas. Captain Cook carried one on his second voyage.

Throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, inventors continued to design ever more sophisticated stills, but despite their obvious value, they were never issued to Royal Navy ships, though some naval captains obtained them at their own expense. In 1825 Dr Alphonse Normandy developed a still that produced a gallon of water from every six of sea-water, but perhaps fearing that it would be put to other, more illicit purposes, the Navy continued to refuse to countenance its use.

The dangers of ships sailing without a still — and the continuing gulf between officers and men — was demonstrated in a voyage by HMS Xenophon in 1845, which became becalmed off the coast of Mexico and began drifting with the current.

After sixty days it passed close to land, but the approaches to the coral beach were too shallow for the ships boats. The inhabitants rowed out to the ship and offered to fetch water — at a heavy price — but the captain, who had his own private water tanks on board and an equally plentiful supply of wine, refused.

The Xenophon drifted away from land again and the men’s ration was reduced to half a pint a day, although the livestock on board — the captain’s sheep and hens — were given water in abundance. The men were forced to catch the water draining from the captain’s daily bath and drink it even though they were flogged for doing so. Secure in his quarters, the captain continued to perform his ablutions while his men began to drink vinegar and sea-water. Some went insane, others died of thirst. The Xenophon at last reached Gil Blas and found water after ninety-seven days adrift.

Rough justice of a sort was done when the captain was court-martialled. However, this was not for condemning many of his men to death from thirst while he bathed in the water that might have saved them, but for sending a smaller, less well-armed ship to fight a naval engagement while he commandeered its cargo and claimed the captain’s traditional 10 per cent share of the value for himself.

The Mignonette had been built as an inshore boat, not for long sea voyages, and had no iron water tanks. The supplies Tom and his men had loaded were contained in old wooden butts in the hold. One of the last duties of the dawn night watch was to refill the breaker — a small barrel of drinking water set in a wooden stand at the foot of the companionway — from the butts.

Tom squeezed through the narrow gap between the huge barrels and walked forward to the crew’s quarters, ducking under the hammocks slung from the beams. The stores in the steerage right against the bow were packed with coils of rope, spare spars and sails, lengths of planking, carpenter’s tools, oakum and pitch for caulking the ship’s timbers, linseed oil for waterproofing their oilskins, and a host of other vital equipment, all neatly stacked and stowed.

As he peered into the steerage he could hear the rhythmic thud of the waves against the bow, the liquid, musical sound of the water rushing under the stem of the ship, and the slap of bare feet on the deck above him as Richard went forward to check the jib.

By the time Tom returned on deck, night had fallen. There was only the rush of the sea and the creak of the blocks to break the silence under the milky, shimmering light of the stars and the shadows of wind-driven clouds passing over the sky.

The Mignonette passed the Needles at midnight. At daybreak the duty watch turned to, clearing the decks, filling the water-breaker and coiling the loose ropes and trailing rigging. With a fair wind to speed them, they made good progress down the Channel. By noon they were off Portland and they cleared Start Point during the following night.

At ten thirty on the morning of 21 May, they met and boarded a schooner, the Lady Evelyn , working its way up the Channel. Tom handed the captain some letters for home and was given a little spare water to top up his casks. The letters, posted on the Lady Evelyn’s arrival in Plymouth, led Philippa to believe that Tom had put in to port there.

At midday the Mignonette reached the Eddystone Light, traditionally regarded as the point of departure from England for ocean-going ships. It was an emotional moment for all of them, their last contact with England and possibly their last ever contact with their native land. The log recorded, ‘We took our departure and our last sight of home.’

The next morning the dawn broke grey and cold, with mist shrouding the horizon on every side. A feeling of melancholy overcame them as the gathering light revealed the endless, unbroken march of the sea.

At once Tom set them to work, burying any lingering feelings of regret under the burden of hard physical effort. While Brooks went below to make breakfast, Tom sent Richard and Stephens forward to rig the head-pump and wash down the decks. Then they began working their way slowly and methodically over the ship’s rigging. They started by examining and repairing the running ropes. Where there was any trace of wear, they fitted chafing gear — pads of leather, old rope or canvas — to ease the friction on it.

Whenever the standing rigging showed any signs of slackness — a constant occurrence in even the most gentle sea and wind conditions — all the seizings and tackles had to be removed, the rigging made taut and all the gear replaced. The tension of every rope acted on that of several others, so that none could be altered in isolation, and the men had to work outwards from the key-ropes, tightening some, easing others, until the shrouds, stays and rigging were in perfect equilibrium, and the wind made them hum, to Tom’s ears, like the strings of a harp.

The men were never idle. When not working on the rigging or the pumps, or increasing or reducing canvas, they laboriously unpicked tangled, knotted masses of old rope, bought for coppers from ship’s chandlers, then rolled them into balls of rope-yarn which, like a farmer’s twine, had a multitude of uses. Rope too worn to be treated in that way was picked into oakum — the soft constituent fibres of the rope — which was used in caulking the seams, painting and cleaning.

On a larger ship, such menial tasks would have been beneath a first mate’s dignity, let alone that of the captain. The mate’s prime duties were to supervise the stowing of the stores and cargo, keep the ship’s log and ensure that the captain’s orders were carried out. With a crew of four, however, every hand had to be turned to work and Stephens and Tom did their share with the rest.