Under Full Sail Read online

  Over the years, the legend of Bully Waterman had spread way beyond distant horizons, and it had become increasingly apparent how he had gotten the ‘Bully’ tag. It was founded as much on his often tyrannical behaviour and brutal confrontations with crew as it was on his status as a master who drove his ship beyond the usual limits. And some of the worst incidents of his career would occur on this voyage aboard Challenge.

  The odds were stacked against Waterman even before the ship set sail from New York: there were few qualified crewmen available, as the majority of good men, having already sailed to San Francisco, had jumped ship there and rushed to the goldfields, most never to return. This meant that of the sixty men who signed on for the voyage, all but two were foreigners and inexperienced seafarers, and a mere six had the ability to take a trick at the helm. Waterman was unperturbed by this; he was no doubt confident he could mould the motley crew of men into a solid working unit as the ship progressed on what would be a passage of more than 16,000 nautical miles.

  However, that wasn’t to be the case. There was dissension among the crew on their very first day at sea, and this led the captain to dismiss the first mate and replace him with James Douglass, whom he hired from the crew of a packet that was sailing off Sandy Hook, near the entrance to New York Harbour. Douglass would prove to be as brutal as his boss.

  By the time Challenge was off the coast of Brazil – well into the voyage – she had become a hell ship. Waterman, frustrated by the inabilities of his crew, returned to his wicked ways, at one stage almost scalping the ship’s cook with a carving knife, and beating two ailing sailors for malingering while on watch.

  But the crew’s greatest distaste was for Douglass, whom many of them conspired to kill. They attacked him, stabbing and beating him repeatedly, before Waterman, who had been standing at the poop taking navigation sights, was alerted to the drama by a passenger. He rushed forward and burst into the fray, saving Douglass from death. Within minutes, the eight would-be mutineers were lined up and flogged severely, even though Waterman knew that Congress had outlawed such punishment aboard merchant ships the previous year. Douglass recovered, then continued to unleash vehement physical and mental abuse on the crew for the remainder of the voyage, often with the master’s consent.

  In a few words in his log, Waterman also noted another incident that occurred when Challenge was rounding the southern tip of South America: ‘Off Cape Horn three men fell from the mizzen topsail yard and were killed’. It would later be revealed that at the time the ship had been in the teeth of a monstrous winter storm, and was being pitched and hurled about by huge waves while the wind howled through the rigging. The three men had been sent aloft to furl a wildly flogging sail, but as they gingerly ventured out along the yard while standing on the constantly swaying footropes, crew on the deck mistakenly eased the braces, causing the yards to sway so violently that the men were catapulted into the icy sea.

  Challenge’s progress was continually hamstrung by unfavourable weather and rough seas, so that any chance Waterman had of collecting his $10,000 bonus was gone well before San Francisco was reached. In the end, it took the ship 108 days to get there.

  Waterman’s woes continued once in port. Word of his treatment of the crew reached a local newspaper, causing uproar across the town. The newspaper suggested the captain should be ‘burned alive’, while some residents wanted to lynch him.

  Both Waterman and Douglass were eventually arrested and tried, Waterman for beating a sick crewman, and Douglass for murder. Both were found guilty but no sentence was imposed.

  *

  As the gold rush went on, orders for new clippers saw shipyards on the east coast enjoying boom times – times that presented an opportunity for some exceptional individuals to come to the fore. Of the colourful tales to emerge from this era, none was more remarkable than that of shipbuilder Donald McKay.

  McKay was born in 1810 on the family farm at Jordan Falls, on the banks of Jordan Bay in Nova Scotia, Canada, one of fifteen children. As a young teenager, his temptation to explore the waters of the bay and the Jordan River was such that he built a small sailing dinghy. The adventures he enjoyed on board this tiny craft set his life on a course that would bring him great fame and fortune.

  At age sixteen he boarded a coastal schooner in Halifax and sailed to New York, where it was his intention to find a job as an apprentice shipbuilder. He was soon indentured to the man the industry knew as ‘the Father of Shipbuilders’, Isaac Webb, who operated a successful yard on the banks of the East River. Young McKay’s employment agreement, which entitled him ‘to learn the art, trade and mystery of a ship-carpenter’, reflected the morality of the times. It read in part:

  From the date of the date hereof, for and during and until the full end and term of four years, six months and eleven days next ensuing; during all of which time the said apprentice his master faithfully shall serve, his secrets keep, and his lawful commands everywhere readily obey: . . . he shall not contract matrimony within the said term: at cards, dice, or any other unlawful game he shall not play . . . nor haunt ale-houses, taverns, dance-houses or playhouses; but in all things behave himself as a faithful apprentice ought to do during the said term.

  These terms would have been onerous for many, but McKay’s work ethic and talent were such that he was released from his apprenticeship after just four years, aged twenty, and allowed to take up a position with another nearby shipbuilder, Jacob Bell. This opportunity led him to befriend John Willis Griffiths – already a noted designer, though his development of Rainbow was still some fifteen years away. The pair spent a considerable amount of time discussing ships’ design and ways to improve their speed.

  McKay’s ability and talent saw him outclass nearly 1000 other men to become a foreman at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. His reputation continued to grow over the ensuing years, and in 1844, at the age of thirty-four, he was financed into his own shipbuilding yard in Boston by a wealthy local merchant, Enoch Train. This gave him the first chance to apply his own thinking, and many of the theories he had developed with Griffiths, to his own designs – and from that point there was no holding him back. Over the next twenty-five years, he would set new standards in ship design and production.

  His first ship, designed specifically for the California trade, was the extreme clipper Stag Hound, launched in 1850 – a sharp-bowed, powerfully proportioned and stunningly swift sailing ship that was like no other. This vessel alone confirmed that McKay had already perfected the clipper concept.

  When launched, Stag Hound was the largest commercial vessel in America. Much to the delight of her owners, she returned every cent of her construction cost ($45,000) from the profit achieved on her maiden voyage, a passage that took her to California and Asia. Most importantly for McKay, her success immediately elevated him to the status of pre-eminent shipbuilder of the era. This mantle was enhanced by the efficiency of his shipyard: he was able to significantly reduce the build time through his own ingenuity. Among other innovations, he created a steam-operated derrick, and a steam saw that proved to be far more efficient than the two-man pit saw that had been the standard until then.

  The second clipper ship McKay built, Flying Cloud, was the most famous ever to come from his yard, and one of the most impressive ships of her type to cross the world’s oceans. She is seen by many as unsurpassed in the history of American sailing ships, clocking some amazing times for passages between the world’s great seaports. Later in her career she would play an important role in early Australian history, completing seven voyages carrying migrants from England on what was referred to as ‘the Queensland Run’.

  Launched on 15 April 1851, she measured 235 feet over all, with a beam of 41 feet and draft of 19 feet. Her cargo capacity of 1783 tons was almost twice that of Griffiths’s Sea Witch, the tallest and most innovative ship afloat when launched just five years earlier.

  There were more than a thousand spectators who crowded around McKay’s yard or stood aboard small b
oats on the river to watch the launching of this mighty and majestic ship. Such was the celebration within the small community that church bells rang out across Boston from the moment the man standing on the deck – probably McKay – commenced proceedings.

  Recognising that the tide was at its peak, he signalled the yard hands, positioned beneath the hull carrying large sledgehammers, to begin smashing the wooden support chocks out from under the long, straight keel. Within a few minutes the ship slowly began to move down the slipway towards the water: the signal for the admiring and excited crowd to fill the air with cheers. As they did so, Flying Cloud accelerated down the heavily greased wooden ways and into the water, all the time remaining perfectly upright.

  In his poem ‘The Launching’, Longfellow wrote of the moment:

  She starts – she moves – she seems to feel

  The thrill of life along her keel,

  And, spurning with her foot the ground,

  With one exulting, joyous bound,

  She leaps into the ocean’s arms!

  A reporter from the Boston Daily Atlas recorded for his readers: ‘If great length, sharpness of ends, with proportionate breadth and depth, conduce to speed the Flying Cloud must be uncommonly swift, for in all these she is great.’

  However, it was not just her record-breaking achievements under sail that earned Flying Cloud her formidable reputation. Her fame was greatly enhanced by the pair who held the roles (respectively) of captain and navigator. Her commander was Josiah Perkins Creesy (better known as Perkins) – and her navigator was his much-loved wife, Eleanor.

  While it was not unusual for a master to have his wife accompany him on voyages, for her to be actively involved in the operation of the ship – particularly in the senior position of navigator – certainly was.

  Born Eleanor Prentiss in the east-coast seaport of Marblehead, Massachusetts, in 1814, she was fascinated from an early age by the fundamentals of navigation thanks to her father, who was a master mariner. Her enthusiasm was fuelled by her experiences when sailing with her father aboard his coastal trading schooner. His ability to navigate using the sun and the stars for guidance generated considerable intrigue in her fertile young mind – so much so that she did everything possible to expand her field of knowledge by studying mathematics, astronomy and weather patterns, and learning from her father how to use a sextant. Her studies inevitably caused her to become a disciple of Matthew Maury, and an avid reader of his influential publications.

  It was Eleanor’s task to plot every part of the course that would take Flying Cloud safely from port to port, which meant that she needed to calculate the ship’s position around the clock.

  *

  Within seven weeks of her launch, Flying Cloud had been fully rigged and fitted out and had sailed to New York under the captaincy of Perkins and Eleanor. Once there, the ship was loaded with $50,000 worth of cargo, including 190 dozen brandied peaches, 100 dozen jars of tomato and pepper sauce, sixty-eight boxes of candles, 500 kegs of white lead, 100 cases of imperial black paint, lamp black, and 100 cans of turpentine. Additionally, there were twelve passengers, most of whom were travelling to San Francisco on business.

  This maiden voyage, using developing navigation techniques, would be one of ocean sailing’s great tests. The Creesys weren’t expecting it to be easy – and it wasn’t.

  On the afternoon of 2 June 1851, the anchor was hauled up and some sails set to suit a course towards Sandy Hook, 10 nautical miles away to the east. Once there, at 7pm the pilot guiding Flying Cloud away from the entrance to New York’s Hudson River was transferred to a small boat so he could return to shore. Then, as Flying Cloud was steered towards the open sea, Eleanor would have confirmed with her captain husband that the desired course was to the south-east, a course that would take them close to Bermuda and on towards the easternmost point of South America, around 3500 nautical miles away.

  Within days, as the wind increased in strength and the seas rose in stature, Flying Cloud showed she was indeed a maritime charger: she appeared to be registering unprecedented speeds, speeds that caused Eleanor to double-check her calculations, thinking she must have made an error. But she hadn’t.

  However, the rapid progress was not without its dramas: problems were emerging with the rig, something not unexpected on such a radical and untried ship, but still a development that caused considerable concern. Three days out from New York she went close to losing her mainmast because of rigging failure, then the main topgallant and mizzen topgallant yards exploded into splinters.

  Captain Creesy opted to reduce speed until the broken spars were replaced and additional checks were made of the tension on all rigging. Consequently, it was discovered that there was a problem with the mainmast: it could come crashing down across the deck if the usual amount of sail were set. So the call was for the giant timber section not to be overloaded for the reminder of the voyage. Yet even under reduced sail, Flying Cloud was achieving speeds never before seen by any sailing ship.

  The captain’s log soon noted that they had crossed the Equator two days faster than any other ship that had headed south from New York. The thought then was that a record time to Cape Horn was in the offing, but that became doubtful when a powerful mid-ocean storm – one capped by heavy cloud and delivering strong winds and rough seas – crossed their path, haunting them for days.

  This storm’s dense, lead-coloured cloud stretched from horizon to horizon, meaning that Eleanor Creesy was unable to get the sun or star sights she needed to accurately plot the ship’s position. Instead, she had to apply her real skills as a navigator and go by ‘dead-reckoning’. This method of navigation saw her plot the ship’s position on a chart by applying estimates of the average speed through the water and the course steered over a nominated period.

  It was a challenging and intense around-the-clock effort for Eleanor, lasting more than ten days and extending over 1000 nautical miles. When she completed each plot, Eleanor would discuss the situation with her husband, then decide whether it was safe to continue on the current course or if it would be preferable to call for a change of course. It was like flying blind.

  Yet when the weather finally cleared, the captain and navigator were more than pleased with what they had achieved. There, only a few miles to the west of the ship, the snow-capped highlands just north of Cape Horn were visible: Flying Cloud was almost exactly where her navigator had expected her to be.

  Despite the ship’s teething problems, Cape Horn was rounded in record time, and fortunately for all on board it proved to be a fair-weather experience. Once ‘around the corner’ and sailing north, with guidance from Maury’s sailing directions, the Creesys were able to hold a surprisingly speedy course towards San Francisco. No one on the ship had ever travelled so fast – not even on land.

  With at least twenty-seven sails set at the best of times, Flying Cloud was romping along, her long, lean bow knifing effortlessly through the waves while tossing a mane of white water high into the air. No doubt everyone on board was impressed by both her sea-kindliness and her amazing speed. A record run seemed inevitable.

  Sure enough, Flying Cloud sailed a world-record speed of 374 nautical miles in twenty-four hours. Her average speed was 15.5 knots, and at one stage her mechanical log confirmed her top speed as better than 18 knots. Not even the unpredictable conditions of the horse latitudes (between 30 and 38 degrees south) could stop the ship from maintaining a remarkable speed; in fact, it wasn’t until she was three days out from San Francisco that she struck fickle winds.

  Still, Flying Cloud continued to glide towards her goal until, on 31 August, she emerged from a misty horizon and entered San Francisco Bay. Her time from New York was an astounding eighty-nine days and twenty-one hours: a record that was under half the time it had taken some ships to sail the same passage at the start of the gold rush less than three years earlier, and a full week faster than the previous record-holder, another clipper ship, Surprise.

  Once their shi
p was safely anchored, Eleanor and Perkins Creesy became instant celebrities. Masses of people clamoured to meet them, while others rushed to North Beach to see the wonder ship.

  The day after Flying Cloud reached port, the town’s Daily Alta California newspaper described her as a ‘skimmer of the seas’, adding that she would ‘stand, as long as she lasts, a monument of Yankee talent in the way of ship building’. The east-coast media were similarly jubilant at the news, especially in New York, and the record even made headlines in the London Times on 22 October 1851. Consequently, after only one voyage, Flying Cloud had become the most famous sailing ship in the world.

  Two years later, Eleanor and Perkins Creesy did it again with Flying Cloud: they broke their own record by thirteen hours – a mark that stands to this day for a square-rigged sailing ship.

  *

  Another woman gained national and international prominence as the wife of a ship’s captain just three years after Flying Cloud logged her second record-breaking passage, and it came on the same run.

  On 1 July 1856, the clipper ship Neptune’s Car cleared Sandy Hook at the entrance to New York Harbour, turned to starboard and began the long voyage to San Francisco. Her captain was twenty-nine year old Joshua Adams Patten, and he was accompanied by his nineteen year old wife Mary, then four months pregnant with their first child. Captain Patten had been master of the ship for two years, and during that time Mary had accompanied him on a long and very interesting passage from New York to San Francisco, then China, London and finally back to New York.

  To pass the time on that previous voyage, Mary had worked with great interest alongside her husband whenever he was navigating the ship and calculating her position. Mary was intrigued by how, by taking sun sights with the sextant, the angles could be plotted with near-pinpoint accuracy onto the chart. This led her to spend many hours on deck each day, learning how to use the sextant then convert the data and confirm the position of the ship via both latitude and longitude. She also learned how to calculate dead-reckoning as an alternative method of navigation. As an additional form of self-education, Mary studied medical procedures – a fortunate exercise, since several crew members were injured when Neptune’s Car was struck by lightning on this current passage to San Francisco. Mary’s newfound abilities caused her husband to note: ‘Mrs Patten is uncommon handy about the ship, even in weather, and would doubtless be of service if a man.’