Booty: Get a Book

Today I'm wrapping up the Friday gift giving posts with the best recommendation I can make: get your loved one a book. From my favorites for adults, Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey/Maturin series to my favorite for young and old alike, Robert Lewis Stevenson's Treasure Island, there is no end to books with a seafaring bent.

Looking for something a little more current, or perhaps with a supernatural touch? Try On Stranger Tides by Tim Powers. The book influenced the most recent Pirates of the Caribbean movie, but is tremendously more interesting and entertaining.

In the nonfiction category, try Jack Aubrey Commands by Brian Lavery, the book used as a reference by Peter Weir in the making of the film Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World. Along those same lines, try the fascinating biography of one of O'Brian's inspirations, Thomas Cochrane, in Cochrane: The Real Master and Commander by David Cordingly. Poxed & Scurvied by Kevin Brown is a superior look at the history of nautical medicine and, piratically speaking, you can't miss with anything written by Benerson Little. (Speaking of whom, don't forget to enter to win his The Sea Rover's Practice by leaving a comment here; the drawing happens December 26th!)

Finally, you can never go wrong with Melville's classic Moby Dick. Click over to Primary Source Nexus to see a larger version of the above map. Entitled "The Voyage of the Pequod", it should inspire you to read the book again yourself. And why not; you're entitled to a little gift as well...

Header: The Voyage of the Pequod mad via Primary Source Nexus dot org

History: Rough Medicine

The day is spent, the night draws on. Chiurgion, look to the wounded, and wind up the slain, with each a weight or bullet at their heads and feet to make them sink. ~ Captain John Smith, Governor of Virginia

In the 17th century, medicine at sea was just getting its start. Surgeons sailed with many a vessel, both in navies and the merchant service. Perhaps surprisingly, even fishing fleets like those off the coast of Newfoundland had surgeons who were paid, at least in part, in dried fish. But as Kevin Brown points up in his meticulously researched book Poxed & Survied, "...the position of surgeon onboard ship was ill-defined and depended very much on the support and informed interest in hygiene of such captains as Francis Drake and Richard Hawkins."

This was true well into the 19th century. Patrick O'Brian, a master not only of storytelling but of accurate historical detail, knew this very well. His Stephen Maturin, a full-fledged physician who took a post with the Royal Navy only because of desperate poverty, would not have been able to accomplish half of what he did - as not only doctor but as naturalist and intelligencer - had it not been for the strong support of Captain Jack Aubrey. In "real life", captains like Nelson cared about all aspects of their crew's lives. Less capable commanders like Hugh Pigot or William Bligh were also less likely to support their surgeon.

Such circumstance would have been troubling for men with a sincere dedication to their vocation. And the problems were only multiplied by controls - or monopolies - imposed not only by the Admiralty but also by Parliament and even the King himself. At least in England.

As Brown points out, in July of 1626 the Privy Council started paying the Barber-Surgeons Company a yearly sum to allow them to provide medicine chests to both the navy and the army. This was followed up in 1629 by a mandatory examination for sea surgeons put in place by Charles I who chose John Woodall, first surgeon to the East India Company, to oversee both processes.

Woodall published The Surgions Mate in 1617 and the book became a must-have among sea going medical men. So much so in fact that Brown notes the book was widely distributed but few copies have survived to the present day. He tells us that this "... suggests that they were much used at sea" and that the book was a "... model for future manuals for the ship's doctor."

Given Woodall's expertise, it is not surprising that the king dumped so much in the doctor's lap. He was given "the whole ordering, making and appointing of His Highness' military provisions for surgery both for his land and sea service," according to the journals of Captain James Cook. As Brown rather snidely remarks: "Thus began a lucrative venture for Woodall, but also the long monopoly enjoyed by the Barber-Surgeons over the supply and inspection of ship's surgeons' chests."

Though the Barber-Surgeons grip on supplying ship's doctors could do more harm than good, there was a silver lining to the order. This process of inspection developed a certain uniformity of instruments and medicines available on both Royal Navy and merchant vessels. The upshot was a uniformity of treatment - at least on ships where caring for the crew in illness and injury was made a priority.

All the same, again as pointed up by Brown, the ship's surgeon was by and large a product of an apprentice rather than an educational system. True physicians - "lordly" to use Brown's term - had little interest in serving either navy or army until well into the 19th century. And only after the pay rates were adjusted to recognize their lordliness.

Meanwhile the ship's surgeon toiled on. He treated everything from bug bites to shattered limbs and for the most part dealt with day-to-day illness from STDs to the common cold. It was no glamor job, certainly. But at least some of the men who did it must have been as cherished by their captains and mates as Dr. Maturin himself.

Header: Paul Bettany as Stephen Maturin and Russell Crowe as Jack Aubrey; a still from the movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World

Tools of the Trade: The Weather Gauge

The idea of today's tool will be very familiar not only to the Brethren but to readers of nautical fiction. Having the weather gauge seems an all important point in winning a sea battle. Explaining why this might be is, to my mind, more difficult than achieving it. Readers of O'Brian will recall Dr. Maturin puzzling over the finer points of this strategic maneuver on more than on occasion. The question even came up in the movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World and found poor Killick insisting that Jack draw his examples for the weather gauge "not on the cloth."

In plain terms, having the weather gauge simply means that a ship is to windward of her opponent.

Is the weather gauge really an advantage? According to Falconer's New Universal Dictionary of the Marine, originally published in 1815, the answer is no. The caveat being that most sailors would tell you emphatically yes. Rather than try to paraphrase the master, here are William Burney Falconer's comments on the advantages of weather gauge:


1. The weather-gage is the sooner clear of smoke; and of course that line can better observe the signals which are spread, than the ships to leeward can, which must have the continuance of both its own and of the enemy longer.
2.  If the weather-ships are more in number than the enemy's they can detach some from their squadron; which, bearing down upon the rear of the enemy, must infallibly throw them into disorder.
3. The fire-ships of the weather-line can, when they are ordered, more easily bear down upon the enemy than those of the lee can ply to windward, which can never be done against a line in action; but the weather fire-ships can bear down against all the resistance that can be made by the enemy.

Falconer tells us that the disadvantage for the weather ships is in, for all intents and purposes, running away. As he so delicately puts it, "the weather-line cannot decline the action, without the dangerous expedient of forcing through the enemy's line."

There are advantages to the lee gauge, however, as Falconer notes:

1. If one, two or more of the ships to windward should be disabled, they must inevitable drive to leeward, and become a prey to the enemy.
2. The ships of the lee-line can more readily bear away before the wind, and have their places supplied by ships from the corps-de-reserve, in case of being disabled or meeting with any disaster.
3. The line to leeward can keep their ports longer open in a strong wind with a high sea, when those to windward in all probability may be obliged to shut the ports of their lower tier of guns, to prevent the water from rushing in between decks, which may be attended with the most fatal consequences.
4. The lee-line can more easily observe the men on the decks of the ships to windward, as they heel, and when the smoke does not interrupt their sight; at which time the marines and topmen may easily take aim at and destroy them with muskets and carbins.

Of course, the lee gauge has its own disadvantages including a lack of control over the timing of the battle and the ever present danger of an enemy ship breaking away from her line and coming up on the lee gauge ship or ships from behind.

The weather gauge has gone by the board now that ships of battle are outfitted with motors instead of sails. But you'll never convince an old salt - or an old soul - that the weather gauge isn't of great advantage in battle regardless of situation.

Header: USS Essex vs. HMS Alert August 13, 1812, painting by John B. Dindale

History: Stomp and Go

A glorious International Talk Like a Pirate day to all members of the Brethren, seafarers, freebooters, buccaneers, privateers and lubbers. This day, as the inimitable Captain Swallow pointed out this morning, is a day off for those of us who practice the way of the sea every day. That means it's up to the rest of you to hoist the sails and turn the capstan today. And to my mind, that means you'll need some chanties to help ye along.

Sea songs, often called chanties or shanties, probably originated with simple counting. Though it sounds crazy, it makes perfect sense. Those captured by the original boucaniers at sea wrote of these French corsairs pushing their windlasses or pulling on rigging with the continuous and melodic chant of "Un, Deux, TROIS". In this case, the emphasis is on the third syllable, and that is when the true exertion is expected from each man.

By the late 18th century, these chants may have been considerably influenced by African work songs and singing, rather than chanting, became the norm on the New World side of the Atlantic. In the Royal Navy, where singing was prohibited as it was considered a hindrance to the giving of orders, fiddles or fifes were played while men pushed and heaved. The sailors, always clever in circumventing orders, developed a way to continue rhythmic signalling without the use of voice. Known as a "stomp and go", the slap of bare feet on the ship's deck became a way of keeping time to the work at hand.

Here are a few links to help you not only talk like a pirate today, but sing like one. First, a very ancient work song that probably originated at sea some time in the late 15th or early 16th century. The song was used in the movie Robin Hood, with Russell Crowe, and is a simple repetition of a few rhyming lines. Though the movie probably makes this shanty older than it actually was, it still has a nice ring to it.

Next, songs from the movie The Phantom Ship. Made in the 1930s, the film features a number of late 19th century shanties that will probably be very familiar to the Brethren.

Finally, a fully realized "song" that was popular in both the Royal Navy and the American Navy by 1800. This version is one of my favorite pieces of music from the movie Master and Commander.

Enjoy, Brethren; and don't ye dare forget yer old ship mates on this ITLAPD!

Header: T-shirts for the Anchorage, Alaska Pirate Pub Crawl 2012; you can get one at the official Facebook page (I'm wearing mine right now)

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Service

Two weevils crept from the crumbs.  “You see those weevils, Stephen?” said Jack solemnly.

“I do.”

“Which would you choose?”

“There is not a scrap of difference.  Arcades ambo.  They are the same species of curculio, and there is nothing to choose between them.”

“But suppose you had to choose?”

“Then I should choose the right-hand weevil; it has a perceptible advantage in both length and breadth.”

“There I have you,” cried Jack.  “You are bit – you are completely dished.  Don’t you know that in the Navy you must choose the lesser of two weevils? Oh ha, ha, ha, ha!”

~ from The Fortunes of War by Patrick O’Brian

What one should do in the Navy was always uppermost in Triple P’s favorite fictional captain’s mind.  Jack Aubrey was bred to the service, knowing very little of life away from his familiar wooden world upon wave.  And service, in the form of word and action, would have been equally dear; it was and still is to men and women like Captain Aubrey.

Service is, as Admiral Smyth notes, the “general term” for the profession of military men and women.  But the word had other meanings aboard ship in the Great Age of Sail that may seem unusual, perhaps even surprising, to the modern mind.

To see service was a well-used term at the time for being involved in fighting action.  The risks of same, of course, were and still are part of the general term.

A serving board was a flat piece of wood with a handle, vaguely resembling a pizza board, which was used for passing items from one man to another while working in the rigging.  The handle was usually attached to a so called served rope, which kept the board or other tools from toppling to the deck.  This rope, made of old yarns, was sometimes simply referred to as a service.  The making of such a rope, and others besides, was accomplished in part with a serving mallet.  This had a groove on one side and was used to wrap the yarns tightly to form a rope.

Serving out slops is the ancient phrase for handing out clothing from the stores to men aboard ship.  This is not the same as the auctioning of personal effects that sometimes occurred after the death of a mate at sea.  The phrase became a euphemism for flogging or other punishments on both sides of the Atlantic by the middle of the 18^th century.

Gun crews were said to serve their gun.  Originally this meant supplying each individual cannon with shot, powder and light but eventually the phrase took on the meaning of the crew working together to see that their gun was fired fast, clean and true.

Aboard ship, too, men, machines and stores were referred to as serviceable.  A man was serviceable if he was able, stores serviceable if fit for use, and those aforementioned guns serviceable if they could be used without fear of misfire or explosion.

And so then as now – keeping in mind that military service has been voluntary in most places throughout most of history – those who choose to serve deserve our thanks, respect and admiration.  Triple P salutes you all; you are the true heroes in our world.

Finally, just in case you were wondering, Dean King kindly enlightens as to the meaning of the Latin phrase Arcades ambo in his A Sea of Words:

Two people of the same tastes, professions or character, often used derogatorily.  The Latin means literally “both Arcadians,” i.e., two pastoral poets or musicians.

Header: Russell Crowe as Jack Aubrey and Paul Bettany as Stephen Maturin from the movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Go/Going/God

Today's words when used at sea usually have to do with orders. Well, except the last one; that usually has to do with bald-faced swearing. “God damn your eyes, sir,” comes to mind for some reason. Anyway, let us take a closer look and, upon the close of this post, I’ll explain the reason for William Blake’s peon to Horatio Nelson at the header. Bear with me, I humbly beg; or just skip to the last paragraph. I’m just glad that you’ve stopped by.


Go as a stand alone order is usually reserved for the shipyard and indicates the moment when a ship is ready to be released from the stocks. To go ashore implies shore leave, and “goashores” were a sailor’s best clothes, reserved in general for time on land when impressing the locals and representing the ship well would both have been a priority.

A ship is said to be going free when she is sailing with the wind on her beam, the bowlines slackened. She is going large when sailing off the wind in which case there would be much going about or tacking.

A go by is code for a strategy to get out of trouble, in the sense of the ship as a whole. As an example, Captain Aubrey gave the French ship Acheron the go by when he had his men row Surprise into a fog bank after her rudder was disabled in the movie Master and Commander.

Going through the fleet is an old and horrible form of torture inflicted in the Royal Navy prior to its abolition in the early 19th century. A criminal sailor was condemned to a certain number of lashes along side a group of ships at anchor in the same area, with the total lashes sometimes as high as 500. The unfortunate was rowed to each ship in a launch, the proscribed flogging performed, and then the launch rowed on to the next ship. Men were known to die from such punishment, and objection to this type of extremity was one of the foremost arguments against impressments of Americans by the Royal Navy which in turn led to the War of 1812.

A godsend meant an unexpected prize or sudden lifting of storm or attack. While the word God I will leave to the inimitable Admiral Smyth:

We retain the Anglo-Saxon word to designate the ALMIGHTY; signifying good, to do good, doing good, and to benefit; terms such as our classic borrowings cannot pretend to.

Since, upon his death at Trafalgar, Nelson became something of a god to the British people, Blake’s painting seems only appropriate for today.

Header: The Spiritual Form of Nelson Guiding Leviathan by William Blake c 1805

Movies: Jack Aubrey Commands

Over at The Dear Surprise, Monday saw The Dear Knows posting a thesis on leadership theory entitled “Mastering Leadership Reflexes: A Case Study of Captain Aubrey”. Of course, all it takes is the last two words of that title to get any O’Brian fan going. Needless to say I read the whole thing. Twice.


The paper is fascinating as a stand-alone evaluation of Russell West’s 2004 piece “A Reflex Model of Leadership Development” published in the Journal of Religious Leadership. It layers the groundwork of West’s theory with the command skills of the fictional character John Aubrey, RN as portrayed, not in O’Brian’s fiction, but in the movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World.

Before I go any further, I feel compelled to point out that the co-authors of the thesis are all members of evangelical Christian churches. Though it is not my habit to discuss my personal feelings on religion here at Triple P, I must say first and foremost that this was a stumbling block for me in evaluating the material. I could not, in all fairness, get past the thought that the examples and information put forth would be used to manipulate people into a devotion to a business model that wears the vestments of spirituality. This is purely an honest, upfront admission on my part so that anyone reading my analysis will know that I come to the material with a bias.

Well, more than one bias if I’m honest. The authors rely entirely on Jack Aubrey the character as portrayed in the Peter Weir film. There is no reference to O’Brian and certainly no reference to the historical accuracy which was so important to that author. I won’t go through the piece line-by-line as that would be a crazy insult to the Brethren, but allow me to point out a few issues which jumped out at me.

A specific juxtaposition is made by the authors under the heading of “The Ethical Consideration Reflex.” Here they point to Aubrey’s ability to “… make right choices in ethically muddled situations…” One is the scene where in able seaman Worley is lost over the side of Surprise during a storm. Part of a mast is torn away and it begins to drag the ship down, as the line in the movie says, “like a sea anchor.” Aubrey makes the decision to cut the mast’s rigging, freeing the ship but dooming Worley to death by drowning. The second is Aubrey’s decision to suspend the pursuit of Acheron in favor of making landfall so that his friend, Stephen Maturin, can be saved vis-à-vis removal of a bullet from his abdomen.

These “right choices” are perhaps not so black and white outside of the context of the movie – particularly in the second case. While saving the many over the one is an almost textbook military leadership choice, saving the personal friend over duty, ship and crew is quite another thing. This is not, one must be thankful to say, a choice that Aubrey was required to make in O’Brian’s series but it is a choice faced by military leaders throughout history. Would John Aubrey, however fictional he may be, have made the choice of friend over duty? We probably would like to think that the answer would be yes but, based on the historical record, it is more likely “maybe.”

Another glaring issue for me was the authors argument under “Collaborative Reflex”, wherein they assert that Aubrey “develops camaraderie with his executive team…” and “… creates an environment in which [the crew] work together using their individual strengths and abilities to accomplish a common goal.”

Indeed, and again on the face of it, Aubrey is a cheerful “friendly” leader, willing to allow men to do what they are best at without hovering while showing compassion in times of injury, illness or death. Unfortunately this is not as uncommon, historically speaking, as the authors might like to imagine.

Aside from the likes of captains such as Bligh and Pigot, who created hells afloat, most naval leaders were and are aware of the confinement of their situation. There truly is nowhere to go in the middle of the ocean and it is not only the leaders but the men who must trust in and encourage one another in order to ensure that everyone not only gets home safe, but successful as well. Making repairs at sea, changing approach rather than sticking to “orders”, promoting or disciplining individuals as necessary and so much more would have not only been required but expected.

The idea of camaraderie was a feature of Jack’s personality as penned by O’Brian. He was very much a captain who needed a particular friend like Stephen Maturin. In stark contrast, and to stay within the realm of fiction, C.S. Forester’s Horatio Hornblower is very much “the man alone.” He may consult and dine with his lieutenants, but in the final analysis he will decide the fate of his ship and her souls. I wonder what the authors of this piece might make of Hornblower as his leadership style in the BBC dramatizations of Forester’s works relates to West’s theory.

Of course there is so much more to consider but I may already have worn out my welcome. Click over and read the piece yourself. If you’re so inclined, let me know what you think. I’d particularly like to hear from you O’Brian scholars; you know who you are.

Header: Russell Crowe as Jack Aubrey in Master and Commander

Books: A Manual for Victory

HMS Victory, arguably the most famous man-of-war built during the Georgian era, didn’t come with an operating manual. The iron men who sailed her didn’t need one. They knew what they were up to, certainly almost to a man, and gave her life through the work of their muscles and bones. She was and is a remarkable vessel, and to some degree a shrine. It was upon her deck and in her orlop that the immortal Horatio Nelson saw victory – and death – and Trafalgar.


All that said, a guide to owning and maintaining HMS Victory couldn’t hurt, even at this late date. That is exactly what author Peter Goodwin and Haynes Publishing Group came out with on February 4th: the first ever fully illustrated and impeccably accurate guide to one of the oldest and most iconic sailing ships in the world.

As noted in the press release from Haynes:

With the aid of specially commissioned photographs and an authoritative narrative, the reader is taken below decks to discover the innermost workings of the warship. There are chapters on how to sail an 18th century man-of-war, gunnery and tactics, and the [$2.5 million] conservation program that will ensure she continues to be a top visitor attraction well into the 21st century.

The book, as noted, was written by Peter Goodwin who is a former Royal Navy marine engineer and an expert on sailing and ships of Nelson’s navy. Fans of the movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World will be familiar with Goodwin’s expertise; he was an advisor on technical points during production and post-production of the film.

The book is available online at an extremely reasonable $23.73 U.S. It really is a must-have for anyone interested in any of the subjects which, throughout history, have touched the beautiful HMS Victory.

Finally as an aside, and with no offence intended to the British Brethren, the press release notes Victory is “the world’s oldest commissioned warship.” In fact, she is the world’s oldest commissioned warship not actively sailing. The oldest commissioned warship still on the high seas is USS Constitution. I’m splitting hairs, perhaps, but it is a small matter of pride for those of us who have some connection to the U.S. Navy which, in all fairness, is the daughter of the Royal Navy.

Header: HMS Victory In Battle by Chris N. Wood via Artists Harbour

Ships: America's Flagship

NOLA Navy Week is approaching fast, and in a curious coincidence (or if I am less humble a case of great minds thinking alike), the inimitable Edward Branley came out with an excellent piece on USS Wasp yesterday. That just as I was preparing this post on another ship in the United States Navy’s early fleet: USS Constellation. Though it does not appear that Constellation will be among the 10 tall ships featured at the event beginning April 17th, she is certainly among the brightest lights in navy history.


Constellation was named not for any group of stars in the sky but for the 13 stars in the blue canton of the first U.S. flag. She was the first of the navy’s original six frigates to be launched, on March 27, 1794, and the first to be commissioned. She also was the first ship to see action in the first war participated in by the U.S. as a country, and the first to take a prize. A lot of firsts, and that said without hyperbole.

In construction and size, Constellation did not differ vastly from her five sister frigates. She was heavy hulled, made of the white oak that could only be found in North America and that so confounded the United States’ enemies at sea. Fans of the movie Master and Commander will remember the discussions about “Yankee built” Acheron, with Tom Pullings remarking “you have to wonder about her hull.” Such was the case with most of the frigates that came out of the shipyards on America’s Atlantic coast at the time.

Constellation was built in Baltimore, displaced 1,265 tons, was 41 feet at her beam and 164 feet in length. She carried a compliment of 340 men and 36 guns. She was a fast sailer too; the crew of the French ship La Vengeance, whom she defeated in a 5 hour firefight during the Quasi-War, nicknamed her “Yankee Racehorse.”

Thomas Truxtun, a leading light in the new navy, was Constellation’s first commander and he whipped her crew into shape immediately. Truxtun was a veteran of the Continental Navy and he held dear the Royal Navy traditions of honor, conduct, gunnery and – where necessary – discipline. He expected great things of himself, his crew and his ship, and all delivered.

Truxtun and Constellation won the first battle in the United States’ so called Quasi-War with France. The war began in 1798 and was almost exclusively engaged with issues of free trade on the high seas. On February 9, 1799, Constellation defeated and captured the frigate L’Insurgente, said to be the best sailer in the French navy. Coincidently, yesterday’s subject, brilliant naval leader David Porter, was aboard Constellation as a Midshipman at the time.

Constellation continued her successes, serving admirably in both Barbary Wars and the War of 1812. In 1840 she circumnavigated the globe, and became the first U.S. ship to enter ports in China. Here she helped to facilitate the tea trade that would see clipper ships following in her wake for decades to come.

Back home, time was beginning to tell. Constellation was now almost 60 years old and an overhaul was out of the question. She was broken up, but some of her timbers were used to build a sloop of war in 1854. Given the same name, this ship saw action not only in war but in humanitarian efforts as well.

In the 1859, Constellation was put on the West African station where she was tasked with intercepting slave ships, freeing the people therein and breaking up the African slave trade. The History Channel has an excellent documentary available on Constellation’s West African mission. After service as a Union vessel in the Civil War, she was sent to Ireland with humanitarian aid for those stricken by the famine. You can read more about that at the Naval History Blog.

Sloop of war Constellation was eventually used exclusively as a training ship and she is now permanently docked in Baltimore where she is a maritime museum. A subsequent aircraft carrier, port of call San Diego, was also named Constellation.

The true flag ship of the original U.S. Navy thus lives on, not only in memory but in service as well. As President Ronald Reagan told her crew in 1981: “Let friend and foe alike know that America has the muscle to back up its words, and ships like this and men like you are that muscle… you are America’s Flagship.”

Header: USS Constellation by Antoine Roux c 1805

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Alarm

Today's adventure into the etymology of words is a curious mix of marine and land-based warfare. As anyone who knows the history of seafaring will tell you, there are times when a sailor is required to fight and at least some of those actions will occur on land. Sometimes a sailor is a soldier – and vice versa really. From Morgan’s buccaneers to Daniel Tod Patterson’s raid on Barataria to the U.S. Navy battling Somali and other pirates as we speak, the line between seaman and grunt is often nonexistent. Go see Act of Valor if you doubt me at all.


So it is that one can raise an alarm and/or be alarmed on land or at sea. But where did all of this alarming voice raising come from? I’ll say that none of the Brethren will be surprised when I tell them: Italy.

All’armi! That was the call to arms in Italian city-states and aboard their vessels of the pre-Renaissance era. It literally translates as “To the weapons!” and was therefore both an alert of impending danger from an enemy and a rallying cry. Some time around 1300 French speakers took up the call as Alarme! With all the inter-cultural mixing of warriors that went on at the time, the English brought it home by the end of that century with only a missing e to make it their own. Just as a curious aside, the Dutch jumped on the alarm bandwagon as well, spelling it as the English did, but the German speaking Holy Roman Empire did not. Their original “Warnung!” has come down to us today.

At sea or on land, the alarm is sounded by use of bell, drum or horn; a set noise allows men to know exactly what is in the offing and what is expected of them. Anyone who has seen the movie Master and Commander is well aware of what happens when the order “Beat to quarters!” is given.

And this brings up an important point peculiar in some ways to naval discipline. Bringing men to battle stations aboard ship was done with frequency – threat or no – by fighting captains who chose to keep their ships and men ready for action. The application is based on the undeniable fact that people cannot do under stress what they have not done in practice. Much like learning to shoot a gun or drive a car, you’re reaction time in a dangerous situation will be hindered if you have never done such a thing before. Thus scheduled alarms and sometimes unscheduled false alarms, were routine on well-run ships. Even privateers and, on rarer occasions, pirates worked their guns now and again. Every man to his station and no confusion when the “real thing” comes to pass.

On the same subject, to some degree at least, Bill Brohaugh points out in his book Unfortunate English: The Gloomy Truth Behind the Words You Use that alarm became more associated with fright or startle around the 1500s. At the same time, English speakers began to use the word afraid to mean scared. Its original meaning though, in the form affray, was to disturb or unsettle people. Thus people who were unsettled –literally driven from their land and homes – were affrayed. The etymological jump to scared, in fact alarmed, makes perfect sense doesn’t it?

But now I’ve veered dangerously off course, and should wisely avoid the lee shore. Happy Saturday, Brethren; is you’ve an interest in exploring more strange and wonderful English etymologies, find Mr. Bohaugh’s fascinating website here.

Header: Jack Aubrey calls out the alarm; Russell Crowe in Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World

Books: Curious Connections

I'm not one of those people who looks for links and conspiracies in everything they see, trying desperately to connect the unconnected dots of life and research to make some sort of sense out of nonsense. That’s just silly. But when there is a legitimate connection between things and/or people I find fascinating, I get genuinely excited. Today’s post is about one of those curious connections.


On February 1, 1780 David Porter Jr. was born in Boston. Porter’s father served in the Continental Navy. Two of Porter’s sons, David Farragut and David Dixon Porter, would go on to achieve greatness in the U.S. and Union navies. Porter himself was held prisoner in Tripoli during the Barbary Wars, was the first Commodore of the New Orleans Naval Station and, as captain of USS Essex, all but wiped out the British whaling industry in the South Pacific during the War of 1812. With all that success, Porter was an outspoken leader who was not well liked by his peers or superiors; his unfortunate propensity for speaking the truth made them skittish at best. After what he felt were unjustified reprimands following his pirate hunting success commanding the Mosquito Fleet out of Key West, Porter left the U.S. and took command of the fledgling Mexican navy. This operation would find but little success and Porter eventually returned to his natal country. He died in Turkey in 1843, where he was serving as U.S. Ambassador. He is buried in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Porter’s brilliant if unstable career is oddly mirrored by a well known seaman from the other side of the pond: Thomas Cochrane. Both found success and then vilification in their countries’ navies. Both moved on to command the maritime forces of rebellious Spanish colonies. And both returned to their countries to take up positions of state rather than turn back to the sea. The two men, according to their biographers, admired and envied one another, even exchanging correspondence on more than one occasion.

These facts in and of themselves stand as curious connections but, to my mind, it gets better. Enter the literary genius who was known as Patrick O’Brian.

O’Brian is often disdainful of Americans in general and the U.S. Navy in particular in his Aubrey/Maturin novels. Two of the nastier intelligencers in the series, Henry Johnson and Louisa Wogan, are from the U.S. Stephen’s beloved Diana is whisked from his grasp by the treacherous Johnson. Jack thinks so little of the U.S. Navy that he asks British women aboard HMS Java if they have been raped by the Americans after they capture the ship. These are just a few highlights. All that said, it is to David Porter – not Thomas Cochrane – that O’Brian turns for inspiration in more than one of his wonderful books.

Anthony Gary Brown addresses this point directly in The Patrick O’Brian Muster Book. Of The Far Side of the World he notes:

In this book O’Brian states his inspiration as the pursuit of USS Essex by HMS Phoebe in 1814; the American intent to disrupt the valuable British whaling trade was real enough, but O’Brian’s plot is almost entirely of his own invention (and Peter Weir’s version of it in his 2003 movie based on the book was largely that director’s own creation).

The pursuit and eventual destruction of Essex by Captain Hillyar’s Phoebe was one of the low points in Porter’s career, despite his huge success in the Great South Sea. He lost a number of officers and men in the battle at Valparaiso Harbor and only barely made it home in a leaky whaling vessel.

Brown also points out that the “battles between English and French surrogates at Moahu” in The Truelove (published as Clarissa Oakes in Britain) were most probably inspired by direct action on Porter’s part. In 1813 Porter and his crews assisted in a mêlée between Typee and Happah tribesmen on the island of Nooaheevah in the Marquesas. The hope was to secure the island itself and eventually the entire chain under U.S. protection but the bloody action eventually came to nothing. Virtually the same situations – right down to a brutal slaughter of natives with cannon and a compliant lady companion for Captain Aubrey – are detailed in The Truelove. The similarities here are even more striking than they are in The Far Side of the World. The ultimate failure of Aubrey’s bid for British control of the island mirrors Porter’s experience.

O’Brian was not only a master story teller but an excellent researcher who knew that fact was usually more interesting than fiction, if told the right way. It’s not surprising that he saw the similarities between his larger-than-life hero Aubrey and David Porter, USN. For me personally, it remains one of those delightfully curious connections that keep me excited about history and literature and writing year after year.

Header: Master and Commander desktop via dutchtilt

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Furl

When we use words like furl, furling or unfurl, we generally think of a flag or flags. While flags were unfurled at sea – although far less frequently than in the popular imagination – these words refer more often to controlling the bounty of a ship’s fair sails.


To furl is to roll and tie a sail evenly on its yard. This is a far more treacherous occupation in high winds than one might imagine, as more than one scene in well done movies (Captain Blood, Master and Commander etc.) has shown. In such cases, when dirty weather is current or threatening, the men are often set to what is called furling. Here, the sail is rolled close to its yard or stay by hauling on the lines. A cord is then wound over the full length of the rolled sail keeping it even more secure.

For furling, the line used was known as a furling-line from at least the 16th century. By the late 18th century, it was more commonly referred to as a gasket or en Français garcette (a word which is, curiously, feminine). This is a long, flat cord the use of which Admiral Smyth discusses in The Sailor’s Word Book thus:

In bad weather, with a weak crew, the top-sail is brought under control by passing the top-mast studding sail halliards round and round all, from the yard-arm to the bunt; then furling is less dangerous.

Obviously, the ship is dealing with very extreme weather in such a case. It is important to note that by using the word “weak”, the Admiral is indicating a ship short on able hands.

Conversely, furling in a body is a way of storing topsails used only in port. This is done by gathering the loose parts of the sails into the top of their respective masts. This is the opposite, essentially, of common furling or “furling in the bunt” done at sea. When sails have been furled in a body they can be covered with tarps and essentially stored in situ, thus keeping them free from vermin and molds.

So ends another etymological foray. May your furling be only common and in fair winds, Brethren. Happy Saturday to you and your mates!

Header: Engraving of hands furling sails via Cindy Vallar’s History of Maritime Piracy

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Elevate

Generally speaking when using today’s word, a seaman is referring to the “great guns” aboard his ship. In navies around the world during the Great Age of Sail, exercising the gun crews was habitual among captains who were obsessed with not just accuracy but even more so timing. The faster guns could fire, reload and fire again the more likely a ship was to attain victory in a firefight. The Brethren will remember that very well done scene in Master and Commander where Jack Aubrey, if nothing else a fighting captain, is working his gun crews to the limit; and how well it pays off.


According to Webster, the word comes from three Latin roots. Elevatus, meaning to raise or lift up, and levare, to make light, or levis, light. This will become an important point as we go along; bear with me.

First, a few meanings not related to artillery. The elevated pole is either the terrestrial pole north or south, depending on the perspective of the individual or ship. In all cases, the elevated pole is the one which appears above the horizon. In ship building, an elevation is the vertical and longitudinal view of a vessel. This is the same as a sheer draught; the part of the design concerning height and length.

In gunnery, the angle of elevation is elegantly explained by the dear Admiral Smyth:

… that which the axis of the bore makes with the plane of the horizon. It is attained by sinking the breech of the gun until its axis points above the object to be fired at, so that the shot may describe a curve somewhat similar to a parabola, counteracting the action of gravity during its flight, and alighting upon the mark.

This is a little bit of physics at which truly gifted artillerists, like our old friend Dominique Youx, excel. It is also the same principle that allows another truly gifted adoptive son of New Orleans to complete a pass with such accuracy and elegance.

Finally, the order “Elevate!” is an artillery call signaling the gun crew to adjust the quoin of their weapon, not just up necessarily but perhaps down depending on the need. This may speak to the Latin root word levare, to make light; repositioning the quoin is sometimes said to “lighten” it, thus the possible reference. Given tomorrow’s auspicious anniversary, I feel compelled to note that many an historian has referred to Andrew Jackson’s “malapropism” at the Battle of New Orleans when he called out: “Elevate them cannons a little lower!” This was, in fact, no goofy error on the part of the General, but an absolutely correct artillery order. Aside from grammar, which one imagines was the last of Old Hickory’s worries at the time, Jackson’s order was perfectly understandable to every gun crew within earshot.

Happy Saturday, Brethren; and Geaux Saints!

Header: The Battle of New Orleans by E. Percy Moran c 1910 via Library of Congress

Books: Ship of Dreams

This post was actually supposed to appear yesterday, on O’Brian’s birthday proper, but due to extreme weather here in the sub-Arctic it is showing up a day late.


The provenance of December 12th was discussed in brief yesterday, with one of my favorite little scenes from the 20 plus series of books by Patrick O’Brian sometimes referred to as “The Aubreyad”. I find that title is a bit pretentious but, in all honesty, I don’t think O’Brian ne Russ would. He strikes me as the kind of guy that sort of thing would appeal to.

I racked my brain for a post that would fit the occasion and then the best idea of all fell into my lap as I was just about to give up and write about jib sails. Why not review, in brief, my very favorite book from the series which I have just recently finished rereading? Thus, I offer my take on Patrick O’Brian’s HMS Surprise; there will be spoilers.

HMS Surprise is the third book in the series and when it opens the key involvement in all of the books – the close personal friendship between Captain John “Jack” Aubrey and Doctor Stephen Maturin – is well established. One of the most attractive things about the Aubrey/Maturin series is these two gentlemen’s fraternal love for one another. Even when they are about to come to blows, we know without doubt that they still have each the other’s back. O’Brian makes you wish that you had a friend like Aubrey or Maturin, particularly in times in your life when you don’t.

Jack’s command, the sloop of war Lively, has been involved in the capture of a Spanish treasure fleet and the debate at the Admiralty is what to do about this. Spain is not yet a British enemy, and therefore the ships in question cannot properly be libelled as prizes. This means that the Admiralty and the government, not the crews involved in the action, stand to gain the most financially. We are privy to this discussion and to the unfortunate name dropping of the First Lord who indicates Stephen Maturin is a British spy during the course of the debate.

Given that the Napoleonic Wars are in full swing, this is a dangerous misstep on the part of the Admiralty lord, particularly since quite literally even as he speaks Maturin is on a covert mission in Southern France. When Jack and the crew of Lively put in to pick Stephen up, they are informed that he has been captured by the French and – to the seamen’s horror – is being tortured for information. There is not a moment to lose as Jack, Barret Bonden, Preserved Killick, Tom Pullings, William Babbington and a handful of others attack and kill the French in their dungeon, freeing Stephen from an intricate device whose application permanently – if only partially – impairs the use of his left hand.

Lively returns to London, where Stephen spends his recovery time teaching Jack’s coxswain Barret Bonden how to read. Jack, meanwhile, is in dire financial straights. To such a degree, in fact, that he is arrested and carted off to debtor’s prison. This is a catastrophic turn of events for his love life. The young woman he hopes to marry, Sophia “Sophie” Williams, has a shrew of a mother that will not allow her to wed unless her groom is “comfortable”. An indebted sailor is not at all to Mrs. Williams’ taste and Sophie is forced to start shopping about elsewhere. Very Austen-esque indeed.

Stephen, returned to good health, jumps to Jack’s aid with both feet. Through his association with the powerful Sir Joseph Banks, Stephen sees to it that some of the Spanish treasure finds its way into Jack’s pockets. This allows Aubrey to pay off at least a few debts, putting him back in the hunt for Sophie’s hand. Stephen’s behind the scenes maneuvering also wins Jack command of the titular frigate that will be his favorite ship throughout the series. Surprise is given a mission to transport a new ambassador via India. Before they leave, however, Stephen manages to arrange a secret meeting between Jack and Sophie at which they promise not to marry anyone but each other.

The voyage to the East Indies is arduous, with a long stint in the Equatorial doldrums in the Atlantic that finds many of the Surprises sick with scurvy. A quick stop in Brazil to replenish fresh food and water solves the problem, but more trouble is on the way. The ambassador, Arthur Stanhope, becomes debilitated due to seasickness. Upon arriving in India, things look up, but the unfortunate Mr. Stanhope will eventually die despite Stephen’s best efforts.

Surprise is in need of a refit and port becomes home for some weeks. While Jack and the crew are busy with their ship, Stephen wanders the local streets and markets, befriending a lower caste girl named Dil. He also, very unexpectedly, runs into his true heart’s desire, Sophie Williams’ cousin Diana Villieres. Unlike Sophie, Diana is a widow and is unfortunately free with her virtue – if she had any to begin with. She has been stringing Stephen along since Post Captain, even going so far as to have a brief sexual liaison with Jack. Not surprisingly she is in compromising circumstances in India, being “kept” by a wealthy merchant named Richard Canning. It should be noted that Sophie and Diana are the archetypes of the two kinds of women to be found in the series – and in O’Brian’s novels in general. Sophie represents the noble, but very frigid, wife who has every potential to become a shrew, while Diana is the manipulative sexual predator who happily eats men for breakfast.

When Maturin and Canning meet the two become enraged with one another over Diana, whom Stephen has asked to marry. After young Dil is killed in the streets over a set of silver bangles given to her by Stephen, the doctor falls into despair. He takes his rage out on, not Diana who will not commit to him, but Canning. A pistol duel is arranged and, though Stephen is shot in the ribs, he kills Canning outright. This only increases his guilt as he realizes that Diana now has no one to take care of her, Stephen being in dodgy financial circumstances himself.

Surprise, which has in the meantime driven off a squadron of French ships bent on capturing a flotilla of British East Indiamen loaded with specie, is now ready to sail and Stephen, his situation deteriorating, offers Diana conduct to England aboard her. Jack, who is leery of Diana with good cause and desperately worried for his good friend, will not allow it. Diana will have to book passage aboard an East Indiaman.

Stephen is violently ill with fever caused by the ball lodged in his chest and – as in the scene from the movie Master and Commander – operates on himself with great success once Surprise arrives at a little island in the Indian Ocean. It is here, while recovering, that Stephen finds and collects the tortoise he will christen testudo Aubriae in recognition of his friend. The poor old turtle is seasick the entire way back to England.

When Surprise reaches Madeira, where Jack and Stephen were to rendezvous with their ladies, there is nothing for our heroes but disappointment. Sophie has returned to England, although she leaves word for Jack that her promise of marriage is still firm. Stephen, on a much less cheerful note, finds that Diana has again chosen the life of mistress over wife. She has left Madeira for the United States with the shady if decidedly rich Henry Johnson.

The book, which has so many favorable things occur for Jack – particularly at sea – has a decidedly down ending. Though both Jack and Stephen are on the rise as far as their careers, their personal lives are in shambles. Once again O’Brian, in a not very subtle way, reminds us that women are bad news and the only happiness for any true sailor is at sea. All that said, the rich tapestry of people and places offered by HMS Surprise makes all the disappointment well worth the while. And then too there’s always the next book The Mauritius Command; what ever might be in store for us there?

Header: Current paperback cover of HMS Surprise with painting by Geoff Hunt

Seafaring Sunday: Birth of a Legend

"Must I put on silk stockings?"


"Certainly you must put on silk stockings. And do show a leg, my dear chap: we shall be late, without you spread a little more canvas."


"You are always in such a hurry," said Stephen peevishly, groping among his possessions. A Montpellier snake glided out with a dry rustling sound and traversed the room in a series of extraordinarily elegant curves, its head held up some eighteen inches above the ground.


"Oh, oh, oh," cried Jack, leaping on to a chair. "A snake!"


"Will these do?" asked Stephen. "They have a hole in them."


"Is it poisonous?"


"Extremely so. I dare say it will attack you, directly. I have very little doubt of it. Was I to put the silk stockings over my worsted stockings, sure the hole would not show: but then, I should stifle with heat. Do you not find it uncommonly hot?"


"Oh, it must be two fathoms long. Tell me, is it really poisonous? On your oath now?"


"If you thrust your hand down its throat as far as its back teeth you may meet a little venom; but not otherwise."

~ from Master and Commander by Patrick O'Brian

December 12, 1914:  Richard Patrick Russ, the author later to be known as Patrick O'Brian was born in Buckinghamshire, England

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Time

Time is short, of the essence, and there is not a moment to lose. Or so it seems aboard ship. Stephen Maturin famously complained of this situation at sea in O’Brian’s books and in the movie Master and Commander. Jack Aubrey, for his part, could not comprehend what his doctor was whining about. To him, there truly was never a moment to be lost, and so it is with most sailors. There are other uses for time at sea, however, and even words that sound like it from foreign shores.


Time is, first and foremost, the way of keeping track of the day. All ships – from smuggler’s pirogue to pirate’s sloop to massive ship of the line – ran on bells, which mark her time. The bell was rung, or struck in common shipboard parlance, every half hour with the glass being turned at the same time. Thus eight bells signaled the end of a four hour watch.

The half-hour glass was the true time keeper and the margin for human error was great in keeping track of it, particularly under stress. To rectify any errors in time keeping, noon was read daily via a sextant. Thus solar time was set to rights each day. The call of noon was also the official beginning of the ship’s day when a new page in the log would be dated and begun. This ritual goes along with “taking time” when an assistant – usually a youth or Midshipman – would note the time via chronometer each time the officer observing with the sextant called “stop”. In this way, the astronomical observation is rectified as necessary for the most correct reading possible.

A chronometer and later the very accurate hand held watches, many famously originating from Switzerland, were known as timekeepers or time-pieces aboard ship. They were a source of concern for common sailors. Like the compass with its magnetic workings, time-pieces seemed somewhat magical and therefore must be given a wider berth.

Timenoguy is an ancient word for a stay that could prevent sheets or tacks from getting fouled in other rigging. These ropes were particularly used in the fore rigging.

A timoneer is a helmsman. The word came to English via the French timonier and could also indicate a pilot in some cases. Along the same lines is the word timonogy, which is described in The Sailor’s Word Book thusly:

This term properly belongs to steering, and is derived from timon, the tiller, and the twiddling-lines, which worked in olden times on a gauge in front of the poop, in ships of the line, by which the position of the helm was easily read even from the forecastle.

And with that, happy Saturday, Brethren. Keep your timeonguy and your twiddling-lines taut and, whenever possible, make time for yourself and those you love.

Header: Frigate Rose as HMS Surprise by Scott Kennedy

Tools of the Trade: All God's Creatures

Superstition is allowed a very wide berth on any blue water ship. Some say it is one of the many necessary ingredients that bind a crew together in their common goals. Because animals were often all around ships as well as aboard them, superstitions about them have come down to us in droves. Some persist to this day. Here are just a few of the seagoing “dos and don’ts” from our shared nautical history:


Many types of sea birds bode good or ill just by their appearance. A swan seen floating on the sea is thought to signal good weather ahead. A kingfisher near a ship was a portend of calm. Seeing gulls on land meant incoming wind and rain. Petrels or gulls flying near a ship also indicated stormy weather and worse still if they landed and refused to be shooed off the vessel. Sighting a cormorant while underway was thought to be very bad luck; sighting a swallow, however, was very good luck.

Killing dolphins or porpoises was not much thought of before the 20th century; they were considered much like tuna and went straight to the galley. After World War I, however, killing either of these mammals was considered an ill omen. Since Roman times, a shark following a ship was said to be a sign that someone aboard would die.

Domestic animals also foretell weather and luck. Drowning the ship’s cat – whether accidently or on purpose – would surely provoke a hurricane or typhoon. The ship’s cat sneezing meant rain. If a cat ran ahead of a sailor on his way to his ship, his luck would be good. In the same circumstance, however, a cat crossing the sailor’s path signaled bad luck. The ship’s dog howling would catch the mariner’s eye. A storm was on its way and the wind would blow up from the direction toward which the dog’s muzzle was pointing as he howled.

The worst kind of bad luck was sure to follow the killing of a seagull or particularly an albatross. The Brethren may remember the completely non-O’Brian but – as seafaring superstitions go – eerily accurate scene in Master and Commander when Marine Sergeant Howard shoots Dr. Maturin instead of the albatross he was aiming at. Of course true seamen know that shooting at birds just above a crowded deck is patently forbidden but that is another type of ill luck indeed. As Coleridge wrote in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner: “And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work them woe; For all averred I had killed the bird, That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they; the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow!”

Header: Some very unlucky seamen with an impressive albatross via noaa.gov

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Mast

Curiously, this word did not originally mean the tall, wooden pole that holds sheets and rigging aboard ship. In fact, according to The Sailor’s Word Book, the English word comes down to us from the Anglo-Saxon maest which meant chief or leader. After mentioning this, almost in passing, Admiral Smyth goes on to say that a mast is:


A long cylindrical piece of timber elevated perpendicularly upon the keel of a ship, to which are attached the yards, the rigging and the sails.

He goes on to note that masts may be made of one piece of word, in which case we are dealing with a pole mast. They may also be fashioned of two or three pieces joined together by caps usually of metal; such are termed made masts. Made masts were often the type fashioned at sea when storm or battle had torn a mast away or cracked it in half.

The standard masts in a ship of brig or schooner size are a foremast, which is toward the bow of the ship and is only lightly shorter than the mainmast. The mainmast itself is usually just aft of center and is the tallest mast in any ship.

In frigate size or larger ships a third mast is added. The mizzen mast is positioned abaft of the main and is usually the shortest mast aboard.

Smaller poles can be fitted to any of these masts – but most usually the main and fore – to increase sail. These are put on with a cap and, in order from largest to smallest, are known as the top mast, which attaches to the mainmast proper, the topgallant mast, which attaches to the top mast, and the royal mast, which attaches to the topgallant mast. At this point we are very high up indeed, but true seaman delighted in “skylarking” away aloft. All the Porter seamen, David Senior and Junior, David Farragut and David Dixon spoke of enjoying the high points aboard ship. Horatio Nelson, even after losing his right arm, spent an inordinate amount of time in the rigging and, of course, O’Brian’s Jack Aubrey loved nothing so much as kicking off his boots and climbing right up to the topgallants.

A jury mast is one that is, as noted above, set up in place of a damaged or destroyed mast. This phraseology is where our modern term “jury-rigged”, meaning temporary or ill-fitting, comes from.

A ship is said to be over-masted or taunt-masted when her masts are too heavy, tall or both for the width and breadth of her keel. Conversely, a ship is under-masted when her masts are too small or short. A rough mast or rough tree is an unfinished spar stowed aboard ship for use as a mast should the need arise. A ship is said to spring a mast when any of her masts cracks horizontally at any point.

Mast coats are pieces of canvas fitted snuggly around the mast where it passes through the deck to keep water from leaking down below.

In common parlance aboard ship, a man was said to be as deaf as the mainmast if he was slow and did not readily perceive the meaning of an order given. As Admiral Smyth notes: “Thus at sea the mainmast is synonymous with the door post on shore.”

Header: Jack Aubrey and Tom Pullings aloft from Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Crab

It will come as no surprise to any of the Brethren that the word crab at sea very rarely refers to the shellfish. There are crabs which are tools, a ship can crab to it and an individual can even be a crab. In fact our reference to someone being “crabby” probably has an origin at sea.


Crab, according to the dear Webster, comes from the Middle English word crabbe which meant hook or claw and was originally a word for a crowbar-like tool. A similar tool, usually made of iron and used predominantly for pulling long metal spikes out of wood, is still used at sea and still called a crab.

Crab is also used to refer to a large capstan. This is usually fitted into men-of-war of several thousand tons and has between two and four tiers of holes for capstan bars. When pushed upon by a large number of men on numerous decks, it can generate enough leverage to raise the heaviest of anchors and other loads. A smaller, movable version of the same device which is usually fitted out with wheels and used to lift cargo on and off ship is also known as a crab. A crab-windlass is a much smaller version of this device originally used in barges and now seen on yachts.

A long iron bar, known as the crab with three claws, is used in launching ships as well as for heaving them close to a dock.

A crab-boat can be among a ship’s small craft and is similar to a jolly boat in size and sail positioning. Crabbler is the English word for the Russian vessel known as a krabla. These boats were generally used for hunting arctic sea mammals such as seal and walrus and had thick, ice-resistant hulls.

A ship is said to be crabbing to or crabbing to it – “it” being the wind – when she is carrying an overage of sail in high winds. This situation will make the ship move sideways to leeward much like a crab runs sideways across the sand. A crab-yaw is similar but refers to a quick veering of the ship sideways due to unseamanlike use of her helm.

When a sailor does not dip his oar fully in the water while rowing a boat, he is said to have caught a crab. This action is abhorrent as it can potential throw of the rhythm of the entire rowing crew and at the very least it makes one’s mates pull harder. The saying catching a crab thus translates aboard ship as one of the most popular ways to belittle a fellow sailor.

Perhaps by extension, a popular accusation of sullenness or ill-temper in the late 18th and early 19th centuries was to say someone was crabbed. O’Brian has Jack Aubrey frequently asking Stephen Maturin why he is so crabbed to which the general reply is in kind: “I’m not the one who is crabbed, Jack; you are.” I know you are but what am I, if you like. It may be that this meaning translates to our modern reference to people being crabby as noted above. Aren’t words wonderful things?

Happy Saturday, Brethren! I’ll catch you tomorrow for Seafaring Sunday.

Header: Jack and Stephen, neither of whom appears much crabbed; although if I were Paul Bettany I might have some issues with the billing on this theatre card...

Tools of the Trade: Sea Songs

Almost everyone has some familiarity with sea chanteys (or shanties, or chanties). They are those handsome melodies sung by deep throated sailors in remembrance of home, hard work, and battles won. Though the songs may be somewhat familiar, the general knowledge of what a chantey actually is tends to be surprisingly incorrect. From “Yo ho ho, and a bottle of rum” to “Sixteen men on a dead man’s chest”, there’s no room among the fiction to swing the historical cat.


Frankly, a chantey is a musical way of keeping time while working on a repetitive task. Since there are plenty of those at sea, music – which lifts the spirit and encourages camaraderie – is a fabulous grease to oil the machine. But before we go further, let’s get the English pronunciation right. It’s not a hard “ch” sound, as in chat, but a soft one, as in shanty with which chantey also rhymes. This foible is thought to come from the origin of the word which was the French chanter, to sing. Though shanty in and of itself is now thought acceptable, I prefer the older spelling.

Chanteys boil down to two categories: those that accompany a task that has pauses in its rhythm (as in heaving on a line) and those that go with work requiring a smooth, continuous effort (like working the capstan). Within these two segments of chanteys there are various sub-categories such as:

Halyard chanteys, used for tasks with pauses. These were for work that was expected to last some time and that men would truly need to put their backs into.

Sheet chanteys, wherein the task at hand – again, usually hauling – could be done quickly but only if every man applied his full strength.

Capstan chanteys were more like songs any lubber would be familiar with and allowed the men to not only sing while they set to a task, but also to tell a story.

Walkaway chanteys were used as a device to allow men to keep time while they literally walked up and down the deck heaving a long line. These were also known as stamp and go chanteys as the stomping of bare feet on the deck helped keep the rhythm of both the song and the work.

Pumping chanteys had an obvious purpose: to keep the rhythm of the pumps as water was expelled from the bilge and/or hold. Men might sing these types of songs during routine pumping to maintain the seaworthiness of the ship, but when leakage became dangerous a stern quiet often prevailed at the pumps.

Almost all ships would have had a self-designated chanteyman who led the songs and sang out the lines before the chorus. Capable chanteymen were good for morale and frequently received a small increase in prize share once they had proven themselves.

Aside from proper chanteys, men also sang together when not at work. This kind of musical relaxation was referred to as fo’csle (forecastle) singing or foc’sle songs and would often be accompanied by fiddle or guitar depending on the talents of the men aboard. The Royal Navy banned chanteying in the late 18th century, believing that it would hinder the men’s ability to hear and obey commands. Royal Navy ships continued to carry musicians, however, and foc’sle singing was encouraged to lift moral (and work off the grog ration). A fine example of a British foc’sle song is “Spanish Ladies”, which anyone who has seen the movie Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World will doubtless recall.

Buccaneers, pirates and privateers brought familiar songs (mostly from merchant service) onto their ships and no doubt made up a few of their own as well. These, are unfortunately lost to us for the most part. I hold fond the memories of John Randolph Grymes who, while travelling to Mexico aboard a sloop captained by Dominique Youx, wrote of the largely Haitian crew singing “… Creole chants in handsome, low tones.” Even more so the passenger aboard Renato Beluche’s Mizelle who recalled the captain himself singing Italian songs on deck after supper.

With the release of Disney’s latest pirate fantasy tomorrow will doubtless come the humming of Jack Sparrow’s favorite chantey about men on chests and bottles of rum. In fact Sparrow, were he to live in the era that his clothes – if no his makeup – suggest, would know nothing of the song at all. It is an entirely fictional chantey that did not appear until 1883, penned by Robert Lewis Stevenson for his far superior pirate fantasy Treasure Island.

If you have an interest in historical chanteys sung with an ear for their original sound, here is a link to some videos featuring Triple P’s resident chanteymen, The Corsairs. Enjoy!

Header: Saturday Night at Sea by George Cruikshank c 1840