Tools Of The Trade: Work That's Never Done

My mother's mother, half French, half Irish and all of both, used to repeat the time worn phrase "Man may work from sun to sun but a woman's work is never done" until my mother would ask her to knock it off. Which was weird because my mother started repeating it with regularity at some point. I'm waiting for that gene to kick in with a certain amount of dread.

But I've a suspicion that it won't only because I have so much of the sailor in me. Woman's work may indeed never be done. So too, a sailor's work is forever and constant. Today's tool is something of a nautical symbol of the unending need to keep things "ship shape".

The marline-spike, an example of which is shown above, is the kind of multipurpose tool that makes sailors happy. You can do a lot with that sharp sturdy piece of metal, from stick a fish to finish off an enemy. It's intended purpose, though, is the chore of marling which is more familiarly called splicing by land. The needle end is used to pull rope apart in tact so that the three separate strands can be spliced and/or knotted in innumerable ways for countless tasks.

A rope thus loosened and spliced to another may be used for lead lines or fishing lines. There is also a splice used specifically for rope that will run through a hole block or block and tackle because of its added strength. All types of "long splice" as these are called are exceedingly necessary aboard a sailing ship. And the work keeps crewmen busy in calms, at anchor or when the ship is favored with good wind and weather.

Another such tool, different but serving a similar purpose, is known as a fid. This is a piece of wood in the same cone-like shape tapering to a point. Fids come in a range of sizes and are frequently used for large cable. They are sometimes improperly referred to as marline-spikes as well and the confusion can be imagined when one looks at this picture of a modern fid: Prior to the late 19th century, fids were exclusively made of wood and varied in size. The marline-spike was a metal tool that was rarely longer than ten inches. It was much easier to keep track of which was which before the American Civil War.

The marline-spike itself was so ubiquitous to sailing that, during the late 18th century and particularly by the Napoleonic Wars, it had become a symbol of the common sailor in the Royal Navy. Sons of wealthy and genteel families who joined the Navy and rose through the ranks quickly due to influence were said to have "never touched a marline-spike". It was the hard working "foremast" leaders who tended to get in and do the skut work with the lads. Those guys knew how to splice a line, and were popular commanders for it. Royal Navy officers would also refer to U.S. Navy officers as "marline-spikers", meaning they were nothing but glorified jacks. And what is the matter with that?

But even Captain Thomas Lord Cochrane, 1oth Earl of Dondonald, knew how to dress for success and identify himself as a true Royal Navy man. You may remember the autobiographical vignette in which he is invited to a masque put on by French aristocrats in Malta in January of 1801. Cochrane dresses as a foremast jack, saying that "...not even the marinspike or the lump of grease in the hat [were] omitted". Read about how thrilled the exhiled Monsieurs were with his costume over here.

Much like an anchor or ship's wheel, the marline-spike was the quintessential symbol of men who worked hard at sea. Even when hard work was just about everyone's daily reality, these guys were never really done.

Ships: ...And Brotherly Love

Congressional Ship Philadelphia was one of the first warships constructed by the newly self-proclaimed United States as she headed into the Revolutionary War. She is particularly remembered in our era not because of any great victories but because she is still available for all to see.

In 1775 to 1776 the U.S. tried an unfortunate and ill thought out invasion of Canada. The British were having none of that, of course, and the U.S. looked for ways to cut their losses and make sure that as little land as possible ended up in British hands as the enemy fought their way south in retaliation. The best approach for the U.S. was to rely on fort Ticonderoga, which blocked British access to the Hudson valley, and to apply naval pressure in the waterways of Canada and New England.

Benedict Arnold, when still a General for the U.S., therefor instituted a flurry of shipbuilding at Skenesborough, New York in the summer of 1776. The final outcome of his work was a flotilla of schooners, one sloop, a couple of small galleys and eight gun carrying river barges. Known as gundalow or gundelo, one of these was given the name Philadelphia.

She was heavily constructed in order to accommodate guns. She had a single mast shipping two square-rigged sails. She was a little over 53 feet in length and 15 feet 6 inches at her beam. Philadelphia had an unusually deep draft for her overall size at close to 4 feet. She carried one 12 pound gun, two 9 pounders and eight light swivels that were essentially only a little more powerful than a common rifle. Her compliment was 45 men. She is shown in the foreground of the painting above by Ernest Haas.

Once his flotilla was complete the General took his show on the road with disastrous results. He had manned his ships as quickly as he had built them and this meant that most were crewed by landsmen rather than knowledgeable sailors. He began his cruising in September, sticking to Lake Champlain and only moving south in October when intelligence indicated that the enemy was heading south as well. On October 11, 1776, a small fleet of British ships engaged Arnold's flotilla off Valcour Island.

As the six hour firefight wore down, Arnold's flagship, the schooner of 12 guns Royal Savage, ran aground and was boarded and then burned. Two of the galleys also ran aground and were captured. Philadelphia, leaking badly due to enemy fire, was hit by a 24 pound ball and sunk. The British caught up with the remaining flotilla on October 13 off Crown Point. The rest of the ships were sunk or burned.

Bad news for the Americans but bad news for the British as well. With winter coming on the little fleet was battered and low on ammunition and provisions. They had to return to Canada without advancing into U.S. territory.
And Philadelphia? She remained off Valcour Island, her hull and guns well preserved by the fresh, ice cold water that cradled her. In 1934 she was discovered with her mast still in tact and standing in approximately 60 feet of water. She was raised August 1, 1935. Now on display at the Smithsonian, Philadelphia is the oldest warship exhibited in North America.

An unfortunate foray into seafaring by Arnold led, eventually, to a wonderful piece of history preserved in tact for all to see. In the end, posterity benefits. Thanks, Benedict.

History: Along The Thames

River piracy is as old as humans and boats. One has to imagine that there were rovers and raiders along the Tigris and the Nile before laws prohibiting their spoilage of other people's property had even been written. There are two rivers in the world, though, where a lot of documentation exists on the subject. One is the mighty Mississippi and the other, perhaps to no one's surprise, is the Thames.

Much of what is known about Thames "pirates" comes from the High Court of Admiralty which was situated in London. This meant that, more than the provincial rivers where acts of pillage may have been taken care of locally without a lot of writing things down, the rovers on the Thames, once caught, were tried, sometimes tortured and executed with all due ceremony. And documentation.

Many of these people would hardly fit the pirate mode in today's popular mindset. They were more like waterborne vagabonds and pickpockets. Some even eschewed their own craft all together and simply hiked up their breeches or skirts and waded out into the muck to ransack a vessel left empty and vulnerable. It wasn't a pretty life, obviously, and with the threat of torture and death dangling over one's head it was clearly a life pursued out of necessity. These men and women were probably not the egalitarian "all for one and one for all" sorts that we now imagine pirates to be. It's a surety they were looking out for themselves at all times.

Piracy on the Thames, defined as a crime committed on the river or it's estuaries up to the high water mark, is documented as far back as the early 13th century. In Survey of London, John Stow tells of a fleet sent into the river from London in 1216 to bring Thames pirates to justice. They succeeded in catching these perpetrators, Stow says, "...as well innumerable others that they drowned, which had robbed on the river Thames."

The problem continued to grow and really took off in Restoration London. As the city became wealthier and it's population began to burgeon, crime naturally increased. Communities, largely populated by sailors and those who made a living on the sailing trade, sprang up east of the city proper and became notorious dens of vice and crime. Places like Ratcliffe, Limehouse, Redruth and Wapping all fell under this general umbrella with many more besides. It was here that fashionable Londoners imagine the threat lurked, just waiting to take advantage of them as they took a wherry to the theater or the gambling house.

And this was probably the main crux of the pirate problem. The Thames was a far easier way to get around the city than any of it's narrow, filthy Medieval streets could possibly be. By the time Charles II was firmly back on the British throne, it is estimated that up to 2,000 "wherrymen" were ferrying people to and fro for a fee around Westminster and Southwark alone. There was lots of wealth on the river and a dishonest sculler or bargeman could easily take extra cash from unsuspecting passengers and then disappear into the night.

Such arrangements led to entire families getting into the business of stealing. A clever wherryman might have his family lie in wait and then, when the time was right, strip the unsuspecting customer of everything he or she owned, from wig to shoes. No wonder than that many wealthy people would not travel without a bodyguard, much like the ersatz celebrities of our own time.

The individual stories of Thames river pirates are sometimes shocking, sometimes poignant and sometimes down right amusing. Many of them, though, are truly owed their own post. We'll return to this issue again, but for now suffice it to say that life along the Thames wasn't always easy or fun. For the lucky few, though, it did pay handsomely.

Seafaring Sunday: Wisdom From The Waves

One cannot make any serious mistake in the selection of one's provisions, but to take the wrong man with one on a voyage that involves a complete severance from all the influences of civilization for months at a time may bring exceedingly unpleasant consequences.

~ E.F. Knight from the sailing cutter Alerte en route from England to the island of Trinidad off Brazil April, 1889. From his book The Cruise of the Alerte.

Sailor Mouth Saturday: Storm Petrel

A petrel is a fairly common bird to sailors. To landsmen, particularly those who live in the far Northern Hemisphere and inland, it may not be familiar at all. They are cousins to the albatross but are generally smaller. All are some pattern of black or white and they eat - you guessed it - fish.

The thing about petrels is that they tend to mass around a ship in blue water when a storm is coming up. Even before the humans aboard can identify what is going on, the petrels are staying close to the thing they perceive as a wooden island, ready to settle down on deck during the worst of it. Wayward seagulls and even huge albatross have been known to do this too, but not with the frequency that petrels do.

So, over the years, the smaller, predominantly black birds that are most common around ships and shipping came to be called storm petrels. Because sailors, like so many others who do hazardous and dirty jobs, are superstitious to the core, the title "storm petrel" came to mean someone who brings bad luck or trouble. Just as the presence of the bird around the ship meant a storm was coming, the presence of the person meant bad luck for ship and crew alike. Time to plan a marooning, perhaps.

Finally, and most humorously to me, the bird is sometimes referred to as Mother Cary's chicken. This particularly among English speaking sailors who had seen service in the Mediterranean, leading linguists to believe that the term is a corruption of the Latin mater cara. The words mean "dear mother" in deference to the Virgin and may have been uttered by Catholics in the face of a storm. Or a storm petrel.

One final extrapolation finds sailors using a similar slang term for snow: Mother Cary's chickens.

Mind your storm petrels, mates. And don't count your eggs before they're in the pudding. See you tomorrow for Seafaring Sunday

Booty: No What?

The last thing I need to tell you, Brethren, is that our freebooting ancestors didn't much cotton to rules. Most of them came to the roving life because they were outcasts, mistreated at some point and in some way by the establishment of their time. Some of the signage that litters our modern landscape would probably make them laugh out loud. Right before they either ignored it or tore it down. And then continued to do what they felt like doing.

So when my friend Laurel sent me an "Ironic Sign" offering from the Huffington Post, I was pleased to find an old friend among them. I'd seen the picture before in Smashing Magazine and saved it thinking that it's subject had a healthy dose of piratitude. So when Laurel's email jogged my memory, I thought I'd share:

The funny is there, of course, but it's the photography that makes this one brilliant. It wouldn't have half the impact if the seagull on the sign wasn't outlined exactly like the seagull on the sign. Like so many others who have gone to sea, this guy doesn't care about society's rules. Or their signs, for that matter.

Happy Friday, Brethren. Sailor Mouth Saturday will be up unusually early tomorrow. Bring your coffee.

History: One, Two, Three

The history of ships and shipping, and therefor pirates and privateering, began with our friends the Sea Peoples. Known now as the Phoenicians, they were the first to build wooden boats, fit them out with sails and a row of oars on each bow, and head out into the blue water of the Mediterranean. Bless them.

Technology is not a modern invention, however, and neither is the improvement of existing technology. Ships, like everything else, improved and each culture that adopted the basic design added their own innovations as time went on.

The original monoreme ship of the Phoenicians, Egyptians and early Greeks was a wonder of technology for it's time. Slim and seaworthy, the ship sat close to the water and could initially carry 10 oarsmen on either side. In the 6th century BCE the Phoenicians added a pointed ram at the bow. This established the way in which the three incarnations of the monoreme would be used. Set the sail and head for the battle, strike the sail and move under the power of oars in battle with the goal being to ram an enemy broadside and then back water, disengaging your ram so the enemy ship would sink.

The ship shown above is not technically a monoreme but is the famous galley of Khufu in the Cairo Museum. This ship is the most intact ancient vessel yet discovered. It does give a good idea of how oars would have been shipped in a monoreme: the long pieces of wood were held in thole pins along the gunwales rather like that little rowboat at the lake. Of course, speed and agility are always necessary whether your goal is sinking an enemy in battle or taking a fat prize. Speed meant adding more oars, but in the monoreme the only way to do that was to lengthen the ship. There goes your agility. The solution was dreamed up around 700 BCE probably by the Phoenicians again but some scholars believe the Greeks were the innovators. The bireme was built with two tiers of oars, one above the other.

The men on the lower tier worked their oars through ports in the ship's side and sat close to the waterline. The men above were on deck, as they had been in the monoreme. This allowed the ship to double it's oarsmen and speed without increasing it's length. Biremes fully manned with 40 oars could reach speeds of 6 to 7 knots. Considering that a pirate sloop during the Golden Age would have averaged 5 knots, that's pretty impressive. Of course the speed could not be sustained for any extended time, but it got the job done when facing an enemy.

Ship builders are never really satisfied, though, and innovations continued into the Classical era. Some time in the 600s BCE the Corinthians struck on a feat of engineering that allowed a third row of oarsmen to be incorporated. The trireme was born.

As you can see from the Greek stamp pictured above, a trireme required an outrigged section of the hull to make seating all the oarsmen and functioning oars feasible. The first and second tier of men would work in the outrigging while the lowest tier would be in the hold proper, sometimes only a foot above the waterline. Greek triremes carried up to 170 oarsmen. Rome went big, as usual, and eventually developed triremes that could carry up to 230 oarsmen along with soldiers, commanders and so on. These ships, when rowed properly, topped out at an amazing 9 to 10 knots in quick bursts.

Trireme construction in Greece followed this general plan. The ship was approximately 120 feet in length. She was 12 feet across at the waterline increasing to 18 feet on the upper deck of oarsmen and by Classical times the ram at her bow had developed three or four prongs instead of the one prong typical on a monoreme. She was a formidable opponent. So formidable, in fact, that it was the Athenian triremes under the command of Themistocles that finally beat back the threat of Persian invasion at the Battle of Salamis in 480 BC. Thanks for holding the Hot Gates, Spartans. The seaman will take it from here.

The innovations that led from monoreme to trireme improved seafaring, and particularly naval, capability in the Mediterranean 100 percent in a relatively short span of time. The trireme became the workhorse of sea battle, much like the frigate would in the distant future. It's probably safe to say that without these seafaring innovations by our ancient ancestors, the ships we know today would be quite different indeed.