PAGE THREE
True Historic Story's
by
David Chamberlain
Pictures and Stories are Copyright of Dave Chamberlain unless otherwise stated
Fate of the Flores
By David Chamberlain
The ‘fore and aft’ schooner Flores limped into the Downs on Friday, January 6th 1911. The Brazilian craft had set sail from Hamburg, with a general cargo and a German crew, bound for her home port of Maceio. Flores had a broken main boom and this was the reason why her long journey to that Atlantic port had been diverted.
Within the hour a Deal galley had hooked on and moored up alongside the little 47 ton schooner. The master of the Flores, Captain Fickel, had conversed with the local skipper and made him aware of his predicament. A price was agreed for the galley’s charter and a shipwright was brought out to measure up for the replacement spar. By Monday the work had been done and the wooden boom had been ferried out and transferred aboard. After the bill had been settled, the skipper of the galley wished the captain goodbye and a pleasant voyage – however, he warned the master that he felt there was a storm brewing up.
The weather was bitter and the wind had freshened. The German seamen felt cold and their fingers were numb as they re-rigged the sail to the new boom. Fickel knew it was going to be a long and arduous voyage in their small craft, therefore, he decided to wait for the weather to moderate. However, by Wednesday the barometer had started to drop and the sudden fall of mercury was recorded to almost an inch.
In the early hours of Thursday morning, 12th January, the strong south-west breeze dropped to calm. Then half an hour later, through the blackness, there was an enormous noise of wind – at three o’clock, the north-north-east gale struck. At daybreak, all the ships that were lying in the Downs were straining at their anchors.
The tugs were being kept very busy as the storm raged. The Flores had both anchors down, with the maximum amount of chain cable streaming out through her hawse-holes. With the force of the wind escalating the ebb tide, the little vessel slowly dragged towards Deal pier. Shortly before 10 o’clock her rigging caught onto the gas lamps on the south-east corner of the cast iron structure and in a shower of glass, ripped them off.
With a small amount of canvas set, the crew of the Flores struggled to heave her anchors aboard, and when the second was half way in, the cable jammed in the windlass. The roll of the small craft was becoming even more violent in the shallow water and her crew were having difficulty standing, let alone trying to work on deck. Waves were crashing against the sides of the vessel, drenching the men. Suddenly, the rolling motion ceased. The schooner started to pitch, and her head swung around to face the seas – the anchor had come fast in the rock bank that was adjacent to Deal Castle. Now, at times, she buried her bow into the next wave the Malm Rocks had given the Flores brief salvation.
While this was going on the beach had become crowded with onlookers. With the schooner being so close to shore the people could see every movement that her crew made. The local coastguards had also turned-up, bringing with them their Board of Trade rocket apparatus. The crew on the Flores decided that they had had enough. Every one of them was exhausted and as they were powerless to do any more, they wearily put on their life-belts. With the bedraggled ship’s cat cradled in one of their arms they stood, braced against the pitch of the schooner, waiting to be rescued.
Walmer lifeboat was already on standby. Her coxswain could see all that was going on as the Flores was only a couple of hundred yards north from their station. Their problem would be the wind direction – it was head on to the lifeboat, nevertheless, they decided to have a go.
The launch was mistimed. Gracefully the lifeboat slid down the greased woods but the craft found a receding wave and promptly buried her keel into the shingle beach. The next three mountainous waves hit her bow and slewed her around almost broadside on to the incoming sea. Amongst the cascading surf the lifeboat crew pulled on their haul-off rope which was attached out to sea by a large anchor. Slowly the lifeboat made it off the beach and the men set her sail to clear the surf. It was left up to the lifeboat coxswain and his crew to make the difficult tacks into the wind and try to reach the Flores. Their task looked impossible, nevertheless, they kept trying.
Hundreds of people were on the beach and surrounded the coastguards as they set up their rocket launching equipment. Although the coastguards had had regular practice with the rocket gear this was to be the first time it had been used in a service for 15 years. With a loud report, the rocket was fired towards the Flores and a cloud of smoke engulfed the crowd. Their aim was perfect and the missile landed over the schooner, just forward of her foremast. The ropes were hauled on-board.
Soon after they were made fast, the first two men were dragged to safety in the breeches buoy. The harness was quickly drawn back to the stricken vessel by the over enthusiastic crowd. They were becoming a danger to the rescue and the coastguards were having a job controlling them. Just as the third man was hauled ashore the anchor chain of the Flores snapped. The vessel, that minutes before had her head to the sea and wind, was now at its mercy. The wind whipped the schooner’s bow a full 180 degrees to the south. The craft wrapped the shore-line around her masts, pulling it free from the moorings ashore. Rope and pebbles flew across the beach, scattering all in its way. Flores now released from her tether came crashing ashore in an avalanche of dirty grey water.
The vessel shuddered with every sea that hit her and waves swept over her deck. Captain Fickel appeared calm; however, his remaining crewman was distraught and was going to make an attempt to abandon the rolling vessel by jumping into the boiling surf. George Baker, a local boatman, rushed forward, shouting to the man not to move. He ran into the water and threw a rope on to the Flores and the man secured it to the mast. When that was done the remaining crewmember slid down it onto the beach.
The captain of the Flores made no attempt to follow. Baker shinned up the rope and spoke to Fickel. After a while he managed to convince him to abandon his vessel. As the captain reached the shingle a loud cheer arose from the crowd. All had been saved ... even the ship’s cat!
With the departure of the skipper more Deal boatmen scrambled aboard the derelict vessel. They made her fast to a nearby capstan, untangled the coastguards tackle, furled the sails and cleared the cordage. When the tide receded the Flores was left high and dry.
The boatmen hoped that they could refloat her, however, on the next day, Mr. Cullen, a shipbuilder from Dover, declared the schooner to be a total wreck. As soon as this was known the longshoremen stripped her of the cargo and gear.. By 10 o’clock that night there was nothing left of value upon her. On the Sunday, her masts were cut away and the hulk was left for fire-wood.
PLEASURE BOATS; THEN AND NOW
Over the centuries Deal has been known for its boats and boatmen. Deal boatmen were renowned for their brave acts and knowledge of the Goodwin Sands and their fame was heralded throughout the country by stories of their daring and skill. However, the 20th century brought in more limitations with licenses’ and rules which they were not familiar with in the past.
As more holidaymakers and visitors came to Deal, the longshoremen realized that they could earn a living by taking them fishing, and on sightseeing trips. Deal Borough Council issued boatman’s licenses’ on recommendation and experience - although they set out rules that should be adhered to, and employed a Beach Inspector and foreshore attendants to enforce them.
In the early 1900’s the summer season saw many rowing boats plying for hire; with an hour long trip alongshore being a favourite with families staying in the town on holiday.
At that time the largest tripping vessel was the Clarendon, a fine pleasure yacht which could take out large numbers of people for longer trips. The boat would sail to the Gull Lightvessel or Goodwin Sands, at a given time, depending on the tide and wind direction. She was a fine craft and very popular throughout the summer months, being able to work in weather that the smaller craft could not. She was berthed on the beach opposite the Clarendon Hotel, which must have been a ready supplier of customers who were residing there.
It was recorded that in July, 1903 the owner of the yacht, J.W.Robinson, witnessed the 14 foot punt Little Emma capsize, and with his three crewmen, saved the occupants. Eventually hard usage from working off the beach took its toll and she became unseaworthy and ended up a derelict, only fit for children to use as a playground.
Peter Harris-Mayes, a local butcher, upset the boatmen when he applied for a boatman and pleasure boat license for the summer season of 1949, to operate a speed boat. The longshoremen’s complaint was that he would take trade away from them, with a younger clientele wanting his boat trips.
The council was sympathetic and did not grant Harris-Mayes a boatman’s license but did grant one for his vessel. He then tried to get around this by selling post cards for a set price which would include a free boat ride in his speed boat. Again the council stated this was not allowed and stopped the venture.
Skardons World
When Peter Harris-Mayes finally acquired a boatman’s license the other boatmen complained, saying it was unfair, and that he was taking half of the income they would have earned through the summer season. This argument seemed to be settled when Harris-Mayes wrote to the local paper, stressing that he did not want to impoverish the boatmen and, if they would like to club together, they could buy his speedboat ‘Jolly Boy’ for the sum of £800 - and recoup half their earnings in the first year.In 1955 Deal Corporation renewed 63 boatman’s licenses, plus 11 new ones. There were now a total of 77 boats on the beach working with a pleasure boat license.
Skardons World
Dave Chamberlain
As the years went by, more regulations were put onto the boatmen, and after a shocking accident which occurred on the south coast in 1966, the government realized it had to tighten-up on the pleasure boats, for the safety of the general public.
Deal was no exception, and in the late 1960s the Board of Trade issued a new license for boatmen - and everyone had to take a verbal test to receive one. When this expired Dover District Council allowed the local boatman’s association to test new applicants whilst afloat, with the help of other licensed skippers.
Under their recommendations, and a council representative who attended the test, an ‘A’ license would be issued to the successful applicant. This situation sufficed for a number of years until the government, yet again, moved the goal posts and set more regulations and took the onus off the Council. The old Deal boatman’s council ‘A’ license became obsolete and could only be used in the River Stour at Sandwich for fare paying river trips.
Requirements to the pleasure boats working from the beach were upgraded and expensive safety equipment had to be installed, along with a boat survey every three years. This caused an upheaval amongst the skippers with many declaring that their safety record was not taken into consideration, and their vessels were too small to carry all the equipment. Because of this many of the local boatmen sold-up and retired, leaving the beach with the few who had conformed. The situation on Deal beach nowadays is sad as where there was once so many beach boats plying for hire, now there is only a few.
CRIPPEN'S CURSE
Captain Kendall had discreetly studied the odd couple who had boarded the Canadian Pacific Liner Montrose. On the passenger list their names were Mr. Robinson and son; but Mr. Robinson's boy looked and acted just too effeminate. Before his ship had steamed far into the Atlantic he requested the Marconi wireless operator to send that famous Morse message to Liverpool. It stated that he had a strong suspicion that the suspected murderer, Crippen, was aboard his ship.
Shortly after the message was received, Chief Inspector Walter Dew boarded a much faster vessel, the White Star liner Laurentic. He arrived at Quebec before the other ship and made contact with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
As the Montrose entered the St. Lawrence River, the policeman, who had disguised himself as a pilot, arrested Dr. Crippen and his mistress, Ethel Le Neve. Captain Kendall stood closely by with his pistol, as it was believed that Crippen was armed. As the doctor was led off the ship, he turned and cursed Kendall for his initiative. Within ten months of murdering his wife, Hawley Harvey Crippen was himself hanged at Pentonville prison on a cold November morning in 1910.
The 5,440 ton Montrose had been built in 1897, but at the approach of the Great War she was being superseded by the modern and faster ships that were plying the Atlantic route. It was for that reason the company put her up for sale.
As hostilities were declared, the German U-boats caused havoc amongst the Allied shipping. With their successes they became more daring by approaching still closer to the British shorelines. The Admiralty at Dover realised that their harbour; now full of warships, would be a prime target.
Their solution was, that two strategically sunk block ships at each entrance, would deflect a torpedo, but not hamper the comings and goings of the fleet.
The 444 feet long Montrose was purchased by the Ministry of War Transport, and moored against the Admiralty Pier in Dover Harbour. As she underwent alterations her superstructure was ripped away and many tons of ballast was poured into her empty holds. They erected a line of pylons along the deck to secure the anti-torpedo nets. As she lay alongside the pier, hardly recognizable from her former glory, superstitious sailors and dockworkers deemed her as an unlucky ship. It was even said that if she was to be used, the war would go badly for the British.
Three days after the Christmas of 1914, a great storm swept up the Channel. Along with torrential rain, the south-west wind reached 77 miles per hour and made the sea conditions evil. The South Goodwin lightship was the first casualty of this gale and her anchor started to drag as the weather worsened. Her rockets of distress were seen and North Deal lifeboat was made ready to launch. With the help of the haul off rope, and four men almost up to their armpits in water holding the greenheart skids, Coxswain Adams successfully pulled the lifeboat through the surf.
That night, as the storm raged on, the high spring tide filled Dover Harbour. The Montrose snatched at her ropes and eventually broke away from her moorings. With the haven full of warships she miraculously drifted past all of them without doing any damage. In a shower of sparks she grazed against the Breakwater and carried on out of the Eastern entrance; hotly pursued by the Admiralty tug, Char.
Conditions outside the harbour were horrific, but the gallant little tug managed to get alongside and two officers and two ratings scrambled onboard the lifeless hulk. A tow rope was connected but with the strength of the wind and tide the Montrose did not respond to the tug’s efforts. As the Char’s engine roared at full throttle, the inevitable happened, the hawser broke and the derelict drifted out of sight towards the dreaded Goodwins.
Meanwhile the lifeboat had been unsuccessful in getting to the South Goodwin lightship, which had been driven past the Sands and into a minefield. Coxswain Adams felt it was prudent to anchor and await a moderation in the gale. The crew managed to squat down under the lee of the gunwales and away from the cold spray breaking over the bows of the Charles Dibden. Their uneasy rest was soon to be disturbed. They watched in disbelief as the dark shape of the Montrose surged past them and bumped across the Goodwins in the raging seas, eventually going aground on the falling tide. Bill Adams and his crew struggled to haul in their anchor, and with only a corner of the lifeboat’s mizzen sail hoist they made for the wreck.
By the light of the full moon the black hull of the liner could be seen through the surf. Owing to the shallow water and with wires and nets hanging from the Montrose’s sides the lifeboat approached with caution. The four men on board watched with apprehension as the Charles Dibden edged closer in the turmoil. The Lifeboats anchor was let go, up-wind and tide, and she slowly veered towards the wreck.
Two men on the wreck jumped as the lifeboat scraped alongside the hulk. They managed to catch hold of the shrouds on the lifeboat’s mast and were helped into the rolling boat. The manoeuvre had been difficult and dangerous, a rope was thrown to the remaining two seamen who, in turn, tied it to their waists and jumped into the surf. Speedily they were pulled towards the safety of their rescuers and when aboard they poured out their relief and thanks to coxswain Adams.
One of the wreck’s survivors stated that it was the second time he had been saved from a shipwreck and expected not to be so lucky the third time. His premonition was to be realised quicker than he thought. Less than three weeks later the tug Char, would be in a collision four miles from the wreck, and every one of them aboard would perish. It was also a strange coincidence that the last man who jumped from the ill-fated Montrose’s deck on that stormy night - was named Crippen.
GEORGE GOLDSMITH-CARTER
Guarding vessels from the hazards of the Goodwins Sands was the job of the lightships. Each of these was crewed by six seamen and a skipper. As a crewman, one such sailor decided to write about his experiences with Trinity House and life aboard the lightships during the Second World War.
George Goldsmith-Carter’s book ‘Looming Lights’ informed the readers of the danger and hardships that those men protecting the shipping from the Goodwins undertook. The tome sold out quickly and went to three reprints.
George Goldsmith-Carter was born in London on May 11th 1911, he moved whilst still a child to his mother’s family home in the Suffolk town of Alderbough. It was here that he found an understanding of the sea and the folk law that surrounded the area. When he moved to Deal with his wife Freda, George likened Deal favourably with his childhood town. His follow-up book called ‘Coastwise Lights’ was never published. However, his articles in the major magazines of the 1940s and 50s were always appreciated by British readers’. He became a regular contributor and the unofficial expert on most things nautical relating to the Goodwin Sands.
Another of his books, ‘The Goodwin Sands’, became immensely popular; and with his creative style of writing he swathed the dreaded ‘Ship Swallower’ into myth and history. In fact, the legend of the ghost ship Lady Lovibund was first noticed in this volume.
For authenticity, George braved the hazards and discomfort of a fishing trip to Norwegian waters in a deep sea trawler to write ‘Red Charger’, as a description of that passage. He even created a travelogue, full of personal observations, history and folk law for the rambler to enjoy throughout Kent and Suffolk (‘Forgotten Ports of England’). Eventually his knowledge and reputation as an author produced interest with the large American publishers Hamblin and was commissioned to compile mainly nautical books for the world wide market.
In later life George could still enthral many with a yarn about seafaring and the mythical Norsemen. Throughout the 1970s he lived in a bungalow with his wife and two children at Kingsdown. Shortly after moving to Liverpool Road, his beloved Freda died.
On the 9th of February, 1995 George passed away. Due to his popularity there was hardly a pew available when the funeral service was read in St Johns Church at Kingsdown. George was one of Deal’s most talented authors and his works, although out of print, are still sort after. His style was once commented on by Graham Greene as ‘No nonsense and seaman like’. Yet he brought a feeling into his stories that the reader could almost taste the salt spray when he described a gale of wind on the Goodwins.
George Goldsmith-Carter books:
Looming Lights - Able Seaman - The Smackmen
Margaret Catchpole - Young Sea Angler
Red Charger - The Goodwin Sands - Lord of the Chains
Forgotten Ports of England
The Battle of Britain - Sailing Ships and Sailing Craft
Sailors - A Fighting Challenge
SANDS OF DEATH
Death affects everybody in different ways. Sadness consumes the mind along with the loss. Nevertheless, when death could be avoided, the mind is not only filled with melancholy but also frustration and bitterness. Such were the feelings of the Deal lifeboat coxswain and his crew on the night of 1st November, 1919.
As the North Goodwin, East Goodwin and Gull lightships started to fire their guns and rockets, on the beach preparations were going ahead to launch the Deal lifeboat, Charles Dibden. An east-north-east gale had been raging from the day before and the seas were endlessly pounding upon the beach. At a quarter to 11 in the evening, the lifeboat was let go from her slip chain and she sped down the shingled beach. The incoming waves halted her momentum for a mere second, at the same time as the crew hoisted her sails. The coxswain William Adams dropped the rudder home and the base of the iron pintles crashed against the gudgeons which were attached to the stern post. Slowly and laboriously the Charles Dibden clawed her way against the gale and towards the Goodwins .
With all three lightships firing signals coxswain Adams decided to head for the nearest one first, to ascertain where the casualty was. After three hours of beating against the wind he gradually closed in on the Gull light vessel. Before they reached the ship, his crew alerted him that they could see a schooner, awash, on the starboard beam. With seas breaking over the bow, the drenched men manoeuvred the lifeboat up tide to the wreck. With the wind on their port quarter, the coxswain ordered the kedge anchor to be let go.
Before they could haul down their mainsail and veer out the anchor cable, a large steamer appeared on their bow, heading directly at them!
Will Adams could not believe his eyes. The ship, being empty of cargo and high in the water, looked enormous. Adams’ reason raced ahead, trying to solve the situation that he and his crew found themselves in. They were being tossed about in the confused sea, which the flood tide was creating against the wind; nevertheless, the lifeboat was now in a position to make the save. Was he to let out the cable and ignore the ship, which was still approaching on a collision course, or get out of her way? He ordered some of the crew to ignite flares, to signal and thus attract the attention of the steamer to their predicament. The rest of the crew were shouting as loud as they could, however, the roar of the gale reduced their voices to mere whispers.
In the flare’s incandescence the apprehensive crews’ faces glowed as they looked first towards the approaching menace and then at the shipwreck. From the light they could see six pitiful survivors clinging to the schooner’s rigging and another two holding on to part of the wreck.
At the last moment the lifeboat coxswain took avoiding action. He shouted curses as the ship narrowly missed them and continued on her way. He almost expected, and secretly hoped, that she would strike the Sands at any moment. The unidentified ship, being light in the water, survived that ordeal.
Again, with difficulty, Adams positioned the Charles Dibden up tide from the wreck. With the anchor down, they let the lifeboat’s main cable slowly inch its way out from around the sampson post. The coxswain positioned the rudder, sheering the little craft closer to the casualty.
Adams was calm now – and he and his crew were working as a team. Although the unnecessary delay had unnerved them, they were about to rescue the half dead people that they had fought to save. Moments prior to the first poor souls being helped aboard, a wave, larger than any of them had ever witnessed before, hit the shipwreck. The sea crashed against the wrecks side, bodily skewing the 157 ton vessel beam onto them – and briefly displaying her salt encrusted name plate. The horrified lifeboat crew mouthed the letters into a word, TOOGO.
The wave shook the ship as if it was a toy. All of the people in the rigging were catapulted off and into the maelstrom, which surrounded the wreck – but unfortunately, away from the waiting lifeboat. With the mountainous wave, the crippled schooner’s decks were awash and the two people clinging to the mast vanished overboard. Adams’ immediate reflex was to cut the anchor rope and set the main and mizzen sail. However, their exertions were instantly halted when they heard the piecing scream of a woman. The shriek was distinctive above the roar of the sea – and would haunt these poor men for years to come. It was the death-scream of the captain’s wife as her terrifying ordeal came to an end. The startled crew looked upon their coxswain for guidance. Although he was duly affected, by the woman’s dying cry, he could not show his men any sign of weakness and shouted to them to carry on about their duties.
As the North Deal lifeboat cleared the wreck of the schooner Toogo, the coxswain told his men to keep a good lookout for those struggling in the sea. One of his crewmen thought he could hear cries close to the lurching Charles Dibden, and, with mounting hope, they peered through the darkness. Nothing was seen, apart from wreckage, and Adams let his vessel drift with the flotsam, still hoping he would find some survivors.
When daybreak started to loom from the east his men were exhausted and almost delirious with fatigue. It was only their conscience and sorrow which kept them uncomplaining and vigilant. In the first light they spied two men clinging desperately to an upturned dingy a fair distance from the lifeboat. With the waves just as violent they made six attempts to reach them. As they were about to make more adjustment to their sails, and another attempt, a massive curling sea fell into the Charles Dibden.
The lifeboat was equipped to shed the load of water by way of her self-draining and non-return valves set into her deck. However, it had taken the crew unawares and coxswain Adams was thrown against one of the air boxes, which were situated against the stern bulkhead. The brutality of this assault drove the man’s wind from his body. Before he could feel the hurt, he was nearly suffocated with the water and several crew members, who had also fallen on top of him.
His strength was starting to fail him and his back was in pain. The four men who had landed on him were lying on the deck with injuries – it was only his courage that made him carry on. He was now glad that he had had the foresight to take on two extra crewmen on this horrendous trip.
Skardons World
Dave Chamberlain
The two shipwrecked men were eventually pulled out of the water – more dead than alive. The lifeboat crew sympathetically administered first aid but had difficulty in conversing with the Estonian sailors. With a swift scan of the sea around them, Bill Adams called to his tired, but thankful men, that it was time to return to the lifeboat station - and get proper care for the survivors and injured crew.
The lifeboat surged heavily in the following seas, heeling and corkscrewing unpleasantly, nevertheless they were making quick progress home when Adams saw a steam ship requesting their attention. He reluctantly hove to and the captain of the steamer, Woolpack, spoke to him through a loud hailer. He explained that they had rescued another man from the sea hours earlier. Miraculously it was a further survivor from the wreck of the Toogo. Wearily Adams reasoned with the master that, in these sea conditions, it would be safer to leave the man aboard. The ship’s captain agreed, and the relieved lifeboat coxswain again headed his craft for land.
As the Charles Dibden hit the beach, a wave cascaded over her stern. Adams automatically ducked as the water washed over him and the men. He flinched and grimaced as a pain seared through his back. Whilst the beach-crew was helping him out of his sturdy craft he was met by the anxious looking lifeboat secretary, John Prior. The secretary’s facial expression was of concern as he asked Adams to launch again to another two vessels that had been spied in distress on the Goodwins. The request that Mr Prior made to Adams was, with regret, too much. The lifeboat coxswain was escorted to a doctor, whose authority he had to obey, and was put straight to bed. Another coxswain and fresh crew launched shortly after to another ordeal in those terrible conditions to attempt to save lives from the stricken barges Corinthian and Glenavon.
As Adams recovered from his back injuries, the screams of the Estonian skipper’s wife would always be there in his nightmares. He often wondered if it would have been different if the oncoming steamer had not delayed the rescue from the Toogo. Also he felt, that the ship’s master no doubt slept well and was oblivious of the loss of life he had caused by his heedless action.
The following year, at Deal town hall, there was a presentation to William Adams from Admiral Sir Reginald Henderson and his wife Lady Henderson. On behalf of the Lifeboat Institution they awarded a Third Service Clasp which was to be added to Adams’ silver medal. The Estonian Red Cross honoured the coxswain and his crew medals and certificates of thanks for saving the lives of their countrymen.
‘Bonnie’ Adams would continue as lifeboat coxswain until 1920, when after a thirteen years service with the Institution, he retired at the age of 70. He had served almost fifty years on the North Deal Lifeboat as crew and skipper, and passed away on 23rd October, 1926, after a very eventful life.
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The Sea of Souls
On Friday morning, October 31st, 1919, the ketch barge Corinthian set sail in a freshening north-east breeze. The vessel, along with the slightly smaller ketch Glenavon, had completed loading phosphates in the port of Antwerp and they were sailing together for the Thames and London. Captain Leek was happy that the 27 year old craft was not overloaded and the 160 tons of fertilizer did not impair her sea going qualities.
As the Corinthian left Antwerp, the captain and the mate discussed how they were going to share the four hour watches with his crew which comprised of a seaman and a ship’s boy.
The Able Seaman was a seasoned hand, however, the boy, a sixteen year old from Hackney, in the east end of London, was on his first voyage. Leek was determined to keep his eye on the youngster. He had noted that the brash teenager had plenty to say for himself but he seemed to be a quick learner. A smile crept over the captain’s face as he wondered how many clips around the ears the lad would receive, from the mate and AB, for any mistakes the boy made. He, however, would not tolerate any unnecessary bullying.
When they started to clear the shoal waters of the Belgian coastline the wind freshened to a blustery east-north-east. At midday the wind strengthened to gale force and a sudden gust blew away the mizzen sail. In the worsening weather, Ernest Leek decided to make a run for it, to Dover.
Before they passed the East Goodwin lightship, the main sheet, a three inch thick manila rope which controlled the main boom, parted. It was seven o’clock in the evening and with the mainsail blowing out of control the Corinthian became unmanageable. Leek knew he was drifting onto to the Goodwin Sands and was hastening to get a new cotton canvas mainsail ready to hoist when they hit the sandbank.
In an instant the mizzen mast was ripped out and toppled overboard, and the ketch started to take in water. Leek went below, gathered up some bedding and a paraffin lamp and then hurried his crew aloft into the ratlines, which were attached to the main mast. As the seas swept her deck the Corinthian settled on to the Goodwins with only her mast showing above the raging sea.
After the captain had made sure that his crew were secure in the rigging, he set light to the blankets. His signal of distress was quickly observed by the vigilant men on the light vessels, who, at a quarter to ten, started to fire rockets and their signal gun to alert those ashore.
From the shore, the pyrotechnic display from all three light ships was a sight to behold in the darkness. This was to going to be a tragic night to remember, for Coxswain William Adams, as, forty-five minutes later, the North Deal lifeboat, Charles Dibden, crashed down the beach and into the surf. Little did the captain of the shipwrecked Corinthian know that he had summoned the lifeboat out to save lives from another craft in distress, the Toogo.
Leek waited in the rigging, occasionally shouting words of encouragement to his crew. The light vessels had stopped firing after they had received a response from the shore – he assured his men that it would only be a matter of time before they would be saved.
The hours went by. Each time a wave raked along the semi-submerged hull, the mast started to shake. As the main, fore and jib sail still set, these were jeopardizing the stability of the main mast. With every gust of wind, the mast swayed dangerously. Captain Leek felt the pangs of hunger; as they had not eaten since six that morning. Worst of all was the coldness which consumed their wet bodies. His desire for a smoke seemed to fill his mind – thankfully obliterating the thought that he may never see his wife and young son again.
Eight long bitter hours they suffered on. The ship’s boy was in tears and no amounts of encouragement, which Leek shouted to him, helped. At six in the morning, the lad’s ordeal came to an end. With a pitiful scream, he released his hold from the ratlines and plunged headlong into the fury of the waves below, never to be seen again. Sadness, as well as the biting wind, filled their eyes with tears. In despair, the master of the doomed ketch could not comprehend why they had not been rescued before now by the lifeboat?
It was almost seven o’clock in the morning when the Charles Dibden came ashore, in a fury of spray. The coxswain William Adams was helped out of his craft, along with the two rescued seamen from the Toogo. John Prior, the lifeboat secretary and agent for the Shipwrecked Mariners Society, informed the weary Adams that more wrecks had been sighted. In the weak light of dawn two shipwrecks were visible on the skyline amidst the grey swirling sea. Adams’s heart fell; however, he was in such pain, from the injury that he had sustained in the lifeboat, he knew he could not render further assistance. Prior reluctantly appealed to William Stanton, the reserve lifeboat coxswain, to re-launch the Charles Dibden and assist the casualties.
Stanton was gravely ill with throat cancer and was awaiting entry into hospital for an operation. He did not falter in his reply and called out for fresh volunteers to take the life-belts of those injured or fatigued. At seven-thirty the boat ploughed back into the waves; it would be Stanton’s last ever lifeboat rescue.
There was no let up in the weather, and to those ashore, with east-north-east wind sweeping up the beach, it seemed to be getting worse.
Meanwhile, with their hands numb with cold, Captain Leek helped secure the other two crewmen on to ratlines with rope from the rigging. The mate was barely conscious and was delirious with exhaustion. As the captain strained his bloodshot eyes over the horizon for deliverance, he came across the sad sight of the other ketch Glenavon, which was in a similar predicament to them, with all of crew hanging on to the rigging.
For now, the lifeboat was making heavy going beating into the wind. It was to take seven hours for them to cover the six and a half miles to reach the distant Corinthian.
By ten, that morning, Leek watched with horror, as the last of the crew of the Glenavon disappear from the wreck’s masts. There was little conversation amongst his hypothermic men, as their will to live was fading fast. While they clung to the fragile main mast, Leek still scanned the bleak spume filled sea for salvation. It eventually came in the vision of the Charles Dibden, rolling violently below them. Ernest Leek’s first concern was for his mate, the young George Green. His condition was becoming critical and Leek urged him to tie the rope, which was thrown from the lifeboat, about himself. With what little strength the man had he laboriously looped the rope under his arms and secured it with a bowline knot.
The fatigued captain then commanded him to release his hold on the ratlines to enable the lifeboat crew to pull him to safety.
Green’s nerves were at breaking point. With what little courage he had left, he let go of rope ladder that had supported him over the last 17 hours. As the lifeboat crew hauled the mate towards them, he came foul of a thick rope shroud which was bracing up the main mast. The unfortunate man’s mind finally snapped and he held on to the rope with all his remaining strength.
No matter how much the lifeboat crew pleaded with him to let go, he would not obey. Leek even risked his own life by climbing down to him and then tried to prise the poor man’s fingers apart from the rope. The man held on in a death grip, and with sadness the captain left him, as he died – with salvation mere yards away.
The AB and Leek were assisted into the rolling Charles Dibden, and, after another 25 minutes of pulling, the battered dead body of the mate was hauled aboard. The ketch’s captain explained that the crew of the Glenavon had perished earlier and Coxswain Stanton decided to make for shore with all due haste.
On that dismal afternoon, at half past three, the lifeboat was winched up the beach. As the survivors of the Corinthian were ushered into the near-by public house, ‘The Forrester’, for dry clothes and a hot drink, Ernest Leek met the agent for Shipwrecked Mariners, John Prior. Little did he know that he would make Prior’s acquaintance again, four years later, when he would once more rescued by the lifeboat.
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THE LOST SUBMARINE
At the beginning of the 20th century, submarines were being developed for the British Navy. Although many in the Admiralty felt that these vessels were not a gentleman’s way of fighting sea-warfare, they soon became accepted … with some reservations. In 1902, " "A Class type submarines, were followed two years later, by the slightly larger "B" Class, at the cost £47,000 per vessel. The 143 feet "C" Class submarines were in commission by 1906, and were crewed by up to 16 officers and ratings.
Richard Ivor Pulleyne, was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant in 1911, and a year later was second in command of the submarine "B2". The crew of these new craft were enthusiastic, and the small fleet of "B" and "C" Class submarines were on constant manoeuvres throughout the English Channel. They practiced changing over from the crafts surface petrol engines, to the electric motors when submerged. On the 4th October, 1912, Pulleyne, with his captain, Percy O’Brian, and their crew of 13 were with a flotilla of other "B" and "C" submarines out from Dover. They had been on duty in the Downs and had caused some concern from the masters of steam ships; as some near misses had occurred with the low profile craft.
Dave Chamberlain
The German "SS Amerika" was an Atlantic liner of 22,621 tons, on voyage to America with a full complement of emigrants and other class passengers. As she passed the South Goodwin Lightvessel, as she turned towards Dover to pick up mail and any last company orders; her lookouts failed to see the small submarine that had just surfaced in the choppy sea on her port bow. Hardly anyone noticed or felt the collision, as the "SS Amerika" hit the "B2" amidships.
Lieutenant Richard Pulleyne had only just lifted up the coning tower hatch to breathe in the cold October air and attain the "B2’s" position. His vessel lurched on her beam ends as she scraped alongside the hull of the liner. The glancing blow of the large passenger ship had ripped a six foot hole in the submarine, the seawater rapidly flowed in uninterrupted.
Below deck, the "B2" was in chaos with the seamen struggling to comprehend the situation and save themselves. Immediately, the doomed craft sank to the seabed in 16 fathoms (96 feet) with 2nd Lieutenant Pulleyne huddled at the bottom of the coning tower ladder. The cries of the crew were soon stifled as the last bit of air was forced out of the submarine and Pulleyne was blown out of the coning tower hatch towards the surface.
Half an hour later, and over a mile away from the sinking, the sister submarine "B16" found Pulleyne - barely clinging onto life. He was the only survivor of the tragedy. Two days later, destroyers from the 6th Flotilla found the remains of the "B2", three miles off the South Foreland. With the submarine almost cut in half and the dead naval personnel inside, it was deemed to leave the sunken vessel on the seabed and hold a burial service above the wreck as respect for the dead.
Dave Chamberlain
Pirate on the Goodwins
The shipping forecast on Tuesday 19th November, 1991, told of increasing north-east winds; By midday, the light breeze had strengthened into a gale and throughout that night and Wednesday morning it still raged.
It was during those turbulent early hours that the pirate radio ship, "Ross Revenge", parted her anchor chain and drifted 15 miles, where she went aground on the Goodwin Sands.
Until their stranding, at 4:15 a.m., the six people aboard the ship were still asleep, but when they understood their predicament they were prompt to alert Dover Coastguard through their VHF transmitter.
The Ross Revenge was a retired British registered trawler, previously the German fishing vessel, "Freyr", which had plied her trade for many years in the rough Icelandic waters. When the Ross Fisheries Group sold her she became a wreck recovery vessel, until she was privately purchased and converted into Radio Caroline.
Ramsgate lifeboat promptly responded to the call, but they also ran aground in the shallow water and tumultuous seas that surrounded the Goodwins. For her coxswain it was one of the worst moments of his career and he was fortunate to get the lifeboat off the sand bank.
As the Dover Harbour board tug, "Dextrous", skippered by Steve Parsons, raced to the scene, he realized the Radio Caroline’s caretaker crew were getting desperate. He could hear them, on the ship's radio, shouting for immediate assistance. By this time the R.A.F rescue helicopter from Manston had been scrambled and was above the wreck. They airlifted the frightened survivors from the bridge of the 30-year-old decommissioned trawler at 7:10 a.m. on that cold spume filled morning.
Meanwhile, Captain Parsons could not get his tug any closer than 900 feet from the casualty and, as he watched, the Ross Revenge bumped a further 600 yards across the Sands.
The Dextrous stood by; however, it was not until the following day that the wind fell light enough for the tug to transport five men over the high tide, and put them aboard the derelict vessel
All of that day on channel 11, on the V.H.F radio, the Dover Coastguards issued the following warning “A wreck is stranded on the Goodwin Sands, 307 degrees East, 1.8 miles from the. Goodwin Lightship,"
On Friday 22nd, November, the sea still remained calm and Steve Parsons was back on station in his tug Dextrous; along with her sister tug, Deft. At 11 a.m. on a 6.8 metre high water he backed his vessel up to the wreck, which was slightly across the tide with a build up of sand on her port side. After the towing cable had been secured to the pirate radio ship’s stern, Steve gunned the tug’s 2,850 horse power Ruston engines (which gave her a bollard towing power of 30 tons). Much to his amazement, the hulk slid off the sands with ease and was towed into slightly deeper water. It was determined that she was to be pulled through the Kellet Gut (this is a gap between the Goodwin Sands) and into Trinity Bay.
By 12:30 p.m., both tugs had secured the Ross Revenge fore and aft and they steamed her into Dover Harbour where she was moored up to the Eastern Arm. Within an hour, Her Majesty's Customs had closed the ship up and her owners started to negotiate a suitable sum for salvage.
December of that year, found her moved to Dover’s Granville Dock and there was a rumor that she was up for sale at £20,000. It was then reported that the owners had paid a £10,000 deposit on her the following month. In March 1992, the station manager, Peter Moore, collected quotations from towing companies to have the vessel removed to Chatham Dockyard as a tourist attraction; and secure a legal license to transmit music.
Negotiations carried on for months, with the Department of Transport taking an interest in the condition of the ship. On Thursday morning, the 27th October, 1993, the ex-Grimsby trawler Ross Revenge was towed out of Dover Harbour and north towards the Thames Estuary. The DOT had passed her seaworthy after a refit and her owners having paid the remaining balance on her salvage fee and Harbour dues. At least the Goodwins had given this pirate a chance for redemption.
TOWING KING GEORGE’S TRAWL
Under the cover of thick fog, a small flotilla of four German destroyers slipped out of port trying to keep within sight of each other. As the vessels proceeded cautiously they could hardly believe their good fortune at not being challenged by the British. Although the Second World War was in its second month, most of the shipping that night had come to a halt and were anchored up and out of the way of the foolhardy. In the swirling mist the Germans laid a lethal pattern of 288 mines in the approaches of the Thames Estuary. Within hours the British destroyer Blanche was sunk and the mine laying cruiser Adventure was badly damaged. The cargo ships Matra and Ponzano were also destroyed, along with the Woodtown the following day.
The four years old, 315 ton, minesweeping trawler, Aragonite, had been busy since she had been commissioned two months earlier at the outbreak of war. There was a faint smell of fish about the Hull registered vessel and she still had the Kingston Steam Trawling Companies crest on her smoke stack. The crew wondered when she would be docked to get her grey paint, and anything else the Admiralty would install to make her a ship of war. Life aboard her was not quite as relaxed as the good old days when she was earning a living catching cod from the Icelandic waters. The skipper did not wear a cloth cap or talk with an accent as did most of the crew. He had a smart uniform with a gold wavy stripe on his sleeve and his voice had an educated clip to it. Although most of the crew were fishermen they put up with the ‘old man’s’ moans about the slackness of things aboard. He explained that Britain was at war and the pressure was on and from the skipper downwards, they would all be learning. However, because of the fatal danger of too many mistakes the crew must start to become an able body of seamen and get into the routine of running a ship in His Majesty’s Navy.
On the 18th November, 1939 another flotilla of German destroyers put to sea once again under the cover of more fog. In the early hours they laid a mine field through the approaches to the Dover Straits. Casualties were soon to fall prey to the new menace and every available mine-sweeper was sent out to clear a safe channel for the allied merchantmen to get through.
As HMT Aragonite was pulling her weight and sweeps, mines were being released from their moorings and blown up by concentrated rifle fire. Although much was routine, each one of the seventeen crewmen had a job to do either - keeping a look out for enemy aircraft or making sure the galley fire was always alight for a well earned cuppa.
Dave Chamberlain
By the 22nd November the Aragonite had been at sea for three days, the men were tired. She was now slipping back to Dover for refuelling and to take a few hours break from the tension. When she approached Deal, the sailors noticed much allied and neutral shipping anchored in the Downs, awaiting inspection from the Naval Contraband Patrol. When she was just outside the anchorage, the trawler was almost lifted out of the sea as a mine exploded under her hull.
When the pillar of water from the explosion rose to a height of thirty feet the deck became awash. There were great volumes of smoke and steam coming from her holds, and the crew was dazed with four of them seriously injured with broken bones. Through the chaos, some semblance of discipline was resumed; a damage report confirmed that the trawler was mortally wounded. The engine room, which had taken most of the force of the explosion, contained the severely injured - as the upward thrust of the explosion had caused compound fractures of their legs. Hot coal dust and steam enveloped the quarters below deck and hampered the sailors who searched for their wounded shipmates. Under the critical condition of their ship, the semen struggled to make sure the injured were temporally cared for and were ready to evacuate the sinking vessel.
Two patrol tugs raced to the crippled trawler and managed to take off all of her survivors. They knew the only hope of saving the Aragonite was for the craft to be towed the short distance to be beached. As the tugs were straining at their task, the gradually sinking vessel started to bump the seabed and she settled half a mile from the beach, opposite the ruins of Sandown Castle. It was seen that nothing could be done and both of the tugs had to cast off their now dead tow and return the casualties ashore for medical treatment.
The Aragonite’s crew’s acts of bravery were not to go unnoticed and King George, according to the London Gazette, was graciously pleased to approve the award of the Distinguished Service Medal to three of the seamen; Alan Farr, Second Hand RNR, Albert Belcher, Engineman, RNR and Charles Shallow, Seaman, RNR. They were honoured for unfailing courage and resolute in HM Trawlers for their hard and perilous task of sweeping the seas clear of enemy mines.
Her masts were a familiar site throughout the war years and many a skipper cursed them on a black night as they conned their craft through the Downs anchorage. Shortly after the war, the Navy cleared up most of the visible reminders of the past hostilities and the Aragonite’s mast and superstructure were soon levelled. Being so close to the small ships anchorage, Trinity House positioned a large green wreck buoy alongside her remains, much to the annoyance of the local herring drift netters. It was eventually removed in the late 1960’s.
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Deal Pier Demolished by the Nora
Early on Monday morning 29th January, 1940, the small Dutch vessel, Nora, lay uncomfortably at anchor in the Downs in a southerly swell. She was a small ship of 298 tons and had a cargo of 317 tons of straw boards.
Her voyage from the port of Harlinger had been a rough one and she was temporary berthed in the Small Downs anchorage awaiting clearance orders to sail to London.
Snow had been falling steadily all night and had covered the little coaster’s deck. The motor vessel's holds were tightly battened down against the inclement weather, and some of the crew huddled into the confines of the wheelhouse, drinking coffee.
Although the seamen were hardened to the cold they felt as though their blood and stamina had thinned somewhat, with the thought of the weapons of war that surrounded them. The mines, being the unknown factor, played on their fears. Anything that could be seen could be avoided; however, what lurked beneath the surface was terrifying. To the seamen it was like sitting on a time-bomb.
The strong ebb tide was slackening, and the southerly wind was picking up when a contact mine brushed against the Nora’s stern. In the galley the cook took the brunt of the explosion. The stern of the little ship was lifted out of the water and the galley was demolished. Pots, pans and the cooking stove were momentarily suspended in the air as they were wrenched from their brackets. A large hole appeared and the cook, in the confusion, only just managed to crawl to safety as the cold sea poured in.
In the wheelhouse, Captain Brinkman and the mate staggered backwards, as the glass from the windows burst inwards. Blood was splattered around the binnacle and wheel as the deadly shards ripped into the Dutchmen’s faces. They lurched about blinded and dazed.
Meanwhile, the seaman who had been making his way towards the wheelhouse, was catapulted off the slippery deck and into the cold grey sea.
The hole that the mine had made was large and the jagged ends had imploded into the inside of the hull. At this moment the Nora quickly started to sink by the stern.
Two Admiralty tugs sped to the stricken ship to take off the wounded men. There became urgency in their actions when the coaster tilted and sank lower in the water. The Nora’s engineer, who was the captain’s brother, assisted the British sailors in saving the crew.
They found that the cook was the most severely injured, he couldn't stand, as the blast had fractured his legs, and he had taken a beating with the flying pots and pans. The captain and mate were unrecognisable, blood covered their faces and clothing – nevertheless, they were still standing.
Dave Chamberlain
The Dutch engineer searched the small craft for the missing seaman, but gave up on the command of the tug’s captain. The hypothermic, but fortunate, man was rescued from the sea half an hour later by a patrol vessel.
The tugs hastily secured wire hawsers to the Nora, – possibly because the cargo of straw boards she was keeping herself afloat. They then towed her towards the shoreline, close to Deal Castle, and with great difficulty she was beached upon the foreshore.
The local boatmen watched this manoeuvre with shaking heads. A couple of old salts remonstrated with the naval officer who had seemed to have taken charge. They told him that the spring tide was making, and a southerly gale was starting to blow. The lieutenant looked at the longshoremen in bewilderment and scorn. Again they tried to reason with the arrogant fellow. They stated that high tide would be in two hours time, at twenty minutes past two, and with the gale of wind now blowing it would sweep the wreck off the beach and onto the pier. With an outward show of distain, the officer dismissed the men and sought shelter from the freezing conditions.
In amongst the flurries of snow the seafront became crowded with locals looking at the new addition to the beach. They watched as the tide made and started to cover the half sunken hulk. The southerly gale helped the surf crash up on to the beach, scouring the shingle away from the high water mark. The hulk of the Nora started to move with the violence of the surf – she slowly bobbed with each wave and then drew off in the backwash.
The flood tide had got a hold of her, and with the wind, the half submerged ship started to roll towards Deal pier. By now the sea-front was crowded with hundreds of on-lookers braving the cold to get a front row view. The boatmen mingled with the locals and relayed, to those interested, that their warnings to the Admiralty personnel had gone unheeded. Many of the people agreed that the authorities should have taken more notice of the boatmen, as they had local knowledge.
Skardons World
With an audible crash, which was heard above the roar of the gale, metal grated against metal as the Nora hit the cast iron pier.
At first it halted the progress of the ship and a brave pier attendant looked down at her as she surged in the surf. It took up to six collisions before the first pile of the Victorian pier gave way and the attendant made a hasty retreat. Acting as a giant battering ram the ship pounded the remaining pier piles until she made a breach through to the other side.
The tide was starting to fall and the Nora bounced on the bottom in the surf. Just 50 feet north of the mangled pier she rolled over on her side and settled into the shingle, as the sea receded further. At low tide, the following day, Admiralty surveyors clambered over the hull, which was displaying the painted Dutch flag skywards, and declared her as a total loss. Tons of shingle entered the hulk and settled it further down into the beach – this time she did not move.
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Skardons World
With the threat of invasion, the authorities declared that the Nora had saved them the job of demolishing the pier to stop any landings that could have been made by the enemy. Even some of the boatmen secretly had no regrets with its destruction; they and their fathers had disliked its construction as it hampered their sailing boats and restricted the shot of their drifting sprat nets.
After the war, in 1947, the council felt they had to do something about the eyesore. Being on the beach and close to property, the Admiralty could not destroy it by their usual method – explosives. The rusting wreck was sold as scrap and cut up in situ and carted away.
In 1974 a local scuba diver, Johnny Rees, discovered the bell from the meagre remains of the shipwreck. There was some confusion until it was realised that the name of ‘BERENT’ inscribed on the bell was the Nora’s previous name
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All Stories are Copyright
of
David Chamberlain