tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1787797364512771462024-03-16T14:11:09.773+13:00World of the Written WordReflections by award-winning maritime historian Joan Druett, author of many books about the seaWorld of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.comBlogger3101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-1852464822219940272024-03-03T19:06:00.001+13:002024-03-04T11:31:50.571+13:00THE NOTORIOUS CAPTAIN THOMAS M'GRATH<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKD0kUyiLNHJ6ghqhuhKlRBAdNwKNMXTZi3x-VVnTcAwZ9R5EUnpU8WJaBO8lNRF9dwVJlW4hexCX9qG192LhYasenn9cvTRzBLXugObZdL4fKEe42eeN0MXhz2h6h_BURxb00tz8BeDLOw9lixn2jiwq3ztTgs2cFNzPFWkpk9r1Ujle9ckxurPtvQdU/s355/Capt%20Thomas%20McGrath.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="355" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKD0kUyiLNHJ6ghqhuhKlRBAdNwKNMXTZi3x-VVnTcAwZ9R5EUnpU8WJaBO8lNRF9dwVJlW4hexCX9qG192LhYasenn9cvTRzBLXugObZdL4fKEe42eeN0MXhz2h6h_BURxb00tz8BeDLOw9lixn2jiwq3ztTgs2cFNzPFWkpk9r1Ujle9ckxurPtvQdU/s320/Capt%20Thomas%20McGrath.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>This charming looking fellow has quite a history. Not only did he not keep a workmanlike logbook, but he went in from the slavery trade, plus bilking the owners of the vessel.</p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Thomas
James M’Grath was born 23 October 1815 in Concord, New South Wales, and married
Elizabeth Folley on an unknown date.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
died in Papeete, Tahiti, on 13 June, 1882, after a particularly notorious
whaling career. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Capt. M’Grath
sailed from Hobart on the brig <i>Grecian </i>in December 1862, with a crew of
21. About a week out, he called into Botany Bay to pick up a lady friend, then
set out on a whaling cruise that lasted 15 months and netted 6½ tons of oil. Tiring
of this, he called into Wellington, New Zealand, paying off the crew, and
signing on some Maori seamen plus a few beachcombers, and fitting the ship out
as a slaver. His mistress was entered as ‘passenger, Mrs. Blank.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Then he
bought provisions, eight quarter casks of rum, two casks of ale, 10 cases of
Geneva gin, one quarter cask of brandy, and two lady’s side saddles. He sold
the rum to the crew. After picking up a ‘cargo’ of Tongan men he had duped at
the small island of ‘Ata, he sailed for Peru, where he sold the poor fellows. Next,
he was reported at Bluff, New Zealand, where M’Grath had the remarkable
arrogance to sue Mrs. Seal, the owner of the ship, for wages due. The court
case was a fiasco, as he had not bothered to keep a log, and he was fined the
huge sum of a thousand pounds. McGrath promptly disappeared (without paying the
fine), and the ship was returned to Hobart, but never went whaling again. (from
Will Lawson, <i>Blue Gum Clippers and Whale Ships of Tasmania </i>(1949) p.
73-75.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">A
rather different version of the story was published by the <i>Mercury</i> of
Hobart on 22 February 1864.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; mso-pagination: widow-orphan; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="background-color: transparent;">SINGULAR CRUISE OF
THE GRECIAN A WHALER OF THIS PORT.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">THE long absence of the
whaling brig <i>Grecian</i>, belonging to the estate of Mrs Seal, of this port, has
been the subject of much comment of late among seafaring men. Strange to say,
however, she and her captain have now just turned up in a most extrordinary
manner at Invercargill, in the province of Southland, New Zealand. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">On the 23rd of January Captain M'Grath appeared in one of the courts in Southland, to claim the sum
of £37 17s 10d. from Messrs Maning and Whitton, the agents for the vessel at
Invercargill, which issued in a verdict for the defendants with costs, and the
following are the comments of the local press on the case : — <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">The case of
M'Grath against Maning and Whitton, which occupied during the whole of Thursday
the Magistrates' Court at the Bluff, was in many respects an important one; and
it will doubtless attract, as it deserves, a large amount of attention in the
southern ports having an interest in whaling enterprise. We have scrupulously
abstained from commenting upon the dispute between the owners and the late
commander of the brig <i>Grecian</i>, whilst litigation was pending. The conduct
imputed to Captain M'Grath was of so extraordinary a character, and his denial
of the charges against him was so open and bold, that we deemed it the better course
to allow the real facts to be disclosed through the medium of a judicial
investigation. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">The story that has now
been told is not one open to suspicion or discredit. It comes from the lips of
Captain M'Grath himself. During an examination extending over several hours,
and conducted, we are bound to say, with moderation and with no desire to press
home the case too harshly, he favored the Court with a narrative of seafaring
adventure during a period of two years, such as has few parallels in maritime
annals. The <i>Grecian</i> left Hobart Town in December, 1861, on a whaling voyage, but
during the long period she was out, seems to have pursued only during rare and
infinitesimally brief intervals the legitimate traffic of a whaler. The
captain, at a very early period of the voyage, solaced himself with female
society on board and "Mrs Mac," alias Mrs Procter, figures in the log
book, from which the apparently less important matters of ship's latitude and longitude
are systematically omitted. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">The Chatham Islands, Norfolk Island, the Fijees,
and other picturesque localities were visited, and Captain M'Grath, according to
his own account, had a prosperous as well as a pleasant time of it — not
troubling himself much with the business of whaling, but obtaining large
supplies from the islands of vegetables, live stock, &c., &c., for
"a consideration," the nature of which does not very distinctly
appear. He seems, however, to have been blessed with a multitude of kind
friends, singularly ubiquitious, in some of these remote habitations of humanity,
by whose liberal presents his stores were timely replenished. It was
unfortunate for Captain M'Grath's owners that he failed to fall in with whales,
which were probably not in the habit of frequenting the pleasant anchorages he
resorted to. More fortunately for himself, however, he fell in with no end of
pigs, potatoes, cocoanuts, and other acceptable things. Upon one little episode
Captain M'Grath has failed to be as explicit as was necessary to complete the
romance of his story. We hope yet to learn something more of the cargo of
native islanders favored with a passage on board the <i>Grecian</i>. An awkward
suspicion attaches to all deportations of islanders of the South Seas, requiring
passages in bodies of forty or fifty. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">The wanderings, however,
of the <i>Grecian</i> and Captain M'Grath had an end, and the two years' cruise in search
of "eligibles" terminated for a season in the establishment of a
little principality in Stewart's Island; "Mrs Mac" — the accumulated
stock of pigs, cows, and potatoes; certain serviceable fittings, &c., being
landed to assist in the work. As adverse fate would have it, Captain M'Grath's
pleasant wanderings and romantic settlement have had a sequel not altogether of
so agreeable a character. Certain rights of his "owners," standing in
the way of his own too pleasant fancies, have been asserted. The law has affirmed
an authority superior to the will of this Quixotic rover. In an unlucky hour he
strayed from his principality on Stewart's island, left behind him Mrs Mac, his
cows, his pigs, and other accessories of an Arcadian happiness, and stood face
to face with the stern magisterial presence at Campbelltown. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Captain M'Grath's
adventures have culminated in an unlooked for catastrophe. He is at present in durance
vile; the unwilling guest of Her Majesty, rather than the dispenser of
hospitalities in his own little dominions. This whaling skipper's notions of log
keeping, will probably be novel to most master mariners. His ideas of a
captain's obligations to his owners, will, we believe appear equally unique.
His fate may not improbably operate as a warning to other eccentrically
disposed adventurers. And the case, or rather the series of cases we report
to-day, will satisfy the owners of whalers that there is it least one Southern port
where gentlemen of the M'Grath stamp stand a fair chance of being peremptorily
brought to book.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">The report of the
proceedings are too long for insertion and hardly admit of abridgement. The
case was heard before the Resident Magistrates Court Campbelltown, the presiding
magistrates being J. N. Watt, Esq , and Capt. Ellis. Mr. Harvey appeared for
the defendants. Captain McGrath's examination in chief merely went to prove the
articles, and the period which the vessel had been out, also that during that
time he had taken 1,687 gallons sperm oil and 140 gallons black. The captain was
now subjected to a cross-examination by Mr. Harvey, which lasted for several
hours. He said he was not part owner of the <i>Grecian</i>. He had been thirty years a
master mariner, and nearly twenty years whaling. He had been twenty-two months
out on the present voyage, exclusive of the period he had been at the Bluff. At
the beginning of the voyage a person named Roberts was his chief mate. He did not
keep a ship's log; it is optional who keeps the ship's log. I never saw two
logs kept on board ship, one by the chief mate and the other by the master. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Captain McGrath coutinued :—<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">This is my log-book; it
is the sort of log generally kept on board whaling ships. You may call it what
you like. According to my notion it is properly kept. I swear the entries are
all true. I was sent out on a whaling voyage. I carried that out to the best of
my ability. I began the voyage on or about the 16th or 17<sup>th</sup> December,
1861. I cannot recollect when we first lost sight of land, it is so long ago.
We took our departure on the 21st December. I will not say when Mrs M'Grath
came on board; she did not leave Hobart Town with me. She was in Sydney. I did
not see any whales on 25th December, 1861. On that day we were in a heavy gale
of wind off Jarvis' Bay. I know it by my reckoning, as it is not entered in the
log book. On 28th I was in sight of New South Wales, at Jarvis' Bay. I did not
land on that day. On 29th we sighted Botany Bay, and cast anchor. I went in there
for repairs. On 25th, in a heavy gale of wind, we found the bowsprit sprung —
gone in three places. I did not enter that fully in the log. Up to that time I had
no person but the crew on board. We remained in Botany Bay from 29th December
to the 10th January, 1862. The entry is "employed from 28th to 8th in making
repairs." I took a female and child with me from Botany Bay. I had liberty
to do so. I was my own master. They were passengers going with me for the
voyage. I was not paid for it. The parties did not request me to take them. She
was not my wife. Her name was Procter. Her name is not entered. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Counsel read the
following entry :— Monday, 10th March— Mrs. Mac went on shore to try her hand
at the wash tub. I am sure she will never hear the last of it. She has had no
one to pity her, so she has one consolation, she can pity herself. I am truly
very sorry for her.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Now, why did you not put
in the woman's proper name — Mrs. Proctor.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Witness :— Because I did
not think proper to do so. I can't think that is a false entry. I should call
her Mrs Mac if I thought proper. There was not a child born on board that
vessel.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">This is Captain
M'Grath's account of an official log, and of his free and easy way of keeping
it :— </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">An official log does not apply to vessels bound to the fisheries. I did
not read the entry over </span>to the men before I put
them in irons. I always keep my log book in the same free and easy way. With
very few exceptions, I kept the log, and not the chief mate. Very few of them
are capable of keeping a log. Many whaling masters cannot take an observation.
It is usual for the mastcr to get large supplies of fresh provisions on board
during a whaling voyage. I cannot say how many of the crew were on board on 9th
May. I do not think the number of men is entered in the log. Up to May, there
is only the discharge of one man entered. I think I shipped twenty-nine, all
told. On 9th May I took seven tons potatoes, four pigs and a goat. That was all
necessary, on the average, for the crew. I paid for them in money and slops. I
have not charged for the goat, because I don't know how I got it; I think we caught
it running wild. I don't know what I paid for the four pigs. I can't show you
under May 8th. I can not say what I paid for potatoes on May 9th. I cannot tell
you by the book. I have bought many tons of potatoes for the ship's use, and
never charged the owners for them. </p><p class="MsoNormal">On 26th May I took another pig and two boat
loads of potatoes. I cannot say what I paid for them. On 27<sup>th</sup> I had
two more boat loads of potatoes. Eleven tons of potatoes were absolutely
necessary for the crew, and were all for the consumption of the crew. After the 27th May, we
cruised about for some time. I was novel master of the ship Empire. Parts of
the wreck of the Empire I purchased on 7th June for tho uso of the Grecian. I
paid £16 for them. I took more provisions and potatoes on 6th June, for which I
paid £18 I took on board 13 tons
of potatoes in ouo month We used a ton and a half a month. We also fed the pigs
on them. They were not fed on cocoa nuts</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">On the 9th June certain
seamen refused duty; they<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>said that I
had " workcd thrm up by causing them to reef topsails when they had no
occasion to do so." </span>I did not think it
necessary to enter that in tho log book. I put 15 men in irons on that day. On
19<sup>th</sup> July I found the second mate asleep on his watch without a
proper look out being kept I landed him ou an island afterwards with his own
consent. On 26<sup>th</sup> July I bought fruit and cocoa nuts for tho use of
the crew. I could not count the cocoa nuts nor could I count the yams; you
might as well count potatoes.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Almost every day you sent
for fruit dunng July and August Almost every day you send a boat on shore — was
that attending to your whaling?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Yes, it was, I could
catch whales there too—canoes came off frequently, so frequently, as to become
a nuisance.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Why, if the canoes came
off did you send a boat ?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Because the canoes kept
off when we sent a boat for the fruits. I have not kept a daily account.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">What follows relates to
a little kidnapping adventure, and not to whaling:—-<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">On 2nd June, 1863 I was
at Keppel's Island, belonging to the Fijees. Made a bargain with the King to take
fifty natives.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Pray, sir, what did you
take fifty natives on board a whaling vessel for?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">I was in want of fresh
meat, in want of potatoes.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">What did you want
potatoes for?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">I meant at Wellington to
exclude vegetables .I was bound from this island to cruise among the Fijees. </span>Those natives were in
want of a canoe, and they agreed to the pigs, yams, and cocoa nuts for their
passage. They were of advantage to the ship, but unfortunately we did not see
any whales. I don't say I took the natives to assist me in whaling, but as
passengers.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Then point out in the
log book where you discharged those natives ?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">There is no entry of
where I landed them.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Did not you sell these
natives as slaves?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">I did not. I got pigs,
yams, and cocoa nuts for their passags. It is ridiculous. There is no latitude
nor longitude entered. The natives were landed on the island of Vanna Levu, one
of the Fijees. I landed them the day after I took them on board. There were two
small war schooners lying in the bay bolonging to the King of Tongatabu. The
natives did not leave the ship in a schooner, but in a canoe or boat. The natives
were not formally handed over by mr to one of thr chiefs. I was to have 2,000
cocoa nuts, 10 pigs, and 20 kits of yams for the passage money of these natives;
that was a sufficient supply for the ship for a short time. I refused the pigs
because they were not largo enough, and so they sent me six more pigs. They are
such a curiout people to deal with that I did not enter it in my log. Only
about 40 natives came on board. I expected 16 pigs to last for 16 days. I do
not think I bought any preserved meats at Wellington. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">After I had left the
natives I went to the island of Gora, and after that I went cruising. On 26th
October I arrived at Port William to procure provisions to proceed to Hobart Town.
I did not go there, because the crew deserted. I never refused to take a free
passage to Hobart Town. I built a residence for myself on Stewart's Island.
That did not prevent the vessel from going home. I did not send my mate up to
town from Stewart's Island stating that I would not go further with the vessel.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">The following is the
conclusion :<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Henry Hagon an
apprentice and William Bartlet formerly chief mate of the <i>Grecian</i> were then
called and corroborated the extraordinary statements of Captain McGrath. They
denied that the natives while on board were in any way treated as slaves, and
said they left the vessel when they liked.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Mr. Harvey then
addressed the Court for the defence, charging Captain M'Grath with fraud and
embezzlement under the Trustee Act. He had neglected the interests of
his owners, and embezzled their property. If he had been an honest man, why did
he not at the end of twelve months take the vessel back to Hobart Town? Why ?
Because he did not dare to face his owners, whom he had robbed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">The Court gave a verdict
for defendant with costs.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">On the application of
counsel, the document« put in evidence were impounded, pending a charge to
belaid against Captain M'Grath under the Fraudulent Trustee Act.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">That case was afterwards
heard, and Capt. M'Grath was fined £100, and ordered to bo detained until payment
was made.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-46758552917533134772024-01-11T11:34:00.002+13:002024-01-11T11:34:28.392+13:00Alfhild, the Viking pirate queen<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8vv7OAfMk673kyUTxmgNrogZSNGDFSvUd98KglVWI77YlSRejeBjJJrpqK4iRsCgLRTIEnquHeeKBZ75A-pJ_pgy26h_kvaeVBg4Qh6OqR42kxeFjYThyNRvUBquhHSiua8eK1KG-8-PDKE5VAvXToMzXFuMXzFhO727o-qkWul1N4mcZS65fN53gCw/s1830/004%20Alfhild.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1830" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr8vv7OAfMk673kyUTxmgNrogZSNGDFSvUd98KglVWI77YlSRejeBjJJrpqK4iRsCgLRTIEnquHeeKBZ75A-pJ_pgy26h_kvaeVBg4Qh6OqR42kxeFjYThyNRvUBquhHSiua8eK1KG-8-PDKE5VAvXToMzXFuMXzFhO727o-qkWul1N4mcZS65fN53gCw/s320/004%20Alfhild.jpg" width="210" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent">They arrived at night, screaming and berserk, like a
mad vision from the Book of Revelations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Attacking with savage ferocity, they razed whole villages, slaughtered
babies for sport, dissected captured leaders alive—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">from the back</i>—and spread their entrails in an eagle pattern on the
ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Arguably the finest seamen the
world had produced, the Norsemen sallied out from Scandinavia, traveling vast
distances over icy, storm-wracked seas, creating havoc and terror wherever they
landed. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent">They rapidly became known as the dreaded
“Vikings”—“sons of the fjords”—and their fine-lined oaken boats were called
“longships.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between 70 and 100 feet
long, the Viking longship was a double-ended, clinker-built craft of overlapped
planks, iron-fastened and tightly caulked, yet flexible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sweeping bow was decorated with a
snarling figurehead, often of a dragon or serpent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was only one bank of oars, for the sail
was the important means of propulsion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was square, strongly sewn and beautifully decorated with bright
silks and gold embroidery by Viking women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The masts were often covered in gilt, and the rigging dyed red, and at
the masthead there was a pedestal for a lantern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent">The oarsmen were also the warriors, and while rowing
they hung their circular shields along the ship’s side for additional
protection against wind and spray, enhancing the ferociously businesslike
appearance of the craft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shields, when
placed at the masthead, were used as signals too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Such were the ships that breasted the rough
Atlantic, and harassed the coasts of the British Isles and France, capable of
penetrating hundreds of miles up rivers because of their shallow draft, and yet
capable of freighting ten tons of loot back to Scandinavia, to be ceremoniously
dumped at the feet of some king in his feasting-hall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">These halls—often called “mead-halls,” though mead was
in fact despised as a foreign luxury—and the celebratory feasts held within
them were an important facet of Viking society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The food was plain, being bread and un-garnished boiled meat accompanied
by ale that was served in horns from a butt, but the etiquette was
punctilious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite the general
drunkenness, shouting, fighting, and bone-throwing, men were seated with care,
according to importance—and tales were told on an epic scale.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">While the diners listened raptly, their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">scops</i>—or bards—told and retold the
traditional sagas, adding and amending as they went, though keeping to a
long-held form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The narrative poem
always began with a tribal history of the protagonist, often linking him to the
great god Woden (Odin), and then this was followed by a stirring yarn which was
amended according to whichever king or hero was being praised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kings were inevitably brave, generous, and
just, and heroes could be recognized by their “fierce falcon eyes” and personal
beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Heroines, on the other hand,
kept their eyes demurely lowered at all times, for it was well-known that a
loose woman could seduce the strongest of heroes with one languishing glance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus, according to the traditional formula,
begins the epic tale of Alfhild, otherwise known as “Alwilda the Danish Female
Pirate.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">The Alfhild saga was first recorded in the twelfth
century by the Danish historian, Saxo Grammaticus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very little is known about the author, save
that he was a Dane, probably from Zealand, and that his family name—a common
one—was Saxo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second one,
Grammaticus, simply means “lettered,” and was endowed to him by a later
biographer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Written in Latin and
finished shortly after the year 1200, Saxo’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gesta Danorum</i> (“Deeds of the Danes”) totals sixteen volumes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alfhild’s narrative is in book seven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1836 a Boston stationer, Charles Ellms,
included an inaccurate summary of this tale in the first chapter of his<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> Pirates Own Book</i>, which purported to be
a collection of “Authentic Narratives of the Most Celebrated Sea Robbers.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was illustrated with a remarkable picture
of “Alwilda” most unconvincingly attired in a version of eighteenth century
dress—and that is the whole documentation of the saga of this warrior-princess.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: windowtext;">“Hwæt!”</span></i><span style="color: windowtext;">—“Listen!”—is the conventional warning that a saga is
about to begin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has an imperative
sound, so that one can easily imagine the drunken diners in the feasting-hall
obediently focussing on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">scop</i>,
who, as silence falls over the great room, commences with the obligatory
description of the genealogy and appearance of the saga’s hero, Prince Alf, son
of Sigar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Sigar was a king who reigned over Denmark about the
middle of the ninth century, and Alf, as was customary with heroes, “excelled
the rest in spirit and beauty.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps
somewhat unusually, he “devoted himself to the business of a rover”—which meant
that he was one of the many longship captains who ravaged the coasts of western
Europe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words, he was just
another raider. As was common in the saga form, though, his hair was luminous,
having such “a wonderful dazzling glow, that his locks seemed to shine
silvery.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Then, the hero described, the bard promptly shifted to
the heroine of the tale, who also adhered to convention—at the start, at any
rate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“At the same time,” wrote Saxo,
“Siward, King of the Goths, is said to have had …<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><i style="color: windowtext;">a daughter, Alfhild,
who showed almost from her cradle such faithfulness to modesty, that she
continually kept her face muffled in her robe, lest she should cause her beauty
to provoke the passion of another. Her
father banished her into very close-keeping, and gave her a viper and a snake
to rear, wishing to defend her chastity by the protection of these reptiles
when they came to grow up. For it would
have been hard to pry into her chamber when it was barred by so dangerous a
bolt. He also decreed that if any man
tried to enter it, and failed, he must straightaway yield his head to be taken
off and impaled on a stake</i></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><o:p> </o:p>Apart from the fanciful addition of the “viper and
snake,” this was usual enough, heads on stakes featuring a lot in Viking
literature. Because capture-marriage
happened so often—being part of the blood-feud ritual—kings’ daughters were
very closely guarded. Fathers and
brothers would fight hand-to-hand for them, for princesses were important
property, carefully kept to one side to be given as a reward to a hero, or to
cement a political alliance. It did not
matter if the hero or the other king was already married, for polygamy was
commonplace. It was common, too, for the
virtue of the heroine to be featured so prominently, for chastity was held in
high regard. If there was any doubt, the
test of virtue was the pressing of the breasts until the nipples bled. If no milk was admixed with the blood, the
woman was considered falsely accused. If
someone imagined they saw a trickle of milk, then her nose was chopped off.</p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">It seems that quite a few young men were willing to
dodge the snake and the viper to court Alfhild, for there were a number of
heads on stakes by the time Prince Alf took an interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or, as Saxo phrased it, “Then Alf, son of
Sigar, thinking that the peril of the attempt only made it the nobler, declared
himself a wooer, and was told to subdue the beasts that kept watch beside the
room of the maiden; inasmuch as, according to the decree, the embraces of the
maiden were the prize of the subduer.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">At this stage of the story, Alf takes on some
personality, demonstrating the stuff of which resourceful rovers were
made.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He prepared himself by covering
“his body with a blood-stained hide,” to work the serpents up into a mindless
frenzy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In one hand he held a pair of
tongs gripping “a piece of red-hot steel” which he plunged “into the yawning
throat of the viper,” and in the other, more conventionally, he had a spear,
which he thrust “full into the gaping mouth of the snake as it wound and
writhed forward.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">And so, in theory, Alf had gained the maiden’s
hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though her father, Siward,
approved of the match, however, he had made the proviso that Alfhild should be
happy about it—“he would accept that man only for his daughter’s husband of
whom she made a free and decided choice.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This is perfectly plausible, for in Viking society free women did have
the right of veto, and sometimes even the liberty to find a fiancé on their
own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In sagas, however, it was as
traditional for a woman to be complaisant about marrying the hero who had
fought a strange battle for her sake, as it was for unsuccessful suitors to
perish in nasty ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">If affairs had moved the way they usually did, the
princess would have smiled demurely and assented to the match.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Prince Alf’s personal hygiene might not have
been the best, for it was usual for Vikings to be flea- and lice-ridden,
probably because of their furs—one lover bidding his love, “Maiden, comb my
hair and catch the skipping fleas, and remove what stings my skin”—but, as we
know, Alf’s luminous hair would have made the search tolerable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so, it is reasonable for the bard’s
audience to have expected that Alfhild would present Alf with the usual
maiden’s betrothal gift of a sword, and then that a ceremonious wedding would
be followed by the usual noisy, drunken feast, complete with lots of
bone-throwing.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">A shock was in store for them, however.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alfhild did not conform to tradition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, she demonstrated a rather startling
character change.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rather than agree to
marry Prince Alf, she “exchanged woman’s for man’s attire, and, no longer the
most modest of maidens, began the life of a warlike rover.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Somehow, miraculously, not only did she acquire the
necessary seafaring skills, but she managed to recruit a crew of like-minded
females, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A ship was gained by a
stroke of luck, for Alfhild and her companions “happened to come to a spot
where a band of rovers were lamenting the death of their captain who had been
lost in war.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to the tale, the
mariners “made her their rover-captain for her beauty,” but it is much more
likely that she simply commandeered their ship—which, as it happens, was in
accordance with Danish civil law at the time, one of the statutes declaring,
“Seafarers may use what gear they find, including boat or tackle.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">And thus Alfhild launched herself on the career of a
raider, and “did deeds beyond the valor of women”—a most undomestic
vocation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saxo Grammaticus, who had a
remarkably Victorian approach to the different spheres of the sexes, certainly
did not approve of it, breaking into his narrative to inveigh against women
who, “just as if they had forgotten their natural estate,” preferred making war
to making love, and “devoted those hands to the lance which they should rather
have applied to the loom.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Obviously, in
the 250 years that elapsed before Saxo recorded this saga, Danish men had not
only been Christianized, but had become opinionated as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Vikings were not nearly so narrow-minded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their mythology included the valkyria—the
great god Woden’s hand-maidens, who rode to battle in marvelous armor to decide
who should live and who should die, and to escort the souls of heroes to his
feasting-hall, Valhalla.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Woden himself
did not jib at dressing up as a woman to get into the boudoir of a lass who had
taken his fancy, and heroes were perfectly happy to accept the help of female
warriors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About 870 AD, just one
generation after Alfhild’s time, Frey, the king of Sweden, slew the king of the
Norwegians (another Siward), and put all his womenfolk in a brothel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Ragnar, the current overlord of Denmark,
heard of this insult to his relatives, he went to Norway on a mission of
vengeance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they heard that he was
coming, the women dressed up as men, broke out of the brothel, and came to his
camp to join his army.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent2"><span style="color: windowtext;"><o:p> </o:p></span><i><span style="color: windowtext;">Among them was
Ladgerda, a famous valkyrie, who, though a maiden, had the courage of a man,
and fought in front among the bravest with her hair loose over her
shoulders.</span><span style="color: windowtext;"> </span><span style="color: windowtext;">All marveled at her matchless
deeds, for her locks flying down her back betrayed that she was a woman</span></i></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><o:p> </o:p>Incidentally, this saga followed convention. Ragnar, understandably impressed, took to
courting Ladgerda. She set two beasts
about her door in the usual obstacle course.
He speared one with one hand, strangled the second with the other, and
caught her up in his arms.</p><p class="MsoBodyTextIndent"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Viking men did not mind boasting about beating women
warriors, either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An early female raider
was Sela, “a skilled warrior and experienced in roving.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sela entered the literature when a fleet
commanded by her brother Koll, who was king of Norway, was confronted by the
longships of a hero named Horwendil, who wanted to formalize his ownership of
Jutland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of commencing a naval
engagement, the two admirals decided to fight it out in single combat on the
beach of a nearby island—a thoroughly laudable arrangement that saved a lot of
unnecessary bloodshed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a lot of
chat in which they set the rules, they went at it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Horwendil won, by the unexpected ploy of
dropping his shield and wielding his sword with both hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First he chopped up Koll’s shield, and then
he chopped off his foot, rendering him helpless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finishing off Koll was not enough to satisfy
his bloodlust, however, so he challenged Sela next, managing to defeat and kill
her, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Other longship captains who had “bodies of women and
souls of men” were Hetha, Wisna, and Webiorg.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Like Sela, this trio was perfectly happy to fight on land as well as
sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being strong and brave enough to
fight on one’s feet was, indeed, was a prerequisite, for the design of Viking
longships meant that naval battles could not happen in the open water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though perfectly capable of breasting the
stormy North Sea, the boats were rather too delicately built for rams or
catapults to be fitted, and they stove in rather easily, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so, all combat had to be hand-to-hand,
apart from short-range throwing of spears and axes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">This happened to a formula, too. When two enemy
longships came in sight of each other, the warriors would hold the boats still
with their oars while the two captains leapt onto the forecastles and screamed
insults at each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was part of
the “bear-sark” story, where warriors worked
themselves up for the fight by bellowing, barking, and biting the upper rims of
their shields until they foamed at the mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then, slavering with blood-lust, they would paddle alongside the enemy
craft, grapple, and leap up and rush at each other with swords, axes, and
clubs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One famous hero, Arrow-Odd, went
on record as grabbing up the tiller for use as a bludgeon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trick was not to stove in one’s boat
while doing this, something that was impossible to avoid out in an open
seaway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so, naval engagements had to
happen in sheltered waters, or else, as with Horwendil and Sela, the dueling
was relocated to a beach.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Obviously, in opting to abandon a soft, snake-guarded
life at the palace to take on this kind of existence, Alfhild and her
companions had accepted quite a challenge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Norsemen were consummate seamen, navigating by the sun, the stars,
the tides, the ocean currents, and the migratory patterns of birds and whales,
so the women had a great deal to learn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Viking rovers were hardy, too, sleeping in leather sleeping bags with their
weapons close to their hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was
usually on some deserted beach, their ships being drawn up on the sand and
lashed together for safety, because longships were not well-designed for
stretching out to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was very
difficult to cook in longships, too, so “strand-hewing”—or victualing with raw
meat, which was eaten uncooked—was the rule.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Watches had to be kept around the clock, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“uht”</i>—the watch immediately after midnight—being considered the
most dangerous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were dangers other
than enemies, too, dragons and sea-monsters being particularly feared, as in
the Icelandic hero Beowulf’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">eald uhtsceaða,
sede byrnende</i>—“the ancient twilight foe, that vomits fire.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Somehow, Alfhild managed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She must have had some feasting-hall
somewhere, even if it was some humble and secluded hut, for she and her
companion valkyria would have had to have somewhere to recruit their strength,
bury their treasure, and brag about their deeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps she even retained her own <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">scop</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Like Viking men, she would have made light of all but the most serious
wounds, keeping a faithful dog to lick cuts and gashes clean, but otherwise
pretending they did not bother her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
and her followers would have gone through some kind of blood “brotherhood”
ceremony, pricking their hands until the blood flowed, and then pressing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the bloody palms together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This ensured loyalty, for blood revenge was a
serious duty, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were-gild</i> would be
extracted from foes who killed any of their number.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would have had her chief officers—her
“thanes”—created by ceremoniously holding out a sword by the blade, so that the
new thane could take it by the hilt.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Coincidentally, about the same time in England,
another princess, Æðelflæd, “Lady of the Mercias,” was equally active.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daughter of Alfred the Great and wife of
Æðered, the Alderman of Mercia and Governor of London, Æðelflæd was famous as a
brilliant commander.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After her father’s
death, she joined forces with her brother, Edward the Elder, to carry on the
campaign against the Danes, proving herself to be one of the most capable
generals of her age.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so the two
feisty warriors were on opposite sides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If they ever encountered each other, however, it has not been
recorded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, Saxo neglected to
tell us anything at all about Alfhild’s roving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seems that she did very well, for by the
end of the tale she had a whole fleet at her command.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is what she did with her ships that is a
mystery. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Perhaps she contracted herself out as a mercenary to
some tribe in opposition to the Danes, or perhaps she had ambitions for a
territory of her own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She could have
been a true pirate, preying on merchant shipping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not all Norse ships were battleships.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peaceful sea-trade, in fact, was the
Scandinavians’ major activity, furs, timber, amber, and Slavic slaves being
carried to market in cargo ships called “knorrs,” to be exchanged for corn and
foreign luxuries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever Alfhild did,
we do know it annoyed the Danes, for a number of expeditions were sent out to
quell this female nuisance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">One of the parties was commanded by none other than
Prince Alf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After “many toilsome voyages
in pursuit of her,” he finally tracked down Alfhild’s fleet in a “rather narrow
gulf” in Finland.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alfhild, who held the
philosophy that attack was better than defence, immediately “rowed in swift
haste forward.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alf’s men, on the other
hand, believed that caution was the wiser part of valor, and “were against his
attacking so many ships with so few.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He, mindful of his reputation as a hero, paid no attention, meeting the
charge head-on instead, and seizing one ship after another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">Coincidentally, he was the one who boarded Alfhild’s
ship, “and advanced towards the stern, slaughtering all that withstood
him.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead of losing her life,
however, the Viking princess merely lost her anonymity, for Alf’s lieutenant,
Borgar, struck off her helmet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And,
forthwith, “seeing the smoothness of her chin, [Alf] saw that he must fight
with kisses and not with arms; that the cruel spears must be put away, and the
enemy handled with gentler dealings.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><span style="color: windowtext;">And so she lost her virginity, too, for Alf claimed
what had been due to him ever since he had slaughtered her serpents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to Saxo, “he took hold of her
eagerly, and made her change her man’s apparel to a woman’s; and afterwards
begot on her a daughter, Gurid.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the
meantime, presumably, he carried her onto his ship, and they forthwith set sail
for Denmark—her last voyage, and without doubt an emotional one, for her
probable fate was to be shut up in a palace again, away from the sight of the sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="mso-pagination: widow-orphan no-line-numbers;"><o:p> </o:p><i><span style="color: windowtext;">Þa wæs be mæste</span><span style="color: windowtext;"> </span><span style="color: windowtext;">merehrægla sum / </span><span style="color: windowtext;">segl sale fæst;</span><span style="color: windowtext;"> </span><span style="color: windowtext;">
</span><span style="color: windowtext;">sundwudu þunede; / </span><span style="color: windowtext;">no þær
wegflotan</span><span style="color: windowtext;"> </span><span style="color: windowtext;">wind ofer yðum / </span><span style="color: windowtext;">siðes get
wæfde;</span><span style="color: windowtext;"> </span><span style="color: windowtext;">sægenga for, / </span><span style="color: windowtext;">fleat
famigheals</span><span style="color: windowtext;"> </span></i><span style="color: windowtext;"><i>forð ofer yðe</i> </span><a href="file:///C:/Users/Joan/Documents/She~Capts.doc#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">*</span></a></p>
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<div id="ftn1" style="mso-element: footnote;">
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><a href="file:///C:/Users/Joan/Documents/She~Capts.doc#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" style="mso-footnote-id: ftn1;" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">*</span></a> Then to the
mast a sail, a great sea garment, was hoisted with ropes; the longship groaned
as she breasted the waves, was not brown off her course by contrary gales, but
lustily, foaming at the bows, skimmed forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Beowulf</i>, lines 1905-09.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoFootnoteText"><o:p> </o:p></p>
</div>
</div><br /><p></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-65605891826678402932023-12-24T11:00:00.000+13:002023-12-24T11:00:27.109+13:00Butler Point Whaling Museum summer newsletter<table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" id="m_6055636886710678620bodyTable" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; height: 100%; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td align="center" id="m_6055636886710678620bodyCell" style="height: 4700.94px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; width: 679.229px;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td align="center" id="m_6055636886710678620templateHeader" style="background: none center center / cover no-repeat rgb(247, 247, 247); border-bottom: 0px; border-top: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 54px; padding-top: 54px;" valign="top"><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620templateContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 600px !important; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620headerContainer" style="background: none center center / cover no-repeat transparent; border-bottom: 0px; border-top: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px 9px; text-align: center;" valign="top"><img align="center" alt="" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImage CToWUd" data-bit="iit" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEj7qcXrGvsvRRrtyiVJ3VdbfioKh65VzfU1CysVWezVXd47T4FPVO9RN7C8m3Ygmtzg-Q1x6pfQEQ8Ywmu9HmwszogoLAi7O7RzF0ZUo1VxV_E6u_BGqKjEpYA6i4A18zrlEJbP-XRLWxqNj65TVTaM1FPGKvdY7D3fnlKyALFUTNt8xTKKLMJop4nNosdQ0EIQwoGePUd5I1T7bGcKcvEkTNVf=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; display: inline !important; height: auto; max-width: 551px; outline: none; padding-bottom: 0px; vertical-align: bottom;" width="314.07" /></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: center; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="color: green;">Butler Point Whaling Museum, 1840s Historic House and Gardens</span></strong></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><em><strong><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;">'It was a short, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor. The long rows of teeth on the bulwarks glistened in the moonlight; and like the white ivory tusks of some huge elephant, vast curving icicles depended from the bows.'</span></strong></em></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: black;"><strong><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;">(Herman Melville, <em>Moby Dick</em> 1851)</span></span></strong></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: 18px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;">Hakihea Kōrero<br />Newsletter: Summer 2023</span></span></strong></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Arial, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;">Tēnā tātou<img align="right" class="CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEg5qlntySd4uLO5qY8WZtF7NCnZRQzk2tYg_fGNKtmy7HWUNImFV6Zwehu8Ms9BExg2UC3orlQOOpqrPPOV-qrOL_2wWxGAXoaQi0Q1flkNMWlAPfFJywQk2_MB21bBmpBFK2bW0UO2NCDzWr5v3b-5xxyVv95DBwm54J7178GplU7-AyAby3VCj6uJhyphenhyphengUm355fcAulf_3ow_a2uh7-w56UzGf=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; width: 150px;" tabindex="0" width="150" /><br /><br /><span style="color: green;">Welcome to our Summer 2023 newsletter</span><br /><br /><span style="color: red;">Meri Kirihimete to you!</span><br /><br />The pohutukawa trees fringing the beach are celebrating the festive season and the delicious summer weather by producing the largest, most bedazzling pompom-like flowers any one has ever seen.</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;"><span style="color: green;">News from the garden</span><br /><br />Th<img align="left" class="CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEi5n5ktf7EDQaDkXwSQcCAbsZWHMmyCrxxqE4oeyUvMFUxI1pQT4p1zfTgp75PzgZss6BLgmVaJf6vM8akmBN_KUeJZEa8J4nfYV4_ExvaIaS_e9RqXRjhfT9eYUUNJBQ6iE_nBb90yqRXcdNrPqLbw-3qN7CHPk8knOgx_N6wP468UdCu-HMJU8ECPINeSRtpcBy0DKsa2aIwKp8hLH-2AkJDr=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: 133px; margin: 0px 10px 0px 0px; outline: none; width: 200px;" tabindex="0" width="200" />e first thing to notice is the hum, the loudest hum ever, of a multitude of bees. Like little cargo planes laden with pollen, they lurch between the giant magnolia grandiflora flowers, crash drunkenly into their target, and slather themselves with the golden dust making sure to combine business with pleasure. Cicadas have already begun to add their buzzing to the thrumming of the bees, a happy reminder that high summer is here. This year nature in the Far North is definitely having fun.<br /><br /><img align="right" class="CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgxeoTSpZiXUhPFyaJ9vGrCcFZqR1joG278Zzz52DRDlRdJZ0E1SGgeIFwuThjNsaEAZw6o0bNqepD_Q7PJJGJ1lReQivUOHcIJMPv5knnidAn5ItjwubIiPiNlitkNcf4ZzhgYVeyXBNsiRGdzXapDi3mmdbxRAsUt8wWwVrRJ2pV8X_VmCNK_39RdFYuqKq-XvwrqbRjyNHuNR29G_gtsr3zbZH0WTysh=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 10px; margin-top: 0px; outline: none; width: 200px;" tabindex="0" width="200" />We have three reasons to celebrate: the installation of five paintings above the whaleboat depicting the whaling history of Mangonui, the acquisition of an old Montagu whaler, and a brand new website with an online booking system - check it out here <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://butlerpoint.us11.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3Dc526ce3c0b95a3b0a3e09750a%26id%3D5ed8f166b3%26e%3D049aaaa226&source=gmail&ust=1703455034391000&usg=AOvVaw2EnnXfrGvRBuQxwcQyYH6I" href="https://butlerpoint.us11.list-manage.com/track/click?u=c526ce3c0b95a3b0a3e09750a&id=5ed8f166b3&e=049aaaa226" style="color: #007c89;" target="_blank">https://butlerpoint.co.nz/</a></span></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;"><img align="right" class="CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEjcH_PrRDlS0-y3LwY1FDkNyL6JzmRWO4pfLpvWKQUH6mhGfcIKXNmGBMsmJKtxD3bHTGD-0fcojypNx5PuRMvc4CH2XcjTPzyqkSTIu5b1XZ6sMEVwhFiqDbOku16PpaOXkHrdMG6pQWyJvqnQF7woLiJYMG8xfCVRkMV-A3w79wPcQ-kHGSYuFkxQtWOKLAPk7kQ05N7j5Hrrjvi2FDnZ6376=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: 225px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; width: 300px;" tabindex="0" width="300" />Julia Bell, our Artist in Residence lives on the Sunshine Coast hinterland. Her multi-discipline arts practice spans 40 years, during which time she has created many murals, paintings, mosaics and ceramics which decorate both private and public spaces. She loved taking on the project, as it presented the opportunity to delve into the history of whaling, research being half the fun of telling a good story.<br /><br />Now a picturesque village frequented by tourists, it is hard to imagine that Mangonui was once the South Pacific centre of the global whaling industry, its harbour filled with whaling ships from all over the world, its streets filled with drunken whalers.<br /><br /><img align="left" class="CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgjWtZojBA2Qd4u4YfqZuQv6QmOj-Ty9oMbj-jEWZlijOk5swcoKrKdep1EhPs6NJLz-UFf2dqGdLVR4onJCfYO8l2YzWU_uZE8JGyEPwyA_qwRzwStrjumt_TsdphZuIArF1fDKY2xwDELLYymhtoIsjDbY7LfpGZOfZVv9rlqfE33SWg69Cgpe0_Eltco95mDTrTHYvk0v1OBQ9mlMhnxfAnR=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: 196px; margin: 0px 10px 0px 0px; outline: none; width: 300px;" tabindex="0" width="300" /><span style="color: green;">The paintings</span> beautifully illustrate the perilous journey whalers faced, beginning on the wild windswept little island of Nantucket on the Eastern seaboard of the United States, traversing vast oceans, rounding Cape Horn and ending in the idyllic safe harbour of Mangonui where the ships re-provisioned at Butler Point, carried out repairs and the exhausted men got to enjoy some well-earned rest and recreation.<br /><br />The picture frames have been masterly crafted by Steve Crouch from branches that have fallen from Butler Point Pohutukawa trees. The soft hues of the timber beautifully complement the masterful use of colour in the paintings.</span></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: center; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;"><span style="color: green;">Montagu Whaler</span><br /><br /><img align="right" class="CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" height="135" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEjKTzUcvzwN1bololIyLvVq5YOQ8Zri2nhJn-SuTI2fS8QzIulD-C2Lp33K5TrPRrqeGt1LgFGX7Ay8mm0L0W0f1qC6LctN7KoVAZlsTSDJbE9MoNfhy7x3B8oWJ7laGn608RKFxzJqoMnkh2Fl91JKUUNqslPWbghDuveNDjPXEIb2MJt_uc39T3-0V7AyuiZMbrfU9Bb2batdxU9iqNj633N2=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: 135px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; width: 300px;" tabindex="0" width="300" />After some sleuthing, Nigel, sailor and Butler Point team member, tracked her down to our Mangonui hinterland, where she had been marooned on dry land for 40 years. Letitia, the most intrepid member of our team, navigated the massive 27’ foot long load along narrow metal roads, one lane bridges and steep hills to deliver her to the boat shed where Nigel will spend many happy hours restoring <em>Phoenix </em>to her former glory.<br /><br /><img align="left" class="CToWUd" data-bit="iit" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEiy_cZdavFLk2U1HQ-FwdQlEPrSwTicYHPUc_WVnG7BilA_SAfm0W6Ttc86RC3YJwTZd_WcTE085YpzHWX7cwKILRRWsr7Bchw9jYOjtvbOsCrTtGrlsaOfWVOWkrF4_96P6SQpL1ExhjYnaUjwE6dCFVRTl_GMoo9cA12G8gzeoXD9slc49HMzMb2R1mlQO0Ayk41SW1nplRLFo_qx0ek6eMba=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; height: 222px; margin: 0px 10px 0px 0px; outline: none; width: 100px;" width="100" />Whaleboats were first developed by early whalers in the late 1750s. The double-ended pulling boat was designed for ships engaged in whaling for maximum manoeuvrability to reverse quickly away from harpooned whales. They were introduced into Royal Naval service in 1810 and used to great advantage during the Napoleonic wars for boarding enemy ships in battle.<br /><br />In the early 1900s Admiral Montagu suggested a number of improvements to the design and since then whaleboats have been known as Montagu whalers. For most of their time in service, the whaler was simply a small boat for specialised tasks. After the Second World War however, with the move towards smaller frigates, the whaler was one of only two boats carried. Used as the ‘sea boat’; the ready use boat and lifeboat, they were fitted with special release gear and turned out, ready for use whenever the ship was at sea. The boats were finally phased out in 1990.<br /><br /><img align="right" class="CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhPU93-mkH1TdMfF4FubMwd_1lq8CVuCubhlAeMvXwBvPVEnM9dN1SsxeRaXAYrODIkcetsgzng2IFFRdpV5eJFF0jVXeSdi-H8LJ18NedxINYoatwqLwkRDt2MMzGvVeZmTuR-bP-_Go-ILgUuE4RoDCcvFwBF9v0fE3-cuAwQ2IHMdTuZY4-K6vhjqazOvvzmAHQQU_1W9_7nQc2qjtpalRW_=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: 226px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; width: 170px;" tabindex="0" width="170" />Whalers were made from Kauri as the basic material, and Pohutukawa for the grown parts such as the elbow used to strengthen the bows.<br /><br />There were two sizes, 27 foot and 25 foot and were able to be both pulled and sailed. When being pulled they were single banked, that is a single oar was used from each thwart, three on one side and two on the other. The oars had a central shaft of Oregon pine, with laminated blades, four of them being 17 feet long and the bowman’s 16 feet in length. When under sail the boat has two masts and carries a ‘Montagu Rig K’. </span></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: right; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;"><img align="left" class="CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgc0g7hBC4_3ZmC5Wj_EBqWdBxiQruAocziCo0zega0p8Gz0OlL1AmmfsA2ZeNUXWMbs7_Au2rLs7bPX4aRR-ldp4XP8tZbBdgQA_E0UgtTwrDHeaIPfOS5h2gDi9l5fVS2Okq8KmEgZ06HWAgjUXdvcKCWJEhRZFW0ZnsYNpYi7UiQN3w9C3GIL-w2zrKYoXBYICC04uqiAmKlmI2j6DYneWmm=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: 175px; margin: 0px 10px 0px 0px; outline: none; width: 280px;" tabindex="0" width="280" /><span style="color: green;">In other news </span>the crew from the R. Tucker Thompson, the tall ship based in the Bay of Islands made the most of a day at Butler Point with a tour of the museum and a picnic, followed by their team-building workshop in the grounds. They are a passionate and dedicated team who run Youth Development Programs on this working tall ship. Their summer season is up and running through to the end of April and <img align="right" class="CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEj1xKm__BNym8vrqYKSTyoZ8If3n1wY73iuG0veR_s4_npJHQ-1a2_PC8cacpBDJSEUHSWcFvDYPeed2J9YWzcGRy-ozotU6_IKY_hCnfN2FQRjlaV4k3ES-l4AiNWQVnQZ7lQnPZoxbbow3p9mfNnzXueatdJWsYbvh3bZF9XEF223TmjvnEgguHOg-bU2kuShnpV_5KkfcZReEO95uEMHwcyZ=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: 165px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; width: 250px;" tabindex="0" width="250" />we highly recommend taking one of their Day Sails or Sundowner Sails. It is an unforgettable experience to be on a living, breathing wooden sailing ship, to hear the creaking timbers as it rides the waves, to see the crew swarm up the rope ladders and watch the unfurling sails fill with wind. Look them up at <a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://butlerpoint.us11.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3Dc526ce3c0b95a3b0a3e09750a%26id%3D4ef08f8ccd%26e%3D049aaaa226&source=gmail&ust=1703455034391000&usg=AOvVaw2byie3ayEu-tFbupXK4HPa" href="https://butlerpoint.us11.list-manage.com/track/click?u=c526ce3c0b95a3b0a3e09750a&id=4ef08f8ccd&e=049aaaa226" style="color: #007c89;" target="_blank">www.tucker.co.nz</a></span></span></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 100%;"><tbody class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImageGroupBlockOuter"><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImageGroupBlockInner" style="margin: 0px; padding: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImageGroupContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 273px;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImageGroupContent" style="margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 9px; padding-top: 0px;" valign="top"><img alt="" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImage CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgfnXIwWiDdJhTqyoKJ3JOOBIJw95pky-j72oet2KYeVfMWSt6htU-MLVgYgMjs04-OK4XGA_j_TEhZScUP8dYP15RUvD-YHIeTO4CiX-ZQWvUIGwv8Kc_6vS6To1EuwLHSS4XYwo8qol_GFRE30URNZgFWMozcVsVraK1tZUiyXC9PYtbNIMlN8MU-VMAPywz2sQRrNu_jvUNihBBJCEoKfeKQ=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: auto; max-width: 300px; outline: none; padding-bottom: 0px; vertical-align: bottom;" tabindex="0" width="264" /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="right" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImageGroupContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 273px;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImageGroupContent" style="margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-right: 9px; padding-top: 0px;" valign="top"><img alt="" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImage CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhaRj1PFnnpG7D9hPGQrJtXYmiyS-Yxpol106tNDnKufFFJTdQrLSqI5uaXlyRBDgSOqSviNt0eESOqzkbwdkLSamOSMaqa7yrzd_O_U5u7hPexpvXayLjZn2uLZBUhdC0mQaclBtS-1a8R36EMshNKlDngZHf2foTZi8WGEz7F4mC4ytqMOxrkBdVUQZmAD27Dbon80GFiGrbBfjfENzARBt5C=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: auto; max-width: 300px; outline: none; padding-bottom: 0px; vertical-align: bottom;" tabindex="0" width="264" /></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImageGroupBlockInner" style="margin: 0px; padding: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImageGroupContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 273px;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImageGroupContent" style="margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 9px; padding-top: 0px;" valign="top"><img alt="" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImage CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgZkcM8fnxqjQ7k0Ti7xoteGpO7KhojnY7Wk6XOg5JBWUhopybguoj5c1h_gHMYNTghBBbrK3VMEbTKGp5aXaR_Tx3vUGu2rGfzB-bbz1khckB1-JLvnTNP1BywlzW9UMDDcKEgEcUrfVnbHBOvAQBMwzjMRho0Dt4LmxvjGOUQs52DyURDThu_iJJD13IW60ldNWIAcY4dLf4hFMu_4IM39M4e=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: auto; max-width: 300px; outline: none; padding-bottom: 0px; vertical-align: bottom;" tabindex="0" width="264" /></td></tr></tbody></table><table align="right" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImageGroupContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 273px;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImageGroupContent" style="margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-right: 9px; padding-top: 0px;" valign="top"><img alt="" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnImage CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEjFHF0U1oU-XHiis3M-XJKpGEeDLvjAlqy5T_HSIiURFVHzXutWWXYNWRs4gd7tW690BYBLJr2163nPpEHiZ2TJWksKlJ5drqC_RoCU14_p5sLFlXlzClH8Dkc7_pkR8tHh_ctUianbNoXK7EiY4Vf2HrJojwxOnyLAIT__K2u4kh5L37hJi2NUTO5vqmZfSMPnS4UKXahhu-UgG_sbMHc5kTFw=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: auto; max-width: 300px; outline: none; padding-bottom: 0px; vertical-align: bottom;" tabindex="0" width="264" /></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top">Noho ora mai<br />.<br /><span style="color: red;">Happy New Year</span><br /><br />from The Team<br /><br />Butler Point</td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnBoxedTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding: 9px 18px;"><table border="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContentContainer" style="background-color: #404040; border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContent" style="color: #f2f2f2; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px; margin: 0px; padding: 18px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top">Acknowledgements<br /><br />Michael Wynd, Researcher - National Museum of the Royal NZ Navy</td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr><tr><td align="center" id="m_6055636886710678620templateBody" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: center center; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: cover; border-bottom: 0px; border-top: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 54px; padding-top: 36px;" valign="top"><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620templateContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 600px !important; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620bodyContainer" style="background: none center center / cover no-repeat transparent; border-bottom: 0px; border-top: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnDividerBlock" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; table-layout: fixed !important; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; min-width: 100%; padding: 18px 18px 0px;"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_6055636886710678620mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><em>Copyright © 2023 Butler Point Whaling Museum</em><br /><br /><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://butlerpoint.us11.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3Dc526ce3c0b95a3b0a3e09750a%26id%3Df54287e69e%26e%3D049aaaa226&source=gmail&ust=1703455034391000&usg=AOvVaw0xpIa-0cuGHQEg7b_wP0xJ" href="https://butlerpoint.us11.list-manage.com/track/click?u=c526ce3c0b95a3b0a3e09750a&id=f54287e69e&e=049aaaa226" style="color: #007c89;" target="_blank">http://www.butlerpoint.co.nz</a></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-89061419226478228362023-12-18T15:19:00.005+13:002023-12-19T09:23:00.498+13:00THE NIGHTINGALE<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjm4DMYIG1YsiyqPL_FvlPADUxGERSK-LlYqtnyfDtputpWqFWnh1VX-xenaQPNSGnMp9x30dT5h0O02hjbHppNgVzaVcGRwtSraVeqWX3kkGPwtgEMIcuRy7LoBNoEbitH0GbgpL_aehzdQcTR8IfZxmHMlmg9AcbnyplsQyalcHMq-wsOMn-l68DJRgE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="183" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjm4DMYIG1YsiyqPL_FvlPADUxGERSK-LlYqtnyfDtputpWqFWnh1VX-xenaQPNSGnMp9x30dT5h0O02hjbHppNgVzaVcGRwtSraVeqWX3kkGPwtgEMIcuRy7LoBNoEbitH0GbgpL_aehzdQcTR8IfZxmHMlmg9AcbnyplsQyalcHMq-wsOMn-l68DJRgE=w213-h320" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Tasmania is a starkly beautiful island, much closer in nature to New Zealand than the continent of mainland Australia. The bush and the landscape "feel" the same, though much more sepia colored. There is a darkness there, too, darker than New Zealand, a shadow cast by a brutal history. I will never forget the chill that descended over me when I first explored the ruins of the prison at Port Arthur, where the worst of convicts met the worst of punishments. Chosen by the lieutenant governor, Sir George Arthur, for its site -- on a narrow isthmus, almost entirely surrounded by shark-infested waters -- it was a place where dreadful things happened on a daily basis. An aura of despair clings to the ruins; later, I was not surprised at all that a modern mass shooting was carried out there. Its history of violence has seeped into the stones.</p><p>A completely callous man, Sir George Arthur set out from the day he took office, in May 1824, to wage war against the indigenous people, the Aborigines of Tasmania. It was called the "Black War." His first move was to station small gangs of soldiers in remote parts of the island, to "protect" the settlers, which in effect meant lynching and shooting the Aboriginal men, and raping, then killing, the women. He even put a bounty on the heads of these unfortunate first owners of the land, first for live men, then for live women and children, and finally for the heads of dead Aboriginals. </p><p>And this astounding film depicts this dark history exactly, laying bare the brutality, cruelty and barbaric ignorance that marked the colonisation of the island by the British.</p><p>Clare (played superbly by Aisling Franciosi) is a young Irishwoman with an angelic singing voice, called "The Nightingale." The crime that landed her on the far side of the world is never described, but it must have been minor, as she had worked out her sentence long before this story starts. She has been allowed to marry Aidan, who is also Irish, so this film is in Gaelic as well as English, and it is heart-touching to hear Clare and her husband converse lovingly in that musical language.</p><p>They have a little baby, a hut, and a horse, and both, technically, should be free. Both should have been given their "tickets of leave" -- meaning that they would not be forced to keep on serving the local military detachment. But the lieutenant in charge -- Hawkins, played with barely restrained savagery by Sam Claflin -- refuses to give them these "papers." When Clare persists, he rapes her. She flees to her husband, but then Hawkins and two of his soldiers arrive in the hut, and in the ensuing fracas they murder her husband, and kill her baby. A gang rape follows, and Clare is left for dead. </p><p>Instead, she survives. Her body is mostly intact, but her mind is damaged. She is set on revenge. </p><p>Hawkins and the soldiers have left the outpost, however. With a small retinue of convicts, they are heading across the interior to Launceston, so that Hawkins can apply for a promotion. Clare is determined to follow and kill them, but to get across the island she needs a Black tracker. It is impossible, otherwise, though she dislikes the idea. The young man who is coopted (Mangana, played with remarkable passion and sensitivity by Baykall Ganambarr) is equally reluctant to be her guide. He has other priorities -- his father, brothers, and uncles have been murdered by the English, and he is set on his own mission of revenge. What tips the balance of the argument in Clare's favor is that she convinces him that she is Irish, not English, and that she hates the English as much as he does. As she tells him, they share a common history of colonisation and subjugation and misery. </p><p>And there is something more, a mythic connection -- he is Mangana, a blackbird, and she is Clare, the nightingale. The birds that will save them. </p><p>Perhaps.</p><p>And so the slow chase unfolds, with occasional violent encounters.</p><p>This film is not an easy watch, but it is unfailingly gripping. There are moments that stand out: Clare suffers with her engorged breasts, and Mangana makes her a paste that the women of his tribe used to dry up milk, and performs a smoke ceremony to make her better. Mangana is staunchly grim -- until one of the few moments of kindness breaks down that barrier of stoicism. A liberal-minded farmer who shelters them for the night insists that Mangana sits at the supper table, and the Aboriginal is so overtaken with emotion that he sobs.They come across a party of settlers with captured warriors, who tell Mangana in the <i>palawa kani </i>language that all of his people are dead. Angered by the unintelligible conversation, the Englishmen shoot the captives, and then cut off their heads, and Mangana and Clare grasp their chance to run away and avoid being captured themselves. But now Mangana's spirit is as damaged and wrathful as hers. </p><p>There is much to shock in this very graphic film, but the shock is justified. It is utterly and absolutely authentic. All those terrible things really did happen. The Tasmanian natives were wiped out, completely. Their <i>palawa kani</i> language had to be reconstructed by the writers, as there has been no one to speak it for many generations now. Baykall Ganambarr is Yolngu, from the far north of the Northern Territory, meaning that the actor was emotionally almost as far from the scene of action as the fictional Clare was from her home in Ireland. That is a fact that I found starkly revealing in itself.</p><p>And the convicts were treated as badly, too, particularly the women. The soldiers were exactly as ignorant and dissolute as portrayed. Bernard Cornwell, in his Sharpe series, set in the Indian and Napoleonic Wars, is equally as unstinting in describing the soldiers of the time, but there are happy overtones in his tales. There were no happy overtones in Tasmania, Norfolk Island and New South Wales. The soldiers did not want to go there, and no one volunteered. Taken as a whole, and barring many exceptions, they were scum. </p><p>If you don't believe me, read "<a href="https://tinyurl.com/yc3nmvt4">The Brutal History Behind Jennifer Kent's 'The Nightingale'</a>." </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguvhB8xYoghfWSIf3WUPNlYmOCJVkABSY4cct9r5RhYq_8DcsVVve741k5JvnHrPjCVy9Ekhr7MfBa_bApNlqYt_A7X3Zw7AU1zSPVS2ugfQlF0n42t0cYUEfz9-TomgCoAbGY93phcbrZurZa10LogkPHJNc-5bKLVamZcv3ACEXTlfRH3nbSXQTF8lM" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1241" data-original-width="1700" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguvhB8xYoghfWSIf3WUPNlYmOCJVkABSY4cct9r5RhYq_8DcsVVve741k5JvnHrPjCVy9Ekhr7MfBa_bApNlqYt_A7X3Zw7AU1zSPVS2ugfQlF0n42t0cYUEfz9-TomgCoAbGY93phcbrZurZa10LogkPHJNc-5bKLVamZcv3ACEXTlfRH3nbSXQTF8lM" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-66623584164380592822023-12-11T12:35:00.001+13:002023-12-11T12:35:11.111+13:00LEAVE THE WORLD BEHIND<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdUjbXYujs-Ef2z0tgAkaRlu2vEGLnLdHnVeyet6hsAjUr_NKucUHoE0iEJIvuRHCi4_fcuIAJpafHwNIun5fGKYGApMicQKIVm84Br0a_QP-FZAgTA3-hiA0Zc2kXsvOfsSsqHuH6Zuv68GLYKX3xZmiLHziMHDkaRirL9crhSPvRFx25nMAAKdBxcus" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="1240" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdUjbXYujs-Ef2z0tgAkaRlu2vEGLnLdHnVeyet6hsAjUr_NKucUHoE0iEJIvuRHCi4_fcuIAJpafHwNIun5fGKYGApMicQKIVm84Br0a_QP-FZAgTA3-hiA0Zc2kXsvOfsSsqHuH6Zuv68GLYKX3xZmiLHziMHDkaRirL9crhSPvRFx25nMAAKdBxcus" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>I have been watching Swedish thriller series lately. "A Nearly Normal Family" wasn't bad, with some interesting camera work. It was the story of a family that was desperately trying to support their 19-year-old daughter, who had fallen for the glamor of an entrepreneur who was far too old for her. It was a slow story, but thought-provoking with its undercurrents of rape and drugs. Yes, definitely worth following -- so I followed it up with another Swedish series, "Quicksand" which was about -- guess what -- a family coping with a girl who had fallen for the glamor of a young man whose family was mega-rich, partly because the early part of the courtship took place on a luxury yacht. But then the drugs, rape, and various ways young people can harm each other started to sound and look just far too much like a clone of the first. Do Swedish teenagers all binge-drink, drug their minds, and rut like rabbits? </p><p>I turned it off and looked for another. And found the latest Julia Roberts outing, "Leave the World Behind."</p><p>Julia is showing her age, but hell, she is a great actress. Only someone really committed to her craft would allow the makeup department make her look so awful. But it surely suited the part -- of a woman who is successful in her trade of making people buy things they don't really want or need, and has become beyond cynical. As she says in the opening scene, "I fucking hate people."</p><p>So to get away from this ghastly Big Apple scene for a little, she rents an Air BnB that turns out to be a mansion somewhere near the beach in Long Island. Husband is amenable (though a little put out when the liquor cabinet turns out to be locked) and the two kids are fine with it too, as long as they have unlimited screen time. </p><p>But then Things Start Happening. This is a dystopian thriller where Hitchcock's "Birds" meets Adam McKay's "Don't Look Up," with overtones from Hugh Howey's amazing Wool, Shift, Dust series. It is also reminiscent of an old classic, E.M. Master's "The Machine Stops." Because the machine indeed does stop.</p><p>First, an oil tanker steams right up onto the beach where the family are picnicking. Then the TV goes on the fritz, right after flashing a warning of a total and critical emergency, nation-wide. Phones go off grid after briefly flashing a similar warning. Aircraft come crashing out of the air. Flamingoes blunder into their pool. The back yard is suddenly full of an immense herd of deer. Drones drop pamphlets declaring war on America. Self-driven cars run amok until they crash, in a great scene that is straight out of Howey.</p><p>During all this mayhem, two strangers have arrived at the door. They are the actual owners of the mansion, but have trouble convincing the family of that, plus the uncomfortable fact that they are all facing the same emergency.</p><p>It's a great movie, with a curiously satisfying ending. Watch it on Netflix -- but not if you are prone to vertigo. Some of the camera work is really, really strange.</p><p>But then, strangeness is totally appropriate. </p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-66837389894878273352023-12-07T16:29:00.003+13:002023-12-07T16:29:31.393+13:00NIMROD OF THE SEA<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjAd9eAOrA0SW6-rN6FhnHDWRjC4mtM4GBwCiVqSiQ1JID5Bg7FU2HQeqJNDRYWQKsv04qyN3mKd2UYylrO4aEqxX3jYJRrGXLZXPOCPyVYEZmC-XMXxD25-y0gk31-gjo1jBSo1yqVwo-9WAacLBuO9ua3A2xGajXaX4O_NoiUJ59yGxCNZJZ1_JN42uI" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="246" data-original-width="205" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjAd9eAOrA0SW6-rN6FhnHDWRjC4mtM4GBwCiVqSiQ1JID5Bg7FU2HQeqJNDRYWQKsv04qyN3mKd2UYylrO4aEqxX3jYJRrGXLZXPOCPyVYEZmC-XMXxD25-y0gk31-gjo1jBSo1yqVwo-9WAacLBuO9ua3A2xGajXaX4O_NoiUJ59yGxCNZJZ1_JN42uI" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Capt. James R. Huntting was born in Bridgehampton, NY, on January
21, 1825, a son of Deacon Edward Huntting.
He was a well-known figure in his home town, partly because of his
commanding height (six feet, six inches), partly because of his full-lunged
voice (he could be heard from one end of the main street to the other), but
mostly because of the flamboyant stories told of his dash, strangth, and
courage. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">According to the sea reminiscences of William M. Davis in <i>Nimrod
of the Sea</i>, Captain ‘Jim’ was perfectly unfazed when a man who had been
tangled up in a whaleline was brought on board more dead than alive:<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">‘… it was found that a portion of the hand including four
fingers had been torn away, and the foot sawed through at the ankle, leaving
only the great tendon and the heel suspended to the lacerated stump … Saved
from drowning, the man seemed likely to meet a more cruel death, unless some
one had the nerve to perform the necessary amputation … But Captain Jim was not
the man to let any one periash on [such] slight provication. He had his carving
knife, carpenter’s saw and a fish-hook. The injury was so frightful and the
poor fellow’s groans and cries so touching, that several of the crew fainted in
their endeavors to aid the captain in the opeation, and others sickened and
turned away from the sight. Unaided, the captain then lashed his screaming patient to the carpenter’s
bench, amputated the leg and dressed the hand.’<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Though he went to sea first at the age of 16, little of Jim’s early
seafaring career is known, in contrast to his flamboyant record as
master. He first went out in command of the <i>Nimrod</i>, sailing in September
1848 and returning exactly two years later, and then took out the <i>Jefferson</i>
on two voyages, the first in November 1850, and the second in October 1853.
After getting home in March 1857, he took over the <i>General Scott</i> of
Fairhaven, sailing in October 1858, and returning in May 1862. His last command
was the <i>Fanny </i>of New Bedford, which he took out in September 1864, and
getting home to retire in April 1869.<i><o:p></o:p></i></p><p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> He married
Martha White, the daughter of Deacon John White, who had been born on May 15,
1828. She sailed with him, despite the certainty of grisly sights. On the <i>Lexington</i>,
June 26, 1855, Eliza Brock noted that Capt. Manchester of the <i>Coral</i> ‘reports the loss of ship
Jefferson of Sag Harbor, lost in Cape Elizabeth two days ago in the Fog ... all
saved, Mrs. Hunting, Captain’s wife, was with him. So much bad news makes me feel
sad.’ Unnecessary in this case, for the report was wrong: it was the <i>Jefferson</i> of New London, Captain James
M. Williams (who carried his wife and family), that was lost. </span></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-15855162845066058562023-12-05T10:42:00.002+13:002023-12-05T10:42:53.198+13:00FIXING FAST FASHION<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDcS3dLG6E0lghU3IcQJFB-PaC_pOpyrH1MohQ2LMz0uSeLsUh53TtUUbhkePzSzM4txx7D4GF1Ca_OJGVT1F3qlvQR28eLqK5Kw7qxML-0O5WiJGou1QLTGE9afkDtDssJTThBf-7B38KETZDQ6MKhncrYhqRIsqwgi07b5lN0D0LY8HFz1qRTeVWE2g" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="700" height="103" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDcS3dLG6E0lghU3IcQJFB-PaC_pOpyrH1MohQ2LMz0uSeLsUh53TtUUbhkePzSzM4txx7D4GF1Ca_OJGVT1F3qlvQR28eLqK5Kw7qxML-0O5WiJGou1QLTGE9afkDtDssJTThBf-7B38KETZDQ6MKhncrYhqRIsqwgi07b5lN0D0LY8HFz1qRTeVWE2g" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td align="left" class="m_-2126731893948198739em_grey" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #2a2a2a; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 24px; font-weight: 700; line-height: 28px; margin: 0px;" valign="top"><strong>Volunteers fight fast fashion</strong></td></tr><tr><td height="10" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 0px; height: 10px; line-height: 0px; margin: 0px;"> </td></tr><tr><td align="center" style="border-collapse: collapse; margin: 0px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 30px;"><tbody><tr><td bgcolor="#3b827a" height="3" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 0px; height: 3px; line-height: 0px; margin: 0px;"><img alt=" " border="0" class="CToWUd" data-bit="iit" height="1" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgwKSzpVGGaWaN0g7ptXGaMXD29D5bBKwRSri5StpDB_ZKRkbHQKzJJ6zqt5mOQqle1hVPWabWRl__afKqKcLg4xZ-SNetjDFPBlcSCGqpwgV6gXqcho1U_fWyAufHZiSezKuaM5uJtMqMjtLPzQs1gtRR0qzHW_tBQgMKA3yv9osYHeLahNDSHw6EJOhIlco8F6D0yoXCrzyWtrTh777F3nzg_=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px !important; display: block; outline: none !important;" width="1" /></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr><tr><td height="16" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 0px; height: 16px; line-height: 0px; margin: 0px;"> </td></tr><tr><td align="left" class="m_-2126731893948198739em_black" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 22px; margin: 0px;" valign="top"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 18px;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: verdana, geneva, sans-serif;">In New Zealand, Far North volunteers are breathing new life into donated clothing.<br /><br />FIXation, based in Russell, Bay of Islands, is a group of up to 20 local volunteers who fix and resell clothes, with all profits going back into the community.<br /><br />The initiative began shortly after the 2020 lockdown, when the Russell St John’s Opportunity Shop received 125 bin bags of clothes.<br /><br />“It was chaotic,” volunteer Lynette Cooper said.<br /><br />Through the work of the volunteers, just three bags went to landfill. The rest were repaired or repurposed, then sold.<br /><br />“A lot of the items were polyester, but we decided if they’re not made of natural fibres, we should prolong their lives, because that’s the only way to keep them out of landfill,” Lynette said.<br /><br />The repairs varied from fixing a hem, darning a hole, sewing a button, or simply giving it a wash. Items beyond repair were repurposed into “rag rugs” or turned into yarn.<br /><br />“It’s the way we used to live,” she said. “In our day, our mothers made dresses with large hems, so that they could hem them up or down before giving to the next child in the family.<br /><br />“Then fast fashion took a hold on everyone. Now we’re trying to bring [our mothers’ philosophy] back.”<br /><br />Most of the clothes are sold, but there are also “koha bins” for people to take as needed.<br /><br />FIXation also contributes to the community with initiatives such as a fashion show with repaired clothing that donated the profits to the local school. The volunteers also help to teach school children to repair their own clothes.<br /><br />It also sent 30 pillowcases full of clothing to Vanuatu last year.<br /><br />While the group is mostly older women, there are also teenagers and a person with a disability who volunteer.<br /><br />Lynette encourages others to get involved in their community.<br /><br />“It doesn’t have to be sewing, it could be a community garden.<br /><br />“I live out of town, and I got used to staying at home, but I decided I needed to go out and be involved in the community.<br /><br />“The great thing about a small town like Russell is there’s a lot of DIY and people offering to help one another, and doing what needs doing.”</span></span></td></tr></tbody></table>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-58914381331164414272023-12-01T10:28:00.004+13:002023-12-01T10:28:43.493+13:00BEFORE SUNRISE<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoOAbZlQWhuVVneX91uBxv_PxPp--IIMMYMgLMKEWjSkIVzRxHe3ScCNRLM6VTWC48FiWzK85H_49ntfCvm-gSgBE_VqV_PTXcwJ8dAIZ19SDX5BV3a_YZZCKjFJoWQDSbTFVGI1KllzmRIynnDkkJUDVB_hJYxPUCDc8QpSE0gqMNeMrOJCALzSMrjNo" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="276" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhoOAbZlQWhuVVneX91uBxv_PxPp--IIMMYMgLMKEWjSkIVzRxHe3ScCNRLM6VTWC48FiWzK85H_49ntfCvm-gSgBE_VqV_PTXcwJ8dAIZ19SDX5BV3a_YZZCKjFJoWQDSbTFVGI1KllzmRIynnDkkJUDVB_hJYxPUCDc8QpSE0gqMNeMrOJCALzSMrjNo" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>How come I have never heard of this wonderful film before?</p><p>An Indie production, <i>Before Sunrise</i> was filmed in Vienna in 1995. It tells the story of two kids, both 23 years old, who meet on a train. She is French, with excellent English, and he is a broke American, and they are both travelling on a Eurail pass.</p><p>She is heading back to Paris, where she is at the Sorbonne; he is heading for Vienna, to catch a plane back home. The plane leaves the next day.</p><p>She is seated close to a German couple who are having a massive fight. Tiring of it, she moves to another seat, across the aisle from the American boy. They get into conversation, find they both have crazy ideas about the world and life, find they are really compatible. So, the train arrives at Vienna, and he gets off. Then he has a thought. He rushes back on board, and talks her into spending the night walking about Vienna, and catching the train again in the morning. </p><p>And she agrees!</p><p>From then on it is a glorious discovery of Vienna. The camera does the wonderful old city proud. And its people, too. There are the two German students who are staging a play. One is the cow. And then there is the palm reader, who tells them they are strangers on a voyage of discovery. And there is the bar tender who falls for the American's romantic story, and gives them a bottle of wine. And of course they drink it in the park. And ride a gondola at Prater Park. And dance in the Vienna woods.</p><p>I did all that, aeons ago when I was that age, and I went to the opera, too. Vienna is intoxicating.</p><p>The film itself is even more so. As one prominent reviewer wrote, it is impossible to pick out one magical scene without doing an injustice to all the other magical scenes. The directing and minimalist script are just perfect. Believe it or not, it has a 100% rating on Rotten Tomatoes.</p><p>And the ending is perfect, too. Apparently it is the first in a trilogy -- Before Sunset and Before Midnight being the next two. I am not sure I will watch them, as I most passionately do not want to risk spoiling the magic of this one.</p><p>Watch it. I saw it on Netflix. The best offering this year -- and there have been some good ones.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/6MUcuqbGTxc" width="320" youtube-src-id="6MUcuqbGTxc"></iframe></div><br /><p></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-31293980670025129602023-11-26T14:58:00.003+13:002023-11-26T15:02:21.632+13:00The wreck of L'Uranie<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSfoJwokgZE0a-mEquNZWpWMZlk365liEzL9qcSnbIAgdITZ8ODEfl1WnQEUmzlHsbx9TA3bnaqgU2KCKadDUeRyY9gCYBKumUzWDCeb_JL8QVgFSJ7gdQZH2z05kYDb5oFGI19azI-4VAfvw9YPrJNFsZ2boR26uxiBmECNQmxiUCssOvH9lJwuycd8/s1267/Rose%20de%20Freycinet..jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1267" data-original-width="1011" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSfoJwokgZE0a-mEquNZWpWMZlk365liEzL9qcSnbIAgdITZ8ODEfl1WnQEUmzlHsbx9TA3bnaqgU2KCKadDUeRyY9gCYBKumUzWDCeb_JL8QVgFSJ7gdQZH2z05kYDb5oFGI19azI-4VAfvw9YPrJNFsZ2boR26uxiBmECNQmxiUCssOvH9lJwuycd8/s320/Rose%20de%20Freycinet..jpg" width="255" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">This is a rather long post. But 22-year-old Rose de Freycinet is one of my favorite heroines of the sea.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Gentle young
Rose was not even supposed to be there.
Back on September 17, 1817, she had dressed up in a suit of blue
frockcoat and trousers, and just after midnight she had sneaked on board the
corvette <i>Uranie. </i>This was not because
she was naturally daring, or a cross-dresser, but because she wanted to
accompany her beloved husband, Captain Louis-Claude de Freycinet, on a
discovery expedition to the Pacific.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Rose remained hidden in the captain’s cabin until the vessel
was well away from the French coast.
Then her husband made her presence public by inviting the officers,
chaplain, and the expedition artist to a tea party where Rose, still in male
attire, presided. According to her, it
was a happy occasion. “I received them
with a great deal of pleasure and I had a good laugh listening to the various
hypotheses which each one had formulated about my identity.” And the officers
did not seem to mind, either, agreeing one and all that the dainty little lady
with the charming manners and very agreeable appearance was a fit companion for
her aristocratic husband—though some people said that during mess dinners the
conversation about the dining table was more sharp-edged with brilliant wit
than it might have been without a woman to impress. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When the news broke in France,
reactions varied wildly. On October 4,
the editor of the <i>Monitor Universel</i>
declared, “this example of conjugal devotion deserves to be made public.” Reportedly, Louis XVIII was amused. The Lieutenant-Governor of Gibraltar, the
first official to receive visitors from <i>L’Uranie,</i>
was not, and neither was the French Ministry of the Navy. Women were not supposed to travel in ships of
the State, and yet Madame was there—in male clothing! It was unsupportable. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One result of this was that every
now and then the artists of the expedition painted the same scene twice, one
work being true to life, and the other <i>sans</i>
Madame. This subterfuge was necessary
for the official record, <i>Voyage autour du
Monde … exécuté sur les corvettes de S. M. L’Uranie et La Physicienne,</i>
which was prepared by de Freycinet and published between 1827 and 1839. Madame herself was embarrassed that her
presence was against the rules. She was
not comfortable in men’s clothing. The
only time she was glad of it was when the corvette was pursued by an Algerian
corsair. The prospect of being enslaved
was bad enough, but “the thought of a seraglio evoked even more unpleasant
images in my mind, and I hoped to escape that fate thanks to my male disguise.” Luckily, the corsair veered off after
counting the corvette’s cannon, and the possibility of the disguise being
penetrated was averted. Then, after a
disastrous meeting with the scandalized Governor of Gibraltar, it was decided that she should
abandon male dress altogether, much to her relief.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But then, there was the crew. When Rose first arrived on deck the men were
deferential, leaving the lee side of the ship so she could walk in reasonable
privacy. They did their best to refrain from swearing, too, but inevitably
their self-imposed discipline lapsed, a curse slipped out, and Rose was forced
to concentrate her troubled gaze on the water.
This, once noticed, was considered a very good joke, and so from then on
the men would swear and sing rude ditties just loud enough for her to hear,
while the boatswain tried to shut them up by making violent signs behind her
back. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the end, Madame was forced to
keep out of sight as much as possible.
As the <i>Dictionnaire de Biographie
Français </i>remarked afterwards, this was an admirable display of “moral
superiority over the crew,” but it did have the disadvantage that it made life
on the rolling wave very boring—though Rose herself denied this, declaring she
was happy enough with her guitar, her journal, and her sewing. She revealed herself more frankly when, on
September 12, 1819, on departure from Oahu, she noted ruefully that “this part
of the voyage will be greatly prolonged.”
Louis had made the decision “in order to collect data on the magnetic equator. However much I respect science, I am not fond
of it,” she complained; “nor am I likely to be reconciled to it by Louis’
prolonging of the voyage, which holds nothing terribly exciting for me. It is true that this work is one of the main
objectives,” she allowed, but it was inescapably boring. “If only, like so many travelers, we were
fortunate enough to discover some new island.” </p><p class="MsoNormal">Louis had promised her that if
they did find an unclaimed dot of land, he would name it after her. And lo, two months later, in latitude 14º 32’
42”, they did indeed find an atoll that was so insignificant that it did not
seem to have a name—and so Rose had her wish, even though she was not supposed
to be there. “Let’s see, what shall we
call it?” the artist, Arago, mused in a letter to a friend, his tongue firmly
in his cheek. “Let it be a flowery
name. Shall it be Green Island, Red
Island, or … No, I suppose it will be Rose Island.”<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio_AksJngb_AX5x88jK-Q_DlI9huWlmYm5jiBo2eHYG2I4Rzcf7JJzM8UeqUIETOYQRN51GFe-XKCn4ElMqWTBtWhr3atRnvW_dxMFeOa6vVNlMvimiLWHp6urdf6w1GA6kgG_Poql3w-G0Y9NsgvAaNaJl7MJDl3H4ujgF-UMi-tNceHO-0ViBX23ieU/s3048/Chapter%20heading%20-%20whaleship%20making%20landfall.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1398" data-original-width="3048" height="92" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio_AksJngb_AX5x88jK-Q_DlI9huWlmYm5jiBo2eHYG2I4Rzcf7JJzM8UeqUIETOYQRN51GFe-XKCn4ElMqWTBtWhr3atRnvW_dxMFeOa6vVNlMvimiLWHp6urdf6w1GA6kgG_Poql3w-G0Y9NsgvAaNaJl7MJDl3H4ujgF-UMi-tNceHO-0ViBX23ieU/w200-h92/Chapter%20heading%20-%20whaleship%20making%20landfall.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">At other times, Rose was terrified
to the point of biting her fingers until they bled. And yet, she never regretted her decision to
defy custom and sail with her beloved husband.
She had sailed to be with him, and to care for him when he was sick or
weary, and no one could nurse him as she could! In ports (with the exception of Gibraltar) <i>La Jolie Commandante</i> —as the officers dubbed her—was an asset, too,
for Madame was a marvelous ambassador, being most loyally French and a
natural diplomat. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">While her husband navigated his
ship at sea and measured eclipses on shore, with equal <i>élan</i> she threaded her way through colonial jealousies and strange
points of etiquette. When Rose decided
not to attend a ball at Government House in Mauritius (because she did not
think the expense of a new gown was worth it), she developed a migraine to
avoid the social blunder being seen at a dinner party staged by her host that
night. She was equally adept with native
peoples. Rose was amused when the
Caroline Islanders burst into roars of laughter every time the corvette’s
officers politely raised their hats to each other—”We must, indeed, appear as
strange to the natives as they are to us”—and only a little taken aback when a
woman in Guam, after complimenting her on her curly hair, offered to come on
board and seek out her head lice. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Dietary customs fooled her
completely, especially when Moslem guests left the table in horror after pork
was served, but a Papuan pirate chief who “became very attached” to her chairs
was immediately presented one. Another
Papuan inhaled all the pepper on the table, ate all their pickles, and asked
for “the plate, the glass and the bottle” he had used. These were gladly given (though she refused
him the napkin), for Rose found him such excellent company. She even maintained her poise when some of
the Hawaiian men startled her by throwing off all their clothes, layer by
layer, as they got hotter and hotter while working their way through enormous
meals.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her descriptions provide a view of
the early nineteenth century that is as feminine as it is French. There was,
for instance, the celestial singing at a religious festival in Rio de Janeiro,
in which the voices, “though far too sweet and melodious to belong to men, had
a virile force and a vigor which were not characteristic of women’s
voices. I was overwhelmed,” Madame
declared, and took the first opportunity to ask details. “The answer”—that the singers were <i>castrati</i>—”conjured up a cruelty I could
never have imagined before that day!” <i>Quelle horreur</i>! What a waste!
More amusing were the native girls whom a party from <i>L’Uranie</i> surprised bathing in the
Marianas, who screamed with embarrassment and flew to cover themselves, but
were more concerned with veiling their backs than their breasts. “Methinks the gentlemen were not tempted to
take issue with them on this matter!” And only a Frenchwoman, surely, would
slyly remark, as Rose did, that a certain Australian was not just “very pretty,”
but had “a ravishing ankle, or so Louis noticed.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5z9d9_KnlL0Tmo-kHz92D5YCpYJnNuWt8e13etzDbxnLFZqtxLfnFG9eYPLkshR5LI2ogpOcddBjlip8bvNyAzt24oaQJCTlpl5jPd5FLaEsH0Qlv5q4sQ_2uI06ZbmhGozFk_Wzct8R-cJyeIxZ4S9o2JFk53atdyHQ3WXQAI1gAQ4P1L-bH2_xeds/s1045/1815_English_and_French%20dress.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1045" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw5z9d9_KnlL0Tmo-kHz92D5YCpYJnNuWt8e13etzDbxnLFZqtxLfnFG9eYPLkshR5LI2ogpOcddBjlip8bvNyAzt24oaQJCTlpl5jPd5FLaEsH0Qlv5q4sQ_2uI06ZbmhGozFk_Wzct8R-cJyeIxZ4S9o2JFk53atdyHQ3WXQAI1gAQ4P1L-bH2_xeds/w184-h320/1815_English_and_French%20dress.jpg" width="184" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Departing
from Sydney on Christmas Day, 1819, the corvette took the deep southern route around
Campbell and Auckland Islands. She had developed a leak, but instead of
stopping on the way, de Freycinet carried on. They saw their first iceberg on
January 21, 1820, and land was sighted on 7 February—spiked with black rocks,
and covered with short, dense shrubbery. The following day they rounded Cape
Horn in mild, calm weather—”Was this really the notorious Cape?” she asked. As
the ship steered north the weather deteriorated, and so they dropped anchor in
the Straits of Le Maire. Then, while the naturalists were gathered at the rail,
contemplating the lush vegetation and the thousands of birds, the order was
shouted to cut the cable. The current was dragging the corvette onto the rocks.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Getting back to sea was no
improvement, as the gale rose and tore at the rigging until the last sail was
in shreds, making it almost impossible to steer. The ship lunged north for two
stormswept days, until the Falklands were raised. Louis decided to head for
French Bay (now called Uranie Bay) on the northeast coast of East Falkland
Island, where repairs to the ship could be made. They were slowed up by a thick
fog, but on February 14, the headlands surrounding the sheltered bay were
sighted, and the corvette sailed toward them.
All seemed calm and promising, but then they hit a rock. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">
As Rose described it, they were sitting at the table when the ship
stopped in her wake a moment, and then sailed on. The shock was so slight that nothing was
upset, but shortly afterward, water started rushing into the holds. The gentle blow was fatal, for a rock had
pierced the hull. As Rose wrote, it was a dreadful, suspenseful moment—the bay
where they had intended to anchor was still some distance away, and the coast
around it was studded with sharp rocks.
If only the ship could be kept afloat as far as a sandy beach, then the
equipment and natural history collections could be saved before she foundered,
so de Freycinet ordered the entire watch to man the pumps, while the others
steered the ship and managed the sails. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The operation took ten arduous
hours, and all the time Rose was abject with terror. She shut herself in her cabin, “overcome by
the horror of our situation,” and for a while she and the Abbé—the ship’s
chaplain—knelt together in prayer, but then she rallied to help the crew bring
all the ship’s biscuit to the poop, to save it being soaked. As the artist, Arago, put it, <i>la pauvre petite </i>“arranged it all with
the minutest care.” Every now and then
she could be seen at her window, vainly searching the faces of passing sailors
for a sign of hope. And all the time the
men labored at the pump, shouting out crude, wild songs to keep up their
strength and spirits. When Rose cried
out that they must put their trust in the holy Virgin, Arago retorted, “In the
holy pump, Madame!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Whatever the focus of their
prayers, it worked. At three in the
morning a faint, kind breeze wafted them up onto a sandy beach. The barren sandhills that dawn revealed did
not look promising, but the company took the ship’s altar ashore and said a <i>Te Deum</i>.
Luckily, the expedition carried an abundance of tents, so that a village
soon took shape on shore, though in the meantime the company still lived on the
steeply canted ship. The next task was to discharge all the scientific material
from the holds and cabins of the corvette, and stow it in tents according to
order. Providentially, the weather stayed fine. <o:p></o:p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiri1p83xEOBy26QveW8AmTGx93Ygv5zFxvvueR_BEQJ2Hs93SCuIfyBflMcax0iZMCnno9KVV6xCIq5J2RaNCeQnaYfvhdm8-oFwoEBjM-8_IeuqfBR712LmGfU6ipYSk9D5LxNbTwxfvNX_Q6eZ5HNRhN_gkSCw_RkeqVZSOBGi2CWq2sL8_ITJXNIu0/s1160/Shipwreck.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1160" data-original-width="1050" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiri1p83xEOBy26QveW8AmTGx93Ygv5zFxvvueR_BEQJ2Hs93SCuIfyBflMcax0iZMCnno9KVV6xCIq5J2RaNCeQnaYfvhdm8-oFwoEBjM-8_IeuqfBR712LmGfU6ipYSk9D5LxNbTwxfvNX_Q6eZ5HNRhN_gkSCw_RkeqVZSOBGi2CWq2sL8_ITJXNIu0/w181-h200/Shipwreck.jpg" width="181" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Four days later, though, the skies
blackened, the gale rose, and it poured with rain. The beached ship was
battered constantly, and settling further on her side, so that Rose had to go
in and out of her deck cabin through a window, as the door was completely
submerged. It was time to go on shore, and live in a tent. The canvas house had
not been set up properly, however, and so the first night was a torment of
being soaked in bed. When day dawned the
first job was to secure the tent, but no matter how tightly it was secured the
canvas leaked and their bedding was constantly damp—”We shall be most fortunate
if we are not afflicted with rheumatism in our old age.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was now that de Freycinet felt
very thankful that he had shipped tradesmen in his crew, for he had the
necessary carpenters, sailmakers, blacksmiths, and ropemakers to turn the ship’s
longboat into a seaworthy craft. They
called the little vessel <i>L’Espérance—</i>Hope. Hunting and fishing parties were assembled to
go foraging in the hinterland, to save as much preserved food as possible. However, fresh provisions soon became
scarce. For the hunters to track down a
wild horse was an occasion for joy, as otherwise their diet was limited to
penguins or seal meat, roasted or stewed in water with biscuit crumbs for
thickening. A wild snipe was a special
treat. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Incredibly, the scientific work
went on. With wonderful single-mindedness, the scientists built an observatory in preparation for an eclipse of the sun on 15 March. The naturalists
determined which of the local wild herbs was safe to eat, and so Rose and the
Abbé collected celery and purslane for salads to go with the horse meat that the
hunting parties carried in. With joy,
Rose found a sack of flour that the Abbé had intended to use to powder his
hair, and so the cook was able to bake bread. Some essence of hops that had
been procured in Port Jackson was also salvaged, and so Rose took up the role
of expedition brewer, making beer by adding sugar. Then a box of 66 cheeses was
found, making the occasion for a party. But, as Rose privately admitted,
religion was her only real source of consolation.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On March 19, 1820, the sound of “extraordinary
shouting” was the signal that a ship had been raised. Everyone rushed to the top of the sand dune
that was closest to the sea, to see nothing at first, but then a sloop coming
into the harbor. Three guns were fired,
and a white flag raised, and in due course the sloop arrived—when, with French
hospitality, the impoverished settlement offered the newcomers food and drink. “Imagine
our joy at the thought that our exile would soon be over!” wrote Rose. However, they were to be gravely
disappointed.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The sloop, it seemed, was the
tender of a whaler-sealer that was anchored twenty leagues away. They had been hunting seals for the past
eighteen months, and needed another ten months to fill their lading. Louis de Freycinet
told them that he pay the captain well for passage to Rio, but the man in
charge of the sloop refused to go back to the ship—he had been given orders to
fish for eight days, and he dared not return until he had his catch. Showing
him a document from the United States government that enjoined all American
ship captains to render any assistance needed had a better effect; grudgingly,
the sloop-captain agreed to go back, carrying an officer from the <i>Uranie</i> who would convey de Freycinet’s
message.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So off the sloop went, but in no
great haste. Frustratingly, the longboat was now ready for voyage, but
departure had to be postponed until the American captain’s decision was known.
Meantime, too, men were falling sick with colic and diarrhea, probably because
they had been eating penguins. Getting desperate as the days dragged by with
horrible weather and no news from the sealer, de Freycinet planned how to
capture and commandeer the sealing vessel, while Rose agitated about the
violence that this would involve. “May God preserve us and bring back the sloop
bearing good news!”</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7-t4uDRr2KQg5Xwyt5GYh6A5Dygta66jn8jtgtMXDlRE9mkcAeiwZ68w_VXLlMqPFQwgTQiIbupCdaO0ydh0N4fLdu83ZlN4l69gDJpiOy_EoSt4RQUy3xsAjX4lvHtIwxJGZJqx_UHQLwNdQCx-oqpcCWP3s6SNFgHViVifepXtuGG63bWF2ahyE_s4/s1549/Charlotte%20Gladstone.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1549" data-original-width="1055" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7-t4uDRr2KQg5Xwyt5GYh6A5Dygta66jn8jtgtMXDlRE9mkcAeiwZ68w_VXLlMqPFQwgTQiIbupCdaO0ydh0N4fLdu83ZlN4l69gDJpiOy_EoSt4RQUy3xsAjX4lvHtIwxJGZJqx_UHQLwNdQCx-oqpcCWP3s6SNFgHViVifepXtuGG63bWF2ahyE_s4/w136-h200/Charlotte%20Gladstone.jpg" width="136" /></a></div><span><p class="MsoNormal"><span><br /></span></p>A ship finally arrived on March 28—but it was not the whaler-sealer. Instead, it was the 280-ton American merchantman </span><i>Mercury, </i><span>en route to the Pacific. According to the captain, a man named Galvin, she had struck a leak, and he had turned back for repairs. And would he carry them to Rio? Of course he would! But he would need help with fixing the leak first, if the French could assist? That was easy, too. Louis de Freycinet sent twelve of his best shipwrights on board.</span><p></p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">When Rose learned the nature of
the <i>Mercury</i>’s cargo, she should have
become suspicious—it was cannons, for the Chilean rebellion. Which made matters
somewhat inconvenient, as Captain Galvin mused aloud, as he revealed his actual
mission. While it was convenient for him
to carry the French to Valparaiso, on the Pacific coast, Rio was out of the
question, being an Atlantic port. Louis
offered to pay enough money to cover that loss as well as expenses, but the
master only agreed to think about it—though, as the shipwrights reported,
Galvin needed help even more than they did, as the weight of the cannon in the
hold was forcing the planks of the American ship apart. And, what’s more, the Americans were short of
food. Within days, the American captain was begging for rum, as well as the
game that the French hunting parties were bringing in. On the other hand, he
was able to give them some medicine.<o:p></o:p></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIM5jNUiE4z0kuUNRK5S2vEzgc0N_ZK6MEymLIvnPSP3nmPsBvzQiglBkhvPjzhab3l1UHujzjMeQh8TZvv9GnxnpPQApDkVqUWJ46dD24hLvIWqvVfHVviBEm1ivRhXZoLAw2aS6Wvni7Y1-nKJSnUK5L9YPrr6m8cMFAwkF-iaFyzuxsexuBW3Ow2sM/s1626/at%20anchor,%20Moluccan%20sea.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1457" data-original-width="1626" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIM5jNUiE4z0kuUNRK5S2vEzgc0N_ZK6MEymLIvnPSP3nmPsBvzQiglBkhvPjzhab3l1UHujzjMeQh8TZvv9GnxnpPQApDkVqUWJ46dD24hLvIWqvVfHVviBEm1ivRhXZoLAw2aS6Wvni7Y1-nKJSnUK5L9YPrr6m8cMFAwkF-iaFyzuxsexuBW3Ow2sM/w200-h179/at%20anchor,%20Moluccan%20sea.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Then, at last, the sloop arrived,
with the news that the sealer-whaler was in the outer harbor. The whaler was
the <i>General Knox</i> of Salem, and the
captain, named Orne, was willing to carry them to Rio, probably because his
voyage had been so poor. The problem was that his ship had been unrigged to
make a clear platform for flensing the whales that the sloop brought in, and it
would take time and labor to get it seaworthy again. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And, of course, Orne wanted
money—50,000 pieces of eight, or piastres.
Arguing hard, Louis reduced it to 40,000 piastres, telling him at the
same time that he had another offer, from the captain of the <i>Mercury. </i>Waving a casual hand, Orne
declared he was glad of that, because he did not want to miss out on the
whaling season, but nevertheless he kept on bargaining. At the same time, the
captain of the <i>Mercury</i> was
threatening to leave without them, ignoring the fact that the French
shipwrights were still working on his ship.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And so the double blackmail from
the two captains continued. Galvin swore he would sail next day unless some
cable was sent on board; Captain Orne demanded permission to salvage whatever
he liked from the wreck of the corvette, though de Freycinet staunchly refused,
saying that it was the property of the French government, and Rose was
perfectly sure that the crew of the <i>General
Knox</i> would steal everything they could<i>.</i>
Then Galvin agreed to take them to Buenos Aires—only half the distance they
wanted to go—on the payment of 10,000 piastres.
After another bout of argument, he grudgingly offered to take them to Rio de Janeiro for 15,000, but then
abruptly changed his mind, asking eighteen thousand. “This is an enormous price
to pay for the minor inconvenience we shall cause him. But he is a rogue who is trying to profit
from our present predicament,” she angrily wrote. Meantime, Rose packed boxes, and suffered
from the wet and cold, scarcely able to walk because of the agony in her frozen
feet. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally, after a great deal of
insult and shouting, the company boarded the <i>Mercury</i>, two months to the day since the wreck of the
corvette. “<i>Uranie! </i>Poor <i>Uranie!</i>
You who were my abode for so long … we must now forsake you for ever!” Rose’s cabin on the discovery ship had been
small enough, but here she was in a cubby hole with much of the scientific
collection packed around her, lit only by a small round of glass in the deck
overhead, which went abruptly dark every time someone stepped onto it. Worse still, all her painfully gained courage
seemed to be flooding away—just three months ago, she kept on thinking, she was
comfortably housed and very well fed, and the voyage was about to come to an
end. But now she and Louis were in a tiny cramped room on a miserable foreign
vessel, “eating indescribable food with strangers to whom one has to be
pleasant and whom I would often like to send packing.” Little wonder that she could not stop crying.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Fate, yet again, was ironic. The
commander of the Scottish brig <i>Jane</i>,
a 120-ton whaler that had been at anchor in Berkeley Sound (present day Port
Stanley), just along the coast, arrived to declare that he would have been glad
to rescue them all at no cost. This was
Captain James Weddell, a man whose naval career had been interrupted by the end
of the Napoleonic wars, and who went on to become a distinguished Antarctic
explorer. He was delighted with the “extreme
vivacity” of Madame, “who was young and very agreeable.” Louis presented him with the longboat that
the French seamen had worked so hard to turn into a seaworthy cutter, and
Weddell christened her <i>Rose.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Finally, on 27 April, the <i>Mercury</i> set sail, still rife with
dissension. Galvin kept on altering his
demands, while first the passengers and then the French company threatened to
seize the ship. Finally, the dilemma was
settled by buying the ship in the name of the French government, for the same
amount of 18,000 piastres that had been bargained for the passage to Rio. “All this is preferable to coming to blows,”
sighed Rose. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The vacillating, blackmailing
Galvin and his unpleasant passengers were set ashore at Montevideo, along with
their traps, and the French company sailed on to Rio in their new possession,
renamed <i>La</i> <i>Physicienne</i>. Here, Rose
became reacquainted with friends made on the outward passage, listened again to
the <i>castrati</i> (this time without a
tremor), rejoined society, and refurbished her wardrobe. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>La Physicienne</i> was
being repaired and refurbished too . It took over two months, but Brazil’s
gallant Minister of Marine would take no payment for it. They sailed from Rio at
dawn on September 13, 1820. And finally,
on November 13, three years and fifty-seven days since the night Rose de
Freycinet had crept on board, the expedition anchored in Le Havre. It was a moment that Louis and Rose both
welcomed and dreaded, for now they had to face the consequences of their
actions.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Louis was court-martialed for the
loss of his ship. The deliberations
lasted exactly one hour and a half.
Captain Louis-Claude de Saulces de Freycinet was completely exonerated
of all blame, the court finding unanimously that he had done all that prudence
and honor demanded. Rose’s name was not
mentioned, her presence being tactfully ignored. The ordeal seemed behind them. Rose, who had been pale, yellowish, and
sunken-eyed, was once again able to dance all night, and Louis, who had been
sick and racked with worry and pain, was back to noticing elegant ankles. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The voyage, however, was yet to
take its tragic toll. In 1832, when
Louis fell ill in a cholera epidemic, Rose was struck down while nursing him,
dying within hours at the age of thirty-seven.
Heartbroken, Louis survived for another ten years, but, as a friend
remarked, it could not called “living,” for he “only languished.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhui8hrwVP33oc67jJMQBTxSrHOXTocb2WaUaeM89xU4HTSnG4MXaDb_gZ9vZkXsU6DOL8BgncwfaW0kgwuHSzLO1kOs6iwUMEvIcXXNFZj67C99Ry-Rv9aUx9U6Pz57pIrNV_j4iHRaqZnEeGXVFe5H43R645S7hWgSbP0aJp-Nx1TOaKnvaDZsTbZFeQ/s1280/Falklands%20maps%20.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhui8hrwVP33oc67jJMQBTxSrHOXTocb2WaUaeM89xU4HTSnG4MXaDb_gZ9vZkXsU6DOL8BgncwfaW0kgwuHSzLO1kOs6iwUMEvIcXXNFZj67C99Ry-Rv9aUx9U6Pz57pIrNV_j4iHRaqZnEeGXVFe5H43R645S7hWgSbP0aJp-Nx1TOaKnvaDZsTbZFeQ/w640-h360/Falklands%20maps%20.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><p><br /></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-89528582232803247992023-11-14T13:31:00.000+13:002023-11-14T13:31:27.643+13:00"A Fate Worse Than Death"<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52UloudJkVFlXIW7zGQd4myMUxNhs0Y863anNzihniJ8BShxfz-ZFR-PM_ud8_2u1G3TTMnBlZ4O9l5qU7wO6FKH3QuNzhyphenhyphenhHn_FBhbRdRGV9SBt2QyxNEWp5bjEjQjUlRcqCS8crpHJcTS3rRjRagWwZ78rpB8PPetl9iJZo1Tf9c-BznniYL4xqhW0/s1044/Chapter%20heading%20-%20South%20China%20Sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1044" data-original-width="838" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj52UloudJkVFlXIW7zGQd4myMUxNhs0Y863anNzihniJ8BShxfz-ZFR-PM_ud8_2u1G3TTMnBlZ4O9l5qU7wO6FKH3QuNzhyphenhyphenhHn_FBhbRdRGV9SBt2QyxNEWp5bjEjQjUlRcqCS8crpHJcTS3rRjRagWwZ78rpB8PPetl9iJZo1Tf9c-BznniYL4xqhW0/s320/Chapter%20heading%20-%20South%20China%20Sea.jpg" width="257" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">c. Ron Druett 2000</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;"> T</span><span style="text-align: left;">he new bride of
Captain Alonzo Follansbee got quite a shock when she first viewed the
furnishings of the captain’s cabin on his ship. It was May 1837, and she had
just boarded the Boston merchantman </span><i style="text-align: left;">Logan
</i><span style="text-align: left;">for her honeymoon voyage. This was where she was to live for many months —and there, facing her as she walked into the
cabin, was a complete wall “lined with muskets, pistols, cutlasses and boarding
pikes.”</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">When she gasped in stunned surprise, her husband merely remarked in a casual fashion that the weaponry was necessary, as they
were bound to the South China Sea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
that was all the explanation necessary. Having read the journals and shipping
lists, Nancy Follansbee knew exactly what that destination implied. So, being a
practical woman, she took precautions—which turned out to be no good at all.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She found this out, much to her discomfiture, just eleven
months later. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Logan </i>was lying
becalmed in the Straits, the wind having died. The sails hung as limp as
washing on a line, and the ship rolled slowly in the mirror-like turquoise sea.
If danger threatened, it was impossible to take any kind of evasive
action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Therefore it came as a most
unpleasant shock at dawn on April 22, 1838, when the lookout suddenly hollered that a pirate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">prahu</i> was bearing down on them.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pirate
vessel in sight!</i>” he shouted. And when they all looked, it was to see the pirate <i>prahu</i> coming up with astonishing speed,
paddled by lines of powerful native seamen. “Our cannon, swivel guns and
pistols were soon got in readiness,” Nancy Follansbee wrote; “swords, cutlasses,
boarding pikes and ammunition hustled on deck ready for them.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By five in the afternoon the ship was still becalmed and helpless,
and the pirates were less than a mile away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Nancy, however, allowed herself to feel a measure of
self-congratulation, because, as she wrote, she “had practiced loading and
firing guns and pistols at targets all the way out.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that, sadly, was also the moment when she
learned it was unlikely to do her any good whatsoever. Her husband grimly
informed her that her marksmanship “would be of little use.” Even more
depressingly, he went on to meditate in remarkably Victorian terms that once
she fell into pirate hands, her fate “would be worse than death.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, by the grace of God, she was spared that melodramatic
fate—”a good breeze sprang up, and we were soon out of their reach,” and Nancy
sailed on, to become the mother of the first American baby born in the
Celestial Kingdom.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Jupgf8-h5rXjDYBXrfwm3iQeMpujZQLmVyrh0YSIoEuezHzfk_zlaobF8VA2UkWbuifqlputscza8J_EaNvJL9fiQYWRdISDKGRDZZnWorBHb8s0_bimq9MDgCGJSe9Le2r0bpW8xElsj3nrLg0GaBsj3hevl7BuaTYown_yuGxLVFwmBao5lKVVaiY/s341/Madam%20Nancy%20Follansbee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="273" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Jupgf8-h5rXjDYBXrfwm3iQeMpujZQLmVyrh0YSIoEuezHzfk_zlaobF8VA2UkWbuifqlputscza8J_EaNvJL9fiQYWRdISDKGRDZZnWorBHb8s0_bimq9MDgCGJSe9Le2r0bpW8xElsj3nrLg0GaBsj3hevl7BuaTYown_yuGxLVFwmBao5lKVVaiY/s320/Madam%20Nancy%20Follansbee.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Madam" Nancy Follansbee</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRJoFaq-Tkj-EBjIntyGt8q68HQzxQVPmuRveS2-y3tQL3Yz8LW35Pg2DIJqenOLsgSS6UUjAkcsQyUpbstqsHEoC6IM4iMzgOEgT1U7Qh7pEG5jX_gC9QlQrmKyQhc1BfeRZHIaB3w4DJ6DwieWZ24x3wuparWc3fhCtkc1CRqM32-VO3xUHYVdhV3Tg/s1298/logan-like%20ship.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="976" data-original-width="1298" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRJoFaq-Tkj-EBjIntyGt8q68HQzxQVPmuRveS2-y3tQL3Yz8LW35Pg2DIJqenOLsgSS6UUjAkcsQyUpbstqsHEoC6IM4iMzgOEgT1U7Qh7pEG5jX_gC9QlQrmKyQhc1BfeRZHIaB3w4DJ6DwieWZ24x3wuparWc3fhCtkc1CRqM32-VO3xUHYVdhV3Tg/s320/logan-like%20ship.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The <i>Logan</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype", serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">A transcript of Nancy Follansbee’s journal on
the <i>Logan</i> 1837-39 is held at the
Peabody-Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts</span></span><span style="font-family: "Palatino Linotype",serif; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">.</span><p></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-90576281123871201822023-11-03T17:24:00.001+13:002023-11-03T17:24:37.207+13:00The Nantucket Cook<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKcZZeqxXPd68tRo5_neokc9cBNpL_cWyqygr1iDpP_3rwjS4mC6ld6Ls0YoOwRdQ9MQmgp4RBDnOTxlG3GDMnxGb22EAMdVADBGar5VyLDj3Pky7Ni56yfqfR-iYxMkRkgtqrB1TPkwYXNbaKMkVp-7yDR80U1Xn1VoTU3yOk6tKzOCdISZmH_-gKn0/s1208/Woman%20on%20rock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="923" data-original-width="1208" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxKcZZeqxXPd68tRo5_neokc9cBNpL_cWyqygr1iDpP_3rwjS4mC6ld6Ls0YoOwRdQ9MQmgp4RBDnOTxlG3GDMnxGb22EAMdVADBGar5VyLDj3Pky7Ni56yfqfR-iYxMkRkgtqrB1TPkwYXNbaKMkVp-7yDR80U1Xn1VoTU3yOk6tKzOCdISZmH_-gKn0/s320/Woman%20on%20rock.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Any woman who stepped aboard a ship that was bound to exotic
Pacific destinations must have felt a fair number of qualms, shipwreck being
one of the foremost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Death by drowning
was dreaded by mariners of both sexes, but being cast away on a tropical island
― where, as was popularly known, free love was practiced ― held particularly
dire implications for a decent lady. Cannibalism was another ghastly prospect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If shipwreck should indeed happen, the best
she could hope for, perhaps, was that the island where she was cast up by the
sea was uninhabited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">According to an old sea captain, Roland F. Coffin, this last
is exactly what happened to an unnamed seafaring woman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His story started in the whaleboat where he
was one of the oarsmen, at the moment when everyone realized that they’d got
lost after being towed a long way off by a fighting whale. After thirty-six
hours of sailing and rowing about in a fruitless quest for the sight of a sail,
the six men were faint for lack of food and water, so the captain ordered his
boat’s crew to abandon the search and head for the distant islet that one of
the seamen had glimpsed on the horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It took all night to work up to the island, so they did not
land until dawn. Too small to be charted, it seemed quite deserted, but at
least it offered the chance of a drink of coconut milk, if not fresh water.
Then one of the boys—a Nantucketer by the name of Tom Bunker—let out a yell
that he had scented a spring, and when they followed his lead, they found a
pool of beautiful clear water in among some rocks and trees. They drank their
fill, then finally straightened to look around. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Odd thing that there ain’t no birds,” said Tom Bunker
thoughtfully. “Uninhabited islands always have thousands of birds”—and, while
the others were digesting this strange statement, a solitary figure rushed out
of the coconut palms, and then stopped dead, wavering back and forth in obvious
uncertainty and disbelief. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s a native,” said the captain. After waving to the
others to keep back, he approached the figure in a friendly fashion, doing his
utmost with gestures to demonstrate that he meant no harm, and finally the
figure allowed the captain to come close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At which, to the seamen’s surprise, both the captain and the native let
out a yell of amazement, and the native began to caper about.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was then that they found it was a tattered and weather-beaten
American female—and a female from their home port of Nantucket, at that. “It
ain’t no dream; you are real,” she cried, according to Coffin. “Thank God, I am
saved!” </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She was the wife of the captain of a whaleship that had
foundered on the reef. After being washed ashore, she had found to her horror
that she was the only survivor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being a
resourceful soul, though, she had managed remarkably well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had scavenged the wreck for materials for
a cabin, and then, having built it, she had settled down to wait for
rescue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had been waiting, in fact,
for five years—but now, by the grace of God, she was saved!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, as to that, ma’am,” said the captain, and hemmed and
hawed a bit—while of course, he said, they would do everything in their power
to help her, whether she was saved or not was a matter of opinion, because they
were in great need of being saved themselves. Not only had they mislaid their
ship, but they were starving, it being a number of days since their last meal. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Though naturally disappointed, the castaway rallied
fast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First, she took them to the little
hut she had built, and then she told them to sit down outside and relax while
she cooked them some breakfast.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Of
course I didn’t expect company,” she said, so it would take a little while to
get things together, but all they needed was to be patient.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And off she went into a grove of coconuts, where Coffin, to
his mystification, saw her running back and forth with a lump of wood, hitting
the ground every now and then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He, like
the others, did not wonder about it very long, however.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All six men were exhausted after their many
hours of pulling at oars, and so they stretched out on the sand for a nap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then, as Coffin reminisced, they woke up
to “one of the finest smells of cooking I ever smelt.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Breakfast was stewing in a pot she had retrieved from the
wreck five years before, and which was now steaming over a fire. “And if you
don’t say it’s a good stew,” she said, “then call me a bad cook.” And then she
served out the stew in coconut shell bowls, and it was brown and rich and smelled
very savory indeed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The men fell upon the food, Coffin reminiscing, “The woman
looked on quite delighted for to see us eat, and a-fillin’ each chap’s dish as
fast as it was empty.” Finally, she couldn’t persuade them to eat a scrap
more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, as she took the coconut
bowls away, she observed, “I bet you don’t any of you know what you’ve been
eatin’.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well, ma’am,” prevaricated the skipper, and admitted that
he couldn’t rightly guess, though, as he added, “it was a powerful good stew,
and shows that you’re a first-class cook, but that of course you would be,
coming from Nantucket.”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Well,” said she, “that there was a rat stew.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ship rats had survived the wreck and bred
on the island, and because they had destroyed all the birds’ nests on the
island, she had been forced to live on those rats for all the five years she
had been here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately for the men, they had to do the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being so resourceful, she gave them a varied
menu, of “roast rat, broiled rat, fried rat, rat fricassee, and rat stew,” but,
as Coffin concluded, relief was general when their ship found them, and they
sailed away, leaving the rats in full possession of the isle.</p>
<br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" /><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9lCaxsfnUcq3fPUZnTDMnqE6WzZEIIfawpeFy2-n_EjHu2TtwO7EtfssUN0NgM_r5MjFx2RcfyuIqytPiMcuK3YTZ9P9I9fok9ZJ9krcfDzbisAcm8rxYjifTmbGbHJkrw0yLuXDt6kpxOzEWVJCKPn5_20tIVVTWPvKLXG2Qe7_C7VqT6XacWoj5IM/s2070/Lady%20Castaways%20cover%20revised1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2070" data-original-width="1500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE9lCaxsfnUcq3fPUZnTDMnqE6WzZEIIfawpeFy2-n_EjHu2TtwO7EtfssUN0NgM_r5MjFx2RcfyuIqytPiMcuK3YTZ9P9I9fok9ZJ9krcfDzbisAcm8rxYjifTmbGbHJkrw0yLuXDt6kpxOzEWVJCKPn5_20tIVVTWPvKLXG2Qe7_C7VqT6XacWoj5IM/s320/Lady%20Castaways%20cover%20revised1.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: 0in;">A version of this story was
published in </span><i style="text-indent: 0in;">Mains’l Haul</i><span style="text-indent: 0in;">, the
journal of the Maritime Museum of San Diego, v. 42, no. 4, Fall 2006. The
anecdote originally appeared in </span><i style="text-indent: 0in;">An Old Sailor’s
Yarns, </i><span style="text-indent: 0in;">by Captain Roland Folger Coffin (Funk & Wagnalls, 1884) and was
retold in </span><i style="text-indent: 0in;">The Story of the New England
Whalers,</i><span style="text-indent: 0in;"> by John r. Spears (NY: Macmillan, 1908) pp. 265-272.</span> It is the first yarn in the book of similarly hair-raising yarns about seafaring wives in trouble, <i>Lady Castaways.</i></div></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-27090727353379132062023-10-20T09:37:00.000+13:002023-10-20T09:37:06.034+13:00Murder on the steamboat to New York<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFYoCHWt2aVarjvjGexQj-XTGyREG6a-VmEKqCKdULPI_PjgR-API2C0gGpjv9GMiUt9tdxorZK6WZLf3gd9GSA3uL8XZ8MurDNp-HVJtx9ZIgV0h3UyPGxQQGFTPAqG443l9-UT-mQAUI86cS_yUC-9ojHi4KczUAlbOznZZZDmFEFAmFhapjV4fvQM/s513/onboard%20fight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="513" data-original-width="398" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFYoCHWt2aVarjvjGexQj-XTGyREG6a-VmEKqCKdULPI_PjgR-API2C0gGpjv9GMiUt9tdxorZK6WZLf3gd9GSA3uL8XZ8MurDNp-HVJtx9ZIgV0h3UyPGxQQGFTPAqG443l9-UT-mQAUI86cS_yUC-9ojHi4KczUAlbOznZZZDmFEFAmFhapjV4fvQM/s320/onboard%20fight.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The victim in this story is a little known whaling skipper.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Named, Gerardus Post Harrison, he was born on September 2, 1819, to
John and Harriet Wood Harrison. His father and brother were both painters,
according to census records, and Gerardus was the sole mariner in the family. He
was first recorded on the <i>Braganza</i> in 1834, aged just fifteen, giving
his birthplace as New Bedford. He was a little fellow, just four feet, six
inches, and by the time he shipped on the <i>Waverley</i> in 1842, at the age
of 23, he had not grown any taller. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, despite being vertically challenged, he was talented
and strong enough to be promoted to the command of the <i>Mars</i> in 1852, and
then again in 1856. It was then that he married Caroline Ophelia — known as
Ophelia — Beaman, who had been born in Brooklyn, New York, on 2 December 1824. Her parents
were Joshua and Mary Martin Beaman. After Joshua’s death in September 1834 her
mother, Mary, had married a banker, John Bird. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As a new bride, Ophelia sailed with her husband. According to the log of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Mars</i>, August 21, 1856, ‘At 6 o’clock Capt Harrison & lady come
aboard...’ Ophelia also connected with other whaling wives. On the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Merlin</i>, August 24, 1856, Henrietta
Deblois noted that ‘Capt. Harrison & lady came on shore’ at Fayal. In 1858
Elizabeth Marble found Mrs. Harrison on shore at Geographer’s Bay, Western
Australia: ‘She has ben on shore boarding one year but expects the ship in a
few days and she will go the next Cruse … she is very well and has a fine boy.’ <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By the time of the 1860 census, Captain Harrison and Ophelia
were living in New York with their two little sons, Orlando, aged three and
Oscar, aged one, both born in Australia. Gerardus was registered as a
shipmaster, and worth $5000, no small sum at the time. There was also a 16-year-old
domestic, Susan Warner, who had also been born in Australia, so may have come
to America with the Harrisons, to help with the small children. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Five years later, when the 1865 census was taken, Gerardus
and Ophelia were still in New York, but little Oscar had died back in 1860, and
another boy had been born. Orlando was eight, and his new brother, Charles, was
four, and had been born in Brooklyn. They were living with John Bird and his
wife Mary, who were listed as Ophelia’s parents, and also as grandparents of
the two boys. And, Gerardus was in fact, dead, though his family did not know
that at the time. According to his gravesite, Gerardus had died on voyage in June
1862, in theory a whaling voyage. The reality is that he was murdered
on the steamboat passage to New York. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Many years later, on September 4, 1878, Orlando filed an <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>affidavit at King’s County, New York, first of
all testifying that he was the son of Gerardus Harrisson, deceased, and that ‘said
deceased came to his death by violence at the hands of some person unknown, in
or about the month of June 1862, as this deponent is informed, and believes,
that [it happened] on the steamboat “Bay State” between the City of New Bedford
in the State of Massachusetts and the City of New York.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His information had come from Francis Harrison, the brother
Gerardus had visited in New Bedford, and was confirmed by a letter that had
been written by Francis on August 28, 1878, and was presented to the court.
According to this, ‘In the month of June 1862 said Gerardus P. Harrisson was at
my house in said New Bedford on a visit and on the twentieth day of said June
he left my house saying he was going to the office of Chas. R. Tucker &
co., who were at that time the agents of bark “Mars” to collect the balance of
money in their hands due him and that he was going to Brooklyn that night and
had telegraphed his wife to that effect as he had to attend to important business
there on the 21<sup>st</sup>. He left New Bedford that afternoon of the 20<sup>th</sup>
on the New York train via the Fall River boat for New York and I have never
seen him since.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘About two weeks after him leaving New Bedford I received a
letter from his wife residing in Brooklyn N.Y. enquiring after him, to which I
replied that I knew nothing about him except as herein above stated. Thus for
the first time did I learn of his disappearance and immediately commenced to
make search for him and enquiring as to his whereabouts, but with very disappointing
results. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Several years afterward I was at Groton Junction … and
while there a person by the name of John Keyes sitting near me heard my name “Harrisson”
called, and after I had gone away said Keyes asked Mr. Ross, who kept the house
where we were “what Harrisson is that” and on hearing who I was he said “I sailed
with his brother Gerardus P. Harrisson” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>…
then told me that Gerardus P. Harrisson was dead, that sometime in the month of
June 1862 he was murdered on his way to New York in the steamer “Bay State”
halfway between New York and New Bedford and his body was thrown overboard. Mr.
Keyes saw all this and named some of the parties who participated in the murder
but he had never told this to anyone before because he was frightened and did
not dare to.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">John Keyes is not in any of the crew lists of Gerardus
Harrison’s ships, and during the last voyage of the <i>Mars</i> he was a seaman
on the <i>Active</i>, so it appears that by saying he had ‘sailed with’ Captain
Harrison he meant that he was on the <i>Bay State</i> at the time of the
murder. If it was a brutal group attack and he was a helpless witness, keeping
silent for so many years would be understandable. As he said, he was
frightened.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">According to Orlando’s testimony, Ophelia had been left with
just $25, so it seems that the family was depending on the rest of the money
from the <i>Mars</i> voyage. If Gerardus was carrying a lot in cash or bonds
when he left the agent’s office, robbery and murder are plausible. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whatever the facts, Ophelia was left
impoverished and baffled by her husband’s disappearance. Her state of mind can
easily be imagined. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ophelia passed away on 10 October 1896, and is buried in
Greenwood Cemetery, New York, alongside much of her family. Gerardus has a
memorial there, too, but there is no body in the grave. <o:p></o:p></p>(<span style="font-size: x-small;">The discovery of the murder was made by genealogy sleuth Kay Vincent, and the details of the affidavits are on familysearch.org; the whaling details can be easily found on whalinghistory.org</span>)<p></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-54177566188549784242023-10-18T13:25:00.002+13:002023-10-20T09:18:04.009+13:00Cooking in America<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpMyt6j29qhi9GmPzgSlSI22oYDeu7fs92_5YhezoV_cfV1EDHRnDH21f6puB-qGV5AX2lF2kvtMhGIlxq-l5jWbkiZdK-RiP2DJh6ot3W8pxsOw_N7TKiF0bB_CDQ_A8UnEBRDY4vVNCO69RxD8Z9pU0t2cC3OikQS_bR362QgN_FZwEnyVjy6CdsBv8" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="139" data-original-width="363" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjpMyt6j29qhi9GmPzgSlSI22oYDeu7fs92_5YhezoV_cfV1EDHRnDH21f6puB-qGV5AX2lF2kvtMhGIlxq-l5jWbkiZdK-RiP2DJh6ot3W8pxsOw_N7TKiF0bB_CDQ_A8UnEBRDY4vVNCO69RxD8Z9pU0t2cC3OikQS_bR362QgN_FZwEnyVjy6CdsBv8=w400-h154" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>One of my most vivid memories of first setting up house on Long Island is my desperate search for <b>cornflour</b>. In most countries that is the powdery stuff that is mixed with a liquid and then added to a stew or whatever to thicken the gravy. Luckily, I seemed exotic enough for people to notice me, or perhaps it was just that I looked so puzzled, because a woman trotted up to me with her trundler, and said, "Are you looking for something?"</p><p>"Yes! Cornflour!"</p><p>"<b>Corn starch</b>," she said with a broad grin. She had lived in England, and knew what I was talking about.</p><p>Maybe I became well known in that supermarket, because a total stranger came up to me one day and said, "You have to buy the Hoagies! You have to buy the Hoagies!"</p><p>Well, I did admire the enthusiasm. It turned out to be a kind of hamburger bun. The sort you put hot dogs (chipolatas) inside. They are larger versions of <b>sliders</b> -- small buns (dinner rolls) that you put little weenies (Cheerios, cocktail sausages) inside, and serve with pre-dinner drinks. </p><p>And <b>kosher salt</b> wasn't kosher at all. It was what we call flaky sea salt, and is apparently called that because it is the best salt for drying out the blood from meat. </p><p>And<b> lox </b>looked just like smoked salmon, only more raw, being translucent. Tried cautiously, it tasted the same, only more moist. And fattier. As I found out, most prized (and expensive) lox salmon is taken from the belly of the fish.</p><p>Everything is very, very sweet. All kinds of processed food had to be taken with great caution. Pumpkin ravioli sounded fun, but the pasta turned out to be filled with pumpkin pie mix, complete with sugar (or molasses) and cinnamon. Rather odd on your dinner plate. And pecan pie, to my Kiwi tastebuds, was too sweet to be edible. Key lime, the same. Desserts, on the whole, were to be avoided. Puddings, being smooth and creamy, like our custards or mousse, were more fun. And corn pudding, served with the main course, was wonderful.</p><p><b>Gabanzo beans</b> had me totally fooled. It wasn't until I got back to New Zealand that I understood that the canned ones were just our ordinary chick peas. </p><p>Romaine lettuce looked like cos, and so that was easy, only American supermarkets sell them in a bunch of three, just the hearts. I miss that a lot.</p><p>Menus at restaurants could be baffling, too. What we call an entree is entirely different from what they call an entree. Here in Kiwiland it is a starter. In the US of A, it is the main course. Why? I never, ever, found that out.</p><p>There were great discoveries, though. Collard greens, oh, I so fell in love with collard greens. Cheap as chips, and could be used in stews and soups and casseroles (cooked, by the way, in a Dutch oven), or as a creamed vegetable. But I was truly staggered one day when the supermarket checkout operator leaned over the counter, and whispered, "You really shouldn't buy collard greens, dear."</p><p>"Why on earth not?"</p><p>"They are meant for the colored folks."</p><p>"Well," said I, totally gobsmacked, because she was not meaning to be racist, just very helpful. "I am sure they don't mind sharing."</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUdLBcIFFA5_-gapnHgc83TjKSHN0XPEV-b_zOGBxq4r9jXhvKN5OLzNXs2s9lacvb3w3sVWYZzCcFy-2OF2FVjtkugX9_IM_rJWfHEyNAWbTD0J6XWlqcUIKE9Tqz3ylAL39FTYjSpFbMgFFfRvJG_25wI_Ypqn2qgcBgMSq6tbPeB3EaLJperzxuHek/s502/collard%20greens.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="502" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUdLBcIFFA5_-gapnHgc83TjKSHN0XPEV-b_zOGBxq4r9jXhvKN5OLzNXs2s9lacvb3w3sVWYZzCcFy-2OF2FVjtkugX9_IM_rJWfHEyNAWbTD0J6XWlqcUIKE9Tqz3ylAL39FTYjSpFbMgFFfRvJG_25wI_Ypqn2qgcBgMSq6tbPeB3EaLJperzxuHek/s320/collard%20greens.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-57834895372644589972023-10-11T11:34:00.002+13:002023-10-11T11:34:15.084+13:00The perils and pitfalls of a newspaper book reviewer<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw5q2McXLvn8kaYPslkQqqKGy39jxgmkIkLxSvtOrTl6pdKi9ZhSpgry0o3XS0HUBzDV_i68HYAb3WMcY23jQX2KuSqTN1NxLEjxLZVoES91yaRs5LcL86Sg9P8dp1i2-klAag-CNysGSexIJbf40KkY4Yuk0CQkn0gU2ek0GRnGCnWh67OOclBVwurCg/s277/books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="277" data-original-width="182" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw5q2McXLvn8kaYPslkQqqKGy39jxgmkIkLxSvtOrTl6pdKi9ZhSpgry0o3XS0HUBzDV_i68HYAb3WMcY23jQX2KuSqTN1NxLEjxLZVoES91yaRs5LcL86Sg9P8dp1i2-klAag-CNysGSexIJbf40KkY4Yuk0CQkn0gU2ek0GRnGCnWh67OOclBVwurCg/w131-h200/books.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><p><br /></p>The throttling of the books review section of your local newspaper or magazine is a tragedy, not just for publishers and their authors, but for book stores, too. That is why online marketers have space for buyer book reviews on their websites. And a lot of those amateur reviews are well-written and thoughtful. There is also a terrific lot of rubbish. And Algorithm Isaac (AI for short) is a looming threat, too.<p></p><p>But what about the book reviewers? They are a hardworking lot, as I know from long experience. </p><p>Trying to cast my mind back to the first book review I wrote isn't easy, as it was so long ago -- back in the 1980s. I had a note from the books review editor of the <i>New Zealand Herald</i> suggesting that I was the perfect person to review a certain book -- a maritime book, perhaps. I was flattered, and he was such a pleasant, affable, and kind person that I was hooked. I read the book, flicked off a review within the strict 300-word limit, and felt happy when I saw it in the newspaper.</p><p>Alas, as he loved the review, he loved the speed I had produced it, so wanted me to do more. Other newspaper editors got into the act, for here was a reviewer who actually produced! And that within the 300-word limit! With the quotable 12-word phrase that publishers loved to put on the jacket of the author's next book, what's more. Magazines, including internationals, were sending review requests, so that added to the pile. Not long after that I was flying to the United States and back on a regular basis ... and absolute <i>cartons</i> of books were following me.</p><p>What to do with the books, once read, turned into a problem. Long flights were useful, as I could read a book or two, write down my review in a notebook (reviews were typed and posted to the editors, back then), and leave the book or two on the plane. My stepsister lived in a small seaside town with a small seaside library, which welcomed my books with huge enthusiasm. Some books I kept, which often meant having to post them back to New Zealand. It was then I found out the US Postal Service's "M-bag" option, where you could stow up to 11 kilos of books in a bag that had been made by prisoners and pay a set price. Those bags were regarded with great curiosity by the NZ Postal Service, but they worked.</p><p>Many books were not the usual kind of reading matter for me. Mega-bestsellers, for instance. But there were some marvelous discoveries -- a biography of Marilyn Monroe by Donald Spoto, <i>Fatal Passage</i>, by Ken McGoogan, Pierre Berton's <i>Arctic Grail</i> are just three that come to mind. And then there were the review requests that came in from top magazines and newspapers, which allowed a 1200-word review -- bliss! -- and published the review as a full-page item. And, because they paid by the word, the money was unusually nice.</p><p>There are bad books, inevitably. It was impossible not to feel sorry for the publisher, editor, and author, but objective reviewing is essential. Otherwise it isn't fair. I haven't had death threats. Yet. But there have been people who have let me know that they don't like me.</p><p>There is also the problem of time-lag. Often months elapse between the submission of the review and its publication, though this has improved with the internet. But with non-fiction studies, the book could be out of date before the review got into print. Worse, for me, is when reviews I had written for new authors appear long, long after those few crucial weeks after publication.</p><p>There have been funny moments. There was the time when a box of Harlequin romances arrived. Now then, no one reviews Harlequin/Mills & Boon, but I had snuck in a nice review written by a romance author who was actually an extremely good writer, and also an extremely nice woman, and I guess they had heard about it. So I left the open carton on my doorstep, and the books vanished, not just one by one, but at startling speed.</p><p>But then there were what are called in the trade, "Sadistic Subbies." They are the people who place your review and give it a headline. </p><p>A book had arrived by a mega-selling author that I hated. Let's call him "X". So my extremely lukewarm review ended by saying that only the author's most ardent fans could enjoy this latest offering.</p><p>And the headline ran X'S ARDENT FANS WILL BE DELIGHTED.</p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-82185952578097083672023-10-04T10:56:00.003+13:002023-10-04T10:56:56.440+13:00REBECCA GAVITT ON THE REBECCA SIMS<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIgyhKSkj5Kwj0vkFAi2AmwvOVRkBXRCkGSXvSkXKgE5j9IILyGaXEur9nzVi4mON9lX2WJ_rvyPHxGzJBEoz4p_iSGBXwrPHEBj56i9Ty0KEq53eDapg8tmecBjFMpWJOkCZFOLCCfjsGN6bMzPTlyofRwMc7L4bqGQ8J-DNSScWgfZnu-rc7E-yb1n4/s1445/Whaler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1445" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIgyhKSkj5Kwj0vkFAi2AmwvOVRkBXRCkGSXvSkXKgE5j9IILyGaXEur9nzVi4mON9lX2WJ_rvyPHxGzJBEoz4p_iSGBXwrPHEBj56i9Ty0KEq53eDapg8tmecBjFMpWJOkCZFOLCCfjsGN6bMzPTlyofRwMc7L4bqGQ8J-DNSScWgfZnu-rc7E-yb1n4/s320/Whaler.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Samuel Gavitt was born about 1812 in Rhode Island, the son of
Arnold and Mercy Rodman Gavitt. </span><span style="text-align: left;">He
married Rebecca Babcock on April 1, 1841 -</span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">In the 1850 census for Westerley, Rhode Island, Samuel Gavitt, mariner,
was 32, and his wife, Rebecca, was thirty, meaning she was about 21 when she
wed. </span><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">On 23 March 1851, the <i>Daily Alta
California</i> reported him in command of the <i>Ellen Morrison</i>, a merchant
bark at the time. How long he had been commanding merchant ships is unknown,
but later that year he went to Stonington, Connecticut, to take command of the
whaleship <i>Tiger. </i>It was apparently not a happy move. The <i>Tiger</i>
left Stonington Septermber 19, 1851, and shortly after that six of the crew
mutinied and were sent home for trial. The ship was not reported again until February
18, 1852, when Gavitt made port at Valparaiso. Then he was at Lahaina on April 26,
to cruise, and at Maui on November 10. That December, the ship was declared full and headed
home; arrived May 21, 1853. A short and profitable voyage. Unsurprisingly,
Gavitt was given another command, this time of the <i>Rebecca Sims</i>, and while it is
not known if Rebecca sailed on the merchantmen or the whaleship <i>Tiger</i>, she
was certainly with him this time.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One of the boatsteerers, Alonzo D. Sampson, who published
his whaling memoir, <i>Three Times Around the World</i> in 1867, had a great
deal to say about her. Sampson thought Gavitt (he spelled it Gavett) ‘was the
best man I ever sailed with. He was too good. He spoiled such of his men as
good treatment could spoil.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By
contrast his wife, ‘who sailed with him, was not so popular. In the first place,’
he elaborated, ‘sailors have a prejudice, pretty generally justified, against
women on board a ship. They think a woman there is always in the way of
somebody, and the Captain’s wife is generally in the way of everybody. For the
want of something else to do, she is constantly meddling with matters that she does
not understand, and influencing her husband to neglect his duty for her, to
shirk the danger and exposure inseparable from a faithful discharge of his
office, and instigating him to acts that annoy and irritate the crew.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘Mrs. Gavett was a fine lady, and a fine-looking lady — all
the worse, we thought, for a woman in her position of a sailor. She was
unnecessarily haughty, or rather supercilious, towards the men, going out of
her way sometimes to intimate her contempt for them. On the other hand we did
not lack for ways in which to make her understand we considered her more of a
nuisance than otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had a story
among us, with a great deal of truth I believe, that she was <i>fast</i>, and
that the Captain brought her along to save her character and his purse. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘During the beautiful weather that favored our run to the
Cape Verdes, she passed most of the daytime on deck, where a chair was set for
her, she not having, in sailors’ phrase, "got on her sea-legs," if it is not
irreverent to suppose that the Captain’s wife possesses these members.’ (pages
78-79)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, when they arrived at St
Vincent in the Cape Verdes, she had the pleasure of being entertained on board
the American sloop of war <i>Dale</i>, which was nice for her, and a good augury for the voyage. Despite this the ship was storm beset when doubling Cape Horn,
and at one stage ‘the whole ship’s company, the Captain’s wife not excepted,
were gathered on deck expecting the worst.’ She watched as energetic seamanship
saved the ship, and apparently approved when Captain Gavitt treated the crew to
as much grog as they could drink. </p><p class="MsoNormal">It was not the last emergency, by any means. The officer on watch mistaking a landmark on
entering the harbor of Lahaina in the dark, the ship was ‘brought up all
standing’ when it crashed on a sandbar. The shock was tremendous, all the
lanterns went out, dunnage clattered everywhere, and everyone rushed up to deck
— ‘Among the crowd that stood dumbfounded around the captain was his handsome
wife. She seemed to be even worse affected than she had been under far more
fearful circumstances in the Strait of Le Maire ... "Oh! Samuel," she cried in
tones of despair. "Oh! Samuel, what shall we do?" To be ready for the worst,’
in case the bottom of the ship was broken, the boats were cleared away. More energetic seamanship got the ship off
the sandbank with no harm done, and by daybreak they were anchored off
Lahaina. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Then there was more excitement, as Captain Gavitt raced his
ship against the <i>Vesper</i>, having laid a bet with Captain Edward Howes that
he would beat him to the ‘fishing’ ground, a race that he won by one day. There,
in the Ochotsk Sea, Rebecca endured snow storms where the ship pitched madly, and an
anxious night when the ship was driven by the ice, with the loss of all her
anchors. There were bears to watch, too — bears that came to eat the carcasses
of the whales after the blubber had been removed. There was much to watch that
was grisly.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In November 1854 they dropped anchor at Hilo, where they
stayed two months, and Rebecca could marvel at the current eruption. ‘A stream
of lava from one of the many craters started in the direction of the town, but
Mr. Coan, the missionary there, went up to the mountain and prayed, and soon
after the lava stopped flowing that way.’ From there they sailed to Honolulu,
laying off and on outside the port instead of dropping anchor, to deter
attempts to desert that ship. As Sampson casually mentioned, there were
attempts to swim ashore, but it was often a doomed venture, because of the
sharks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">At this stage Samuel Gavitt was rather keen to leave Rebecca
at the islands, according to this raconteur, but she flatly refused to leave
This meant that she was on the deck when they called at the island of Ascension
(Pohnpei), where the natives who came on board to trade ‘were dressed in suits
of cocoa nut oil, only without a rag of anything else about them, [and] the
captain’s wife voted them a great curiosity, and gave them considerable of her
attention.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then there was a racy
encounter with an immense sea serpent, described by Sampson with relish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The huge, writhing beast had first been
raised by the whaleship <i>Monongahela</i>, and the <i>Rebecca Simms</i>,
according to the boatsteerer, arrived in time to witness the great battle
between the whaler’s boats and the harpooned monster. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The head, he said, was like an alligator’s,
and eleven feet long. This, however, should be taken with a grain of salt,
as it was an old story, dating back to 1852, and he was utilizing a current
craze for monstrous sea serpents to spice up his yarn.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Easier to
authenticate is that the <i>Rebecca Sims</i> then called at Guam, where Captain
Gavitt found himself in a quandary. ‘Of course it was absolutely necessary that
his lady should visit town, and at the same time it was equally impossible to get
any other mode of conveyance except on ox-back …’ wrote Sampson. ‘Mrs. Gavett,
with a bravery that distinguishes her sex when the result sought is a visit,
declared her ability to ride an ox, and her willingness to "try it on." So she
went on shore where quite a number of these horned steeds were quietly waiting …
An animal was selected rather with reference to steady going than to speed, and
a small mountain of folded blankets, which gave him quite a poetic resemblance
to a camel, at least in the hump, was strapped onto his back. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">‘To this eminence the lady was elevated, not exactly “by a
turn of the wrist,” but by pure muscle, and <i>bos</i> was solicited to propel
in the direction of town. On the contrary he began a rapid “advance backwards,”
until the rider was brought into contact with certain cocoa nut trees … [and]
she was wiped off at imminent risk of limbs and neck. The stupid brute, unaware
and probably unworthy of the honor intended him, then trotted off for the bush.’
Rebecca Gavitt, though bruised and humiliated, was still determined to go to
town, so a couple of poles were fetched and a chair slung from them, and four
natives took up the burden and ‘Mrs. Gavett was borne in state, if not in
triumph, to town.’ <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Captain Gavitt needed a new first mate at this stage, but
the one he hired in Guam took a strong dislike to Mrs. Gavitt, and left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, thought without a first officer, Gavitt carried a theatrical troupe to
Manila, and there he hired a Frenchman, Lavalette by name, on the recommendation
of Mrs. Gavitt. ‘He may have had any possible number of qualities fitting him
for the place, but none of us ever discovered them. Lavalette’s heels [had]
turned Mrs. Gavett’s head, and she exclaimed in an ecstasy of admiration, "Oh!
Captain, do ship Mr. Lavalette, he is such a splendid dancer!" and that decided
the matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dancing master, as we
called him, was shipped.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turned out
to be totally incapable of harpooning a whale, which disappointed Mrs. Gavitt
greatly — ‘She was probably at a loss to imagine how a man who danced so well
could fail to be a good whaleman.’<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Gavitt headed for the Hawaiian Islands after another season
in the ice, and then sailed from Honolulu on Christmas Day, 1856, to cruise on
the way home, arriving at New Bedford May 23, 1857.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The voyage was over, and ‘Alonzo’ Sampson was
headed for another ship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As for Captain
Gavitt, as Sampson meditated, ‘I hope he was able to live in some other
occupation [as] I certainly think he deserved it.’ And that is what must have
happened, as there is no records of Gavitt whaling again. Or of what happened
to Rebecca.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, how true is all this?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There is no Alonzo Sampson on the <i>Rebecca Sims</i> crewlist, but
there is a William Sampson shipped as an ordinary seaman, and authors, like
sailors and ships, often sail under false colors. The crew of the ship changed
constantly, so Sampson could easily have become a boatsteerer (harpooner) as
the voyage went on. The dates mentioned in the book are mostly confirmed, too: April
28, 1854, at Lahaina; October 18, at Honolulu from Ochotsk Sea; March 17, 1855,
at Lahaina after a cruise; at Shantar Bay October 1855; at Hilo November 9, from
the Ochotsk; cleared December 14, to cruise; at Guam in March 1856, then the
Ochotsk; took oil from the wreck of the <i>Alexander</i>; Honolulu November 17,
also December 12, then home, arriving May 31, 1857. (Dennis Wood abstract) <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, while William Sampson was a born raconteur who embroidered
his yarn, his humorous stories of Mrs. Captain Samuel Gavitt are probably based
on reality.<o:p></o:p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU9SE1pnURpW3KwaIblMxT_JTWLD4yFXpvZ7lzmpM-MUuh4DZrAUixh0Z_P3w_cIDMCFFYaIKX9dyaWXTsrGDoMsir-n3vvN1JLrxHFo5LLFt_Txq224qfX652JgAs8iN462XdXE6H58GPpCcI_E1rOZJKqEvFWXr5rP_1ZCngJbqpPRzBkrA_HOTH4Ds/s909/scroll%20scanned.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /><img border="0" data-original-height="228" data-original-width="909" height="50" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU9SE1pnURpW3KwaIblMxT_JTWLD4yFXpvZ7lzmpM-MUuh4DZrAUixh0Z_P3w_cIDMCFFYaIKX9dyaWXTsrGDoMsir-n3vvN1JLrxHFo5LLFt_Txq224qfX652JgAs8iN462XdXE6H58GPpCcI_E1rOZJKqEvFWXr5rP_1ZCngJbqpPRzBkrA_HOTH4Ds/w200-h50/scroll%20scanned.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p></p></div><br />World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-6832238391368320162023-10-03T10:49:00.002+13:002023-10-03T10:49:34.095+13:00So your book has been pirated?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHIRnUJfTrQ6ReGtupg6oZse3x_sNAfEvGE3hwLZwerz9MEbT82xMb1pjuumzy38kgpzlWXSvyMJsTj_652nUwiiKEGFI6eXyp6pdjXCligHbvMbqRlP7RhpvJnzAgrRgOmRhtvir7lX9RB5aLuNBzPMrRJzq5HSDgh9q7aV2zqJPSLKn6ckso2ch7uis" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiHIRnUJfTrQ6ReGtupg6oZse3x_sNAfEvGE3hwLZwerz9MEbT82xMb1pjuumzy38kgpzlWXSvyMJsTj_652nUwiiKEGFI6eXyp6pdjXCligHbvMbqRlP7RhpvJnzAgrRgOmRhtvir7lX9RB5aLuNBzPMrRJzq5HSDgh9q7aV2zqJPSLKn6ckso2ch7uis" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Yes, nine of my books have been pirated by AI creators.</p><p><i>She Captains</i></p><p><i>Island of the Lost</i></p><p><i>In the Wake of Madness</i></p><p><i>A Watery Grave</i></p><p><i>Shark Island</i></p><p><i>Run Afoul</i></p><p><i>Deadly Shoals</i></p><p><i>The Notorious Captain Hayes</i></p><p><i>Tupaia</i></p><p>So if you read a castaway story, a pirate story, a yarn about sefaring wives, or an extraordinary Tahitian priest and navigator, and it sounds a lot like something I wrote, it wasn't me, it wasn't copied by some imitator, it was stolen by a robot, to be used by robots.</p><p>Fellow writer Alaric Bond warned me of this, so I headed for the Authors Guild.</p><p>The item was headed </p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://authorsguild.org/news/you-just-found-out-your-book-was-used-to-train-ai-now-what/">YOU JUST FOUND OUT YOUR BOOK WAS USED TO TRAIN AI. </a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://authorsguild.org/news/you-just-found-out-your-book-was-used-to-train-ai-now-what/">NOW WHAT?</a></p><p>Hitting the search Books3 dataset link (which takes you to another link inside an <i>Atlantic</i> article) and then entering my name brought up the nine titles, but not the editions. A warning here -- you can only do this once, unless you subscribe to <i>The Atlantic</i>, as once you have had your freebie, they want your money. A fine magazine, but hardworking writers don't have the money or the time, in most cases.</p><p>I also found newspaper articles, such as this one from the Australian edition of <i><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/australia-news/2023/sep/28/australian-books-training-ai-books3-stolen-pirated">The Guardian</a>.</i></p><p>It is rather reassuring to find that I am in the company of such illustrious writers, but as they say, it is the biggest act of copyright theft in history. It is not right, it is not nice, and it should be stopped.</p><p>So ... now what, indeed. </p><p>Here is what the Authors Guild very helpfully suggests. I strongly recommend that it should be followed by all authors, and not just those with books that have been pirated, because who knows who is going to be swept up in the net next?</p><h2 style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 2em; line-height: 1.40625; margin-bottom: 30px; margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;">Actions You Can Take Now</h2><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 20px; margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;">Litigation can take a long time, but there are other important actions you take to speak out in defense of your rights now:</p><ol style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; padding-left: 2rem;" type="1"><li style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bolder;">If your books are in the Books3 dataset, or if any AI system has intimate knowledge of them</span>, you can <a href="https://actionnetwork.org/letters/authors-guild-author-letters-to-ai-companies/" rel="noreferrer noopener" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #0c7570; font-weight: 600;" target="_blank">send a letter to AI companies</a> telling them that they do not have the right to use your books. We have created a form to make it easy for you to send this letter.</li><li style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bolder;">Sign our open letter</span> to the CEOs of AI companies demanding they compensate writers and get proper permission. More than 15,000 writers have signed to date. You can <a href="https://actionnetwork.org/petitions/authors-guild-open-letter-to-generative-ai-leaders" rel="noreferrer noopener" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #0c7570; font-weight: 600;" target="_blank">add your signature here</a>. </li><li style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bolder;">Take action to prevent future unauthorized use</span> of your work in AI systems. <a href="https://authorsguild.org/news/practical-tips-for-authors-to-protect-against-ai-use-ai-copyright-notice-and-web-crawlers/" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #0c7570; font-weight: 600;">Read more about how to do this here.</a> </li><li style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bolder;">Support the Authors Guild</span> in our efforts to protect writers by <a href="https://authorsguild.org/membership/" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #0c7570; font-weight: 600;">becoming a member</a> or <a href="https://authorsguild.org/foundation/donate/" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #0c7570; font-weight: 600;">making a donation</a>. Your support helps us fight to protect writers’ copyrights against AI misuse and ensure that authors are entitled to control the use of their work and be compensated for it in the age of AI. </li><li style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: bolder;">Stay informed</span> on the lawsuits and legislation that could impact you by <a href="https://authorsguild.us10.list-manage.com/subscribe?u=727ad03949c981c140a2bf125&id=f621cab0b8" rel="noreferrer noopener" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #0c7570; font-weight: 600;" target="_blank">signing up for our newsletter</a>. The landscape is changing rapidly, and we share information about regulations that pertain to AI use of creative works.</li></ol><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;">Having your book used by AI can be discouraging, but don’t feel powerless. Take action to protect your rights, join forces with other authors, and push the industry toward a fairer system of transparency and compensation. With collective action, we can shape an AI future that respects authorship and protects the profession at large.</p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><br /></p><p style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word;"><br /></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-67169303957982428952023-09-16T08:55:00.001+12:002023-09-16T08:55:05.932+12:00Violence<p> Why do people act violently? What makes them do it? And what happens after the violent act?</p><p>I watched two thought-provoking films on Netflix, one a fictional drama, the other a documentary. Both were astounding, and the message was remarkably similar. What causes violence? How is it justified? And what happens after the violence has stopped?</p><p>The drama was "A History of Violence."</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjInf_5_w6ItzDeKMaOHc4XKabZIDAVgybXwdWZ2zxd5ncO4EJ6F2N0ccRUFdbDNgmSx7ILZd7cEhbRQT_NOXrc_4hqCuoeAqWEpXL6KzHi-FSAV2Q55UYMyo0_Lni0LCEpFNbNxfvFJtfM6m8dKf4rTYMGZWbZhRy_D5SPQ6Y4nXOqRgtknqo8DBcPYY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="259" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjInf_5_w6ItzDeKMaOHc4XKabZIDAVgybXwdWZ2zxd5ncO4EJ6F2N0ccRUFdbDNgmSx7ILZd7cEhbRQT_NOXrc_4hqCuoeAqWEpXL6KzHi-FSAV2Q55UYMyo0_Lni0LCEpFNbNxfvFJtfM6m8dKf4rTYMGZWbZhRy_D5SPQ6Y4nXOqRgtknqo8DBcPYY" width="162" /></a></div><br />I watched it despite the title, which sounded like the name of a documentary that would replicate rather too many historical episodes of violence ... Roman circuses, trench warfare, and so forth and so on. Nothing I wanted to see, promising nothing new. But I gave it a few minutes, and was immediately hooked into the most unusual and compelling theme. Violence.<p></p><p>It is the intriguing story of a man who reacts violently when his diner is being robbed, sending both thugs to a well deserved grave. So, was he a retired hero? From SAS or the Seals or something like that? That's what the media like to think, as they laud his actions in banner headlines and video clips. </p><p>No, he was no hero. Just a thug, another thug. A retired thug who has changed his name and become an ordinary, decent man, but still with a past as a hitman. And with the publicity his violent past catches up with him. There are nasty men out there who have been hankering after revenge for years, and now know where the lives.</p><p>The acting is amazing -- Viggo Mortensen, Ed Harris and William Hurt all threw their souls into this work, directed brilliantly by David Cronenberg. There is certainly violence, as the retired thug deals with the thugs who used to employ him, but the outcome is what is important. The past has caught up with his family life, too -- that decent, ordinary family, none of whom had the slightest idea of the monster who was living in their midst.</p><p>There is an interesting substory, of Mortensen's teenaged son, who is being bullied by a coven of teenaged thugs. He's an intelligent lad, and manages to talk them out of it when they want to pick an uneven fight, until the moment he snaps, and deals with them as his father would have dealt. Except that instead of sending them to the grave, he sends them to the emergency ward. He knew absolutely nothing of his father's past, so is a capacity for violence inherited?</p><p>Extremely well played by Ashton Holmes (a name to look out for), he is the first to deal with the emotional backlash that follows his own violence. When his father tries to tell him that what he did wasn't right, he storms off in a frenzy of emotion. The only way he can justify what he did to himself, perhaps, is that he did the right thing, and the bullies deserved what they got. But his father has told him that was wrong.</p><p>And it is his father's tragedy, too, that he is past the stage of self-justification for violence.</p><p>A superb film, one that I will watch again, just to mull over the messages.</p><p>The documentary has an equally unpromising title. It is called "Ordinary Men." But it turned out to be equally gripping and thought-provoking. And again, the theme was violence, and its effect on the perpetrators.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTTLt4OXWkOBnsW5K8rHS7Lcf6qGdhecZ0KOjfTWRHNiF_Ud6E4QsQ7AdzaeLTE-XO9_QShw8o0VfHaCZYnyKeMOgD5KAnDq0G0O1Av31FYQ4svoB6PwuJnShXn9cCwiw9NfcBGqklIhm9g9s_jPdS1IkR0NnxTi4Uy7ot5BnjP_QVq-MbadNGlD58UVw" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="299" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjTTLt4OXWkOBnsW5K8rHS7Lcf6qGdhecZ0KOjfTWRHNiF_Ud6E4QsQ7AdzaeLTE-XO9_QShw8o0VfHaCZYnyKeMOgD5KAnDq0G0O1Av31FYQ4svoB6PwuJnShXn9cCwiw9NfcBGqklIhm9g9s_jPdS1IkR0NnxTi4Uy7ot5BnjP_QVq-MbadNGlD58UVw" width="320" /></a></div><br />Presented by Christopher Browning, he American professor emeritus of history who authored the book with the same title on which the documentary is based, it is a study of the men in the <i>Ordnungspolizei</i> (Order Police) Reserve Unit 101, who rounded up Jews in Poland in 1941, slaughtering thousands, and sending thousands more to death camps. <p></p><p>And the title is right. They were very ordinary men. They weren't thugs. They weren't the victims of childhood violence. They didn't have a history of brutality. Some had university degrees. They were certainly not ardent Nazis. Yet they killed children. They ordered mothers to hold their babies to their breasts to save ammunition, as one shot would end the lives of both. They shot lines of helpless people at the lip of the pit where the bodies would fall. They did all this face-to-face. They talked to them as they led them into the forest to the pit. And yet they fired their guns and watched them collapse and die, over and over again.</p><p>So, what made them do it? </p><p>Had they been brain-washed? Those who had been to university had had professors who preached the Nazi ethic. Constant propaganda had assured them that Jews were Bolshevics, that they were "other" and not like them. Jews were the object of the offensive graffiti that smeared the walls in their home city, Hamburg. </p><p>And so, even though they were given the option of not taking part in the atrocities, very few of them stepped aside. One even took his bride along to watch as he "cleaned out" a ghetto, and she joined the team in the party afterwards.</p><p>A very interesting point that was made was that the killers were horribly affected after the first mass slaughtering. They vomited, and had nightmares. And because of this, some began to think of <i>themselves</i> as the victims. They felt sorry for themselves in this most grotesque way, and somehow, by twisted logic, it justified that they kept on with their killing. </p><p>But, for me, the most potent point was that Jews had been made into "others". They were different, too different for any "true" German to feel empathy for; it was like killing aliens, the enemy from some other sphere. </p><p>How general is this, historically? Does it explain atrocities like Kosovo, the Armenian massacres in Turkey, Rwanda, Cambodia? Is this why Australian aborigines were hunted down like bounty? Why English landlords could export grain for profit while Irish babies and children were starving to death? Because these people are "other"?</p><p>Watch both. It will horrify, but also make you think. Deeply.</p><p><br /></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-71735678748161541482023-08-24T13:47:00.003+12:002023-08-24T13:47:57.790+12:00The Winter Newsletter from the Butler Point Whaling Museum, New Zealand<p> </p><center style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" id="m_3576087527495077144bodyTable" style="border-collapse: collapse; height: 100%; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td align="center" id="m_3576087527495077144bodyCell" style="height: 4008.76px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; width: 634.94px;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td align="center" id="m_3576087527495077144templateHeader" style="background: none center center / cover no-repeat rgb(247, 247, 247); border-bottom: 0px; border-top: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 12px; padding-top: 12px;" valign="top"><table align="center" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144templateContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 600px !important; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144headerContainer" style="background: none center center / cover no-repeat transparent; border-bottom: 0px; border-top: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" valign="top"><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px 9px; text-align: center;" valign="top"><img align="middle" alt="" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnImage CToWUd" data-bit="iit" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgRj-CayIk6zFOk1QgyOR0bcuK9yRP0SAf2ERXvEmO0hCIO0xDlSrsArxaNdzF-tor8E2bRPs4XT9xoOxfDhKUAZDLKleg77JGLMJ00IPBBZ8Tr7mz7ZAAoZ38mW_6f9N0_ij34eWOSpLwwDBsHR6j-PingXt_rg9-5nvNiiFzTPoFjv07NrQUKi7m6upuR2xtWqViMS2JLD1bdyl8Rl9eDhVbc=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; display: inline !important; height: auto; max-width: 551px; outline: none; padding-bottom: 0px; vertical-align: bottom;" width="314.07" /></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: center; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><span style="font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="color: green;">Butler Point Whaling Museum, 1840s Historic House and Gardens</span></strong></span></span></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; line-height: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: 14px;"><em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;">"Is it not curious, that so vast a being as the whale should see the world through so small an eye, and hear the thunder through an ear which is smaller than a hare’s? But if his eyes were broad as the lens of Herschel’s great telescope; and his ears capacious as the porches of cathedrals; would that make him any longer of sight, or sharper of hearing? Not at all.- Why then do you try to “enlarge” your mind? Subtilize it.</span></em>"<br /><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;">(Herman Melville, <em>Moby Dick</em> 1851)</span></span></strong></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: center;"><strong><span style="font-size: 18px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;">Takurua Kōrero<br />Newsletter: Winter 2023</span></span></strong></div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", "Lucida Sans", Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17.5px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;" valign="top">Kia ora koutou<br /><br /><strong><span style="color: green;">Welcome to our Winter 2023 newsletter</span></strong><br /><br /><img align="right" class="CToWUd" data-bit="iit" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEgBzuY7GbFJROV4MvBHuWEpKUHZkEWLNyyGBBjhD7SxHj4-nd_0A6jqQWUM4Mlo-GjSezTjXyKfJM1NbFxn8AEBx73r4PDBfizOijleygfyrv8vdcwDjq33f_4M53wKF8ocujdvTNNldSqAsRzV-x7cV7qVvvvbzXSyq8gf-5Lpn6nsr346qQVnNRHId4z7m3Uu9h-QmiBElarrF00EtBtWoWt2=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; height: 146px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 15px; outline: none; width: 125px;" width="125" /><img align="left" class="CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhLXSEz7Oj65qu18uDm7B83N5u8pD0C7b7s9KJAPqE9M_R2MOsQRm2OS3tVNtVOvCldGTHcRq7Lp_n8PaIekeRgTEjR0roQL8UhHowSJ9TWBcIlgh6zjbD14P6JhTdbNBD74D47b1hF-GuIxBCWQ66Y_78AnilDqf8ceM2lV2QD2Ca8E_O6hDV_TxAdb994viVggpDSGawr5S4Y_ISY4tQgAH1e=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: 163px; margin: 0px 15px 0px 0px; outline: none; width: 150px;" tabindex="0" width="150" />The reappearance of the Matariki star cluster over the horizon last month is a welcome sign that light, warmth and growth will soon be returning. In pre-colonial times kites, or manu tukutuku, would have fluttered in the skies at this time to mark Matariki.<br /><br /><img align="left" class="CToWUd a6T" data-bit="iit" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEjh8DZSJZNsuRnl2Vp65SGwoukw5s5zQUXxmhFWNR46Xf0VU_JH0y1O6NrTdH1aDjDc2C887FZMZV7EP4wf9QHJ-IWZR77t6LN_2GYiKe1oQ00ZaNy20HvaLC5DTdpCmmAAREyG2v3IGrVC1NXPTOPj2z07Gc8BB-SHVrKWoXW28BwbcJ1kvFNQIFuVRGXqqTIf2jzUVRLDmiH_SROaFnkr3LQQ=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; cursor: pointer; height: 150px; margin: 0px 15px 0px 0px; outline: none; width: 200px;" tabindex="0" width="200" /><br /><br />We think spectacular starry nights are a gift in Doubtless Bay, and in the photo you can see that some of them fell into the water at Butler Point!</td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", "Lucida Sans", Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17.5px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><span style="color: green;"><strong>In the Garden</strong></span> the normally well-behaved black cows that graze our paddocks must have had a rush of Spring warmth to their heads last week. Under the cover of darkness they enthusiastically trampled a fence and frolicked their way through every inch of the gardens. We found them the next morning smugly surveying the carnage. After an heroic emergency rescue effort, hoof-marks were filled in and torn plants tidied up just in time for a visiting garden group.</td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", "Lucida Sans", Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 17.5px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong><span style="color: green;"><img align="right" class="CToWUd" data-bit="iit" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEiH2EZuTY9LsYB9f5LN8_fJJA3PKyd83qeBQdczluPhpn5FEXgSi32IYqmflD_iDLnQWSRHMqgU0YU2Yn5fXPxWKYenNw_PIXH0l0WOuiHuYzcS0wQX3YbYQ7xW4MuTaA9inrSG0iXJ9lfNfcgGi8iJ-HkGJM8ZYK_ufzXsLeLu5EwN5ox1ZXZjNDpk5PyQ8eiAACtp0lWjsOu8jkWdiCfIWc_e=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; height: 154px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 15px; outline: none; width: 100px;" width="100" />Book of the Season</span></strong><br />Our dedicated newsletter production team has just finished Tom Mustill’s book <em>how to speak whale</em>. It is a thrilling investigation into whale science, and reading it has enabled us to update our information; for example how whales hear with their jaws, how spermaceti controls the production of sound, and how whales speak baby talk with their young. Here is a small selection of what we have learnt.<br /> <br />Whales are our distant cousins<br /> <br /><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;"><img align="left" class="CToWUd" data-bit="iit" height="138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEiPQ3Q9UUDp08YCFBPhnTkQDCWEEcw6DofAcYFvhSFCC-31PfGIYtzrwxsHJRVQqnGAH3O-TntaYBSau9BhCUaCSxAYDWdqy8hHSg1V1aTbiJ4axu7AMvOhzJ32-pCWugz_4qyd8_ZH4RPt0dZZ_63HJNTROtkVjDG_cDbLCSz6RimSvtGapwtSIKyKEGEMaNzYHi-TT_yCM-rofwdnpv1Xg6Z3=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; height: 138px; margin: 0px 15px 0px 0px; outline: none; width: 100px;" width="100" /></span>Well, very distant cousins. We shared a common ancestor with whales, apes and elephants until 145 million years ago when there was a fork in the evolutionary road. Then around 50 million years ago some mammals, the ancestors of all cetaceans, moved back into the water. They lost most of their hair, insulated themselves with blubber, and their hands and feet turned into paddles.<br /> <br />An x-ray of a humpback whale pectoral fin, the largest and most powerful arm in the<img align="right" class="CToWUd" data-bit="iit" height="87" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhjYOcAHRODegX4V62hWGqdOTsyVLqUWBG5uKzPT0yHAU3zN4C0lgX2oNyMpwhyphenhyphenWjLYBR3uGcIuuXW1YfEA8etrr5Wb4pQSan3CBUzOde9IImHBDkMxuDhCjAjOUDS1HT4RtvNr2TGYM6b1YX6lQgpiTOFbKdawOrppduoluwY96ju-LfrZSvCESrOo0XHTHQKf1_NVmSz4qvTe_FftKE0BcvP6=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; height: 87px; margin: 0px 0px 0px 15px; outline: none; width: 200px;" width="200" /> history of life on our planet, looks much like a giant version of our own arm. Inside every whale and dolphin flipper is a limb that first evolved to walk on land. The baby pilot whale skeleton in our museum has a bony hand inside its fin that looks uncannily human.<br /> <br />Cetacean senses have evolved differently to our land-based human ones. Sound is everything in their watery world where it travels four times faster than in air.<br /> <br />Whales listen through fatty structures in their jawbones as life underwater has smoothed off their external ears. Their brain translates the sound waves picked up by the jaw into a three dimensional picture of the object ahead. <br /> <br />Sperm whales have a set of phonic lips under their blowhole which vibrate against each other to create the loudest sound in all creation: up to 230 decibels, louder than a jet engine and heard across entire oceans! The sound waves created by these lips hit the lower part of the whale’s head, where spermaceti oil acting like a giant lens focuses the vibrations and channels the noise out into the water as an astonishingly powerful click used to scan their world.<br /> <br />An underwater cameraman tells the story of being scanned by a large female dolphin fascinated by the clicking sound his old camera made. She slowly approached him, put her snout against his scuba mask, and buzzed him with sonar for several minutes. He remembers it as a very pleasant sensation, like a shaken can of soda fizzing in his head, yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being interrogated by a seriously large intelligence.<br /> <br />As well as echolocation clicks, cetaceans also produce buzzes, trumpets, creaks and codas, which are an unchanging series of signature clicks like a name they use to identify themselves and each other. Other patterns of clicks and gaps, like Morse code, seem to carry information vital for sustaining their cooperative lives together.<br /> <br />While Baleen whales are generally loners, toothed whales live in pods: close knit family groups of 15 to 20 made up of mostly females and their young. Mother and baby whales talk in baby babble and whisper to each other when predators are nearby. When mothers go hunting they leave their young in nurseries where other mothers nurse and protect them. There is evidence that sperm whales even provide food for adult whales that are less able to hunt. Humpback whales have even been known to rescue other species of animals from killer whales.<br /> <br />Cetaceans are not fish but mammals and cannot breathe underwater. However, whales can go without breathing because they are able to use their flesh as a giant scuba tank. Their muscles contain an enormous concentration of myoglobin proteins that trap oxygen, like haemoglobin in human blood cells. The whale slowly releases oxygen from its muscles over the course of a dive, sustaining it for over an hour. The myoglobin gives their flesh its dark red, almost black colour.<br /> <br />Do whales have conscious thought? Tom Mustill puts the question to scientists. It is very possible. Whales are extremely intelligent with impressive neural systems containing components previously thought to exist solely in humans.</div></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnBoxedTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding: 9px 18px;"><table border="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContentContainer" style="background-color: #404040; border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContent" style="color: #f2f2f2; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 18px; text-align: center; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;">After all the rain the garden is on steroids; bigger, bolder, greener, lusher than ever before, even the freesia buds are enormous. The pond is full and the frogs are happy.</span></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", "Lucida Sans", Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 10px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><div style="text-align: justify;"><img class="CToWUd" data-bit="iit" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/proxy/AVvXsEhmidxATK-i8_UmaAS-ky0VwSeVEA8tsbaBqkXarcwsf_ZVaMzWIsNX4-7lAwLqELnE6QnrHW1axmnPEQoZwwPU0Zk8YoPLqnptzQzeSQbUyFy2JLvZiXF_-_24yDrXfDhLJWx-D2uytYPhZNwAxWiypv3HJIOrFvqoouYF3ho0gXGEJ5FLw2CFTOea8WQ1yeSvx8iSzN9YiYld_kzYx3A6VEK9=s0-d-e1-ft" style="border: 0px; 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min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", "Lucida Sans", Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; text-align: justify; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><p style="line-height: 21px; margin: 10px 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms", "lucida grande", "lucida sans unicode", "lucida sans", tahoma, sans-serif;"><strong><span style="color: green;">Artiste in Residence</span></strong><br />Professor Vincent Chevillon, from Strasbourg, France, has been in New Zealand travelling our coastlines for seven months tracking whale stranding sites, meeting people, discovering treasures and hearing stories about the enduring legacies of whales. We were privileged to have Vincent stay with us while he explored the Far North.<br /><br />The day he departed, we had a visit from a pod of orcas cruising along in front of the Museum....perhaps they had come to say au revoir?</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding-top: 9px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; max-width: 100%; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContent" style="color: #757575; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", "Lucida Grande", "Lucida Sans Unicode", "Lucida Sans", Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 18px 9px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top"><br />Noho ora mai<br /><br />The Team<br /><br />Butler Point<br /> </td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px;" valign="top"><table align="left" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnBoxedTextContentContainer" style="border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td style="margin: 0px; padding: 9px 18px;"><table border="0" cellspacing="0" class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContentContainer" style="background-color: #404040; border-collapse: collapse; min-width: 100%; width: 100%;"><tbody><tr><td class="m_3576087527495077144mcnTextContent" style="color: #f2f2f2; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px; margin: 0px; padding: 18px; word-break: break-word;" valign="top">Acknowledgements / References<br /> <p style="line-height: 15px; margin: 10px 0px; padding: 0px;">Mustill, Tom. (2022). <em>how to speak whale: A Voyage into the Future of Animal Communication. </em>William<br /> Collins London<br /><br />Dixon, Dougal. (2018). <em>When the Whales Walked. </em>Australian Geographic.<br /><br />Hakaraia, Libby. (2008). <em>Matariki: The Maori New Year. </em>Penguin<br /><br />Te Ara The Encyclopedia of New Zealand/<a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=http://teara.govt.nz&source=gmail&ust=1692926825956000&usg=AOvVaw1eA3V4tY6mC7Di0DYf_s2P" href="http://teara.govt.nz/" style="color: #007c89;" target="_blank">teara.govt.nz</a><br /><br />Vincent Chevillon: <em><a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?q=https://butlerpoint.us11.list-manage.com/track/click?u%3Dc526ce3c0b95a3b0a3e09750a%26id%3De4c212377a%26e%3D049aaaa226&source=gmail&ust=1692926825956000&usg=AOvVaw2GpJbtWR2WOa-5o7H6y8QV" href="https://butlerpoint.us11.list-manage.com/track/click?u=c526ce3c0b95a3b0a3e09750a&id=e4c212377a&e=049aaaa226" style="color: #007c89;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: tahoma, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #45818e;">www.archipels.org</span></span></a></em><br /><br /><br />Note: the three books pictured above are all available for purchase in our Museum shop.</p></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr><tr><td align="center" id="m_3576087527495077144templateBody" style="background-attachment: initial; 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margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1140" data-original-width="1694" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZrr7aWTbUD8Rf_nFEqgvYaxZn67C62iF1aOQTGuhgoPVf4GYjUoSfMHNAL_PPossuoi5eyODCvn3iB_lG3gnBtv335x5xHKi1BhMIt6Dg95Mo2UBdZiyNCa3H5LnwIQMMA5C-DybzTQz2VEC_dctING1_qUzcyvJFj7VsZgCi0MwKmt9oypRaowqdUk/w400-h269/017%20Petticoat%20whalers%20original.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">c Ron Druett 1988</td></tr></tbody></table></p><br /><p class="MsoNormal">Samuel Gavitt was born about 1812 in Rhode Island, the son
of Arnold and Mercy Rodman Gavitt. He
married Rebecca Babcock on April 1, 1841 (RIVR)
In the 1850 census for Westerley, Rhode Island, Samuel Gavitt, mariner,
was 32, and his wife, Rebecca, was thirty, meaning she was about 21 when she
wed. On 23 March 1851, the <i>Daily Alta
California</i> reported him in command of the <i>Ellen Morrison</i>, a merchant
bark at the time. How long he had been commanding merchant ships is unknown,
but according to a local newspaper some time after his marriage he had headed
for California and never returned. (<i>Norwich Bulletin</i>, October 18, 1921) <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Later in the same year he was reported on the <i>Ellen
Morrison</i> —1851 — he went to Stonington, Connecticut, to take command of the
whaleship <i>Tiger. </i>It was apparently not a happy move. The <i>Tiger</i>
left Stonington Septermber 19, 1851, and shortly after that six of the crew
mutinied and were sent home for trial. The ship was not reported again until February
18, 1852, when Gavitt made port at Valparaiso. Then he was at Lahaina April 26,
to cruise, and Maui November 10. That December the ship was declared full and
headed home; arrived May 21, 1853. A short and profitable voyage.
Unsurprisingly, Gavitt was given another command, of the <i>Rebecca Sims</i>,
and while it is not known if Rebecca sailed on the merchantmen or the whaleship
<i>Tiger</i>, she was certainly with him this time. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">One of the boatsteerers, Alonzo D. Sampson, who published
his whaling memoir, <i>Three Times Around the World</i> in 1867, had a
great deal to say about her. Sampson thought Gavitt (he spelled it Gavett) ‘was the best
man I ever sailed with. He was too good. He spoiled such of his men as good
treatment could spoil.’ By contrast his
wife, ‘who sailed with him, was not so popular. In the first place,’ he
elaborated, ‘sailors have a prejudice, pretty generally justified, against
women on board a ship. They think a woman there is always in the way of
somebody, and the Captain’s wife is generally in the way of everybody. For the
want of something else to do, she is constantly meddling with matters that she
does not understand, and influencing her husband to neglect his duty for her,
to shirk the danger and exposure inseparable from a faithful discharge of his
office, and instigating him to acts that annoy and irritate the crew.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">‘Mrs. Gavett was a fine lady, and a fine-looking lady — all
the worse, we thought, for a woman in her position of a sailor. She was
unnecessarily haughty, or rather supercilious, towards the men, going out of
her way sometimes to intimate her contempt for them. On the other hand we did
not lack for ways in which to make her understand we considered her more of a
nuisance than otherwise. We had a story
among us, with a great deal of truth I believe, that she was <i>fast</i>, and
that the Captain brought her along to save her character and his purse. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">‘During the beautiful weather that favored our run to the
Cape Verdes, she passed most of the daytime on deck, where a chair was set for
her, she not having, in sailors’ phrase, “got on her sea-legs,” if it is not
irreverent to suppose that the Captain’s wife possesses these members.’ (pages
78-79) And, when they arrived at St
Vincent in the Cape Verdes, she had the pleasure of being entertained on board
the American sloop of war <i>Dale</i>, which was a good augury for the voyage.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">However, the ship was storm beset when doubling Cape Horn,
and at one stage ‘the whole ship’s company, the Captain’s wife not excepted,
were gathered on deck expecting the worst.’ She watched as energetic seamanship
saved the ship, and apparently approved when Captain Gavitt treated the crew to
as much grog as they could drink. It was not the last emergency, by any means. The officer on watch mistaking a landmark on
entering the harbor of Lahaina in the dark, the ship was ‘brought up all
standing’ when it crashed on a sandbar. The shock was tremendous, all the
lanterns went out, dunnage clattered everywhere, and everyone rushed up to deck
— ‘Among the crowd that stood dumbfounded around the captain was his handsome
wife. She seemed to be even worse affected than she had been under far more
fearful circumstances in the Strait of Le Maire ... “Oh! Samuel,” she cried in
tones of despair. “Oh! Samuel, what shall we do?” To be ready for the worst,’
in case the bottom of the ship was broken, the boats were cleared away. More energetic seamanship got the ship off
the sandbank with no harm done, however, and by daybreak they were anchored off
Lahaina. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Then there was more excitement, as Captain Gavitt raced his
ship against the <i>Vesper</i>, having laid a bet with Captain Edward Howes
that he would beat him to the ‘fishing’ ground, a race that he won by one day. There,
in the Ochotsk Sea, she endured snow storms where the ship pitched madly, and an
anxious night when the ship was driven by the ice, with the loss of all her
anchors. There were bears to watch, too — bears that came to eat the carcasses
of the whales after the blubber had been removed. There was much to watch that
was grisly.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">In November 1854 they dropped anchor at Hilo, where they
stayed two months, and Rebecca could marvel at the current eruption. ‘A stream
of lava from one of the many craters started in the direction of the town, but
Mr. Coan, the missionary there, went up to the mountain and prayed, and soon
after the lava stopped flowing that way.’ From there they sailed to Honolulu,
laying off and on outside the port instead of dropping anchor, to deter
attempts to desert that ship. As Sampson casually mentioned, there were
attempts to swim ashore, but it was often a doomed venture, because of the
sharks that swarmed.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">At this stage Samuel Gavitt was rather keen to leave Rebecca
at the islands, according to this raconteur, but she flatly refused to leave
This meant that she was on the deck when they called at the island of Ascension
(Pohnpei), where the natives who came on board to trade ‘were dressed in suits
of cocoa nut oil, only without a rag of anything else about them, [and] the
captain’s wife voted them a great curiosity, and gave them considerable of her
attention.’ From there, after a racy
encounter with an immense sea serpent (that should be taken with a grain of
salt, Sampson perhaps being responsible for the famous fable), the <i>Rebecca
Sims</i> called at Guam, where Captain Gavitt found himself in a quandary. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">‘Of course it was absolutely necessary that his lady should
visit town, and at the same time it was equally impossible to get any other
mode of conveyance except on ox-back … Mrs. Gavett, with a bravery that
distinguishes her sex when the result sought is a visit, declared her ability
to ride an ox, and her willingness to “try it on.” So she went on shore where
quite a number of these horned steeds were quietly waiting … An animal was
selected rather with reference to steady going than to speed, and a small
mountain of folded blankets, which gave him quite a poetic resemblance to a
camel, at least in the hump, was strapped onto his back. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">‘To this eminence the lady was elevated, not exactly “by a
turn of the wrist,” but by pure muscle, and <i>bos</i> was solicited to propel
in the direction of town. On the contrary he began a rapid “advance backwards,”
until the rider was brought into contact with certain cocoa nut trees … [and]
she was wiped off at imminent risk of limbs and neck. The stupid brute, unaware
and probably unworthy of the honor intended him, then trotted off for the bush.’
Rebecca Gavitt, though bruised and humiliated, was still determined to go to
town, so a couple of poles were fetched, and a chair slung from them, and four
natives took up the burden and ‘Mrs. Gavett was borne in state, if not in
triumph, to town.’ <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Captain Gavitt needed a new first mate at this stage, but
the one he hired in Guam took a strong dislike to Mrs. Gavitt, and left. In Manila (where they had carried a
theatrical troupe) he hired a Frenchman, Lavalette by name, on the
recommendation of Mrs. Gavitt. ‘He may have had any possible number of
qualities fitting him for the place, but none of us ever discovered them.
Lavalette’s heels [had] turned Mrs. Gavett’s head, and she exclaimed in an
ecstasy of admiration, “Oh! Captain, do ship Mr. Lavalette, he is such a
splendid dancer!” and that decided the matter.
The dancing master, as we called him, was shipped.’ He turned out to be totally incapable of
harpooning a whale, which disappointed Mrs. Gavitt greatly — ‘She was probably
at a loss to imagine how a man who danced so well could fail to be a good
whaleman.’<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">They headed for the Hawaiian Islands after another season in
the ice, and then sailed from Honolulu on Christmas Day, 1856, to cruise on the
way home, arriving at New Bedford May 23, 1857.
The voyage was over, and ‘Alonzo’ Sampson was headed for another
ship. As for Captain Gavitt, as Sampson
meditated, ‘I hope he was able to live in some other occupation [as] I
certainly think he deserved it.’ And that is what must have happened, as there
is no record of Gavitt whaling again. Or of what happened to Rebecca.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">So, how true is all this?
There is no Alonzo Sampson on the <i>Rebecca Sims</i> crewlist, but
there is a William Sampson, shipped as an ordinary seaman, and authors, like
sailors, often sail under false names. The crew of the ship changed constantly,
so Sampson could easily have become a boatsteerer (harpooner) as the voyage
went on. The dates mentioned in the book are mostly confirmed, too: April 28,
1854, at Lahaina; October 18, at Honolulu from Ochotsk Sea; March 17, 1855, at
Lahaina after a cruise; at Shantar Bay October 1855; at Hilo November 9, from
the Ochotsk; cleared December 14, to cruise; at Guam in March 1856, then the
Ochotsk; took oil from the wreck of the <i>Alexander</i>; Honolulu November 17,
also December 12, then home, arriving May 31, 1857. (Dennis Wood abstract) So,
while William Sampson was a born raconteur, tempted to embroider his yarn, the
substance of his humorous stories of Mrs. Captain Samuel Gavitt is probably
based on reality.<o:p></o:p></p><p>
<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsqlLHOBDBCgFJ-qtYJX6nkZ62Dlb5sX-_fx_GmdaS2RlpJqdP98uREqgukcsi2_kWtd8FHqYKxLoR_cL6S8OwTcH3h5kd6DM4UE5dp2bkyxwUuh27bE3WIvE6uA0wLkODqqQ3AfpK2dS9PyNYWgoVCMfvIBh76t_CE_Wb0CLIMSmwDW11dIeqBL8WdU/s2362/Chapter%20heading%20-%20There%20goes%20flukes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="2362" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKsqlLHOBDBCgFJ-qtYJX6nkZ62Dlb5sX-_fx_GmdaS2RlpJqdP98uREqgukcsi2_kWtd8FHqYKxLoR_cL6S8OwTcH3h5kd6DM4UE5dp2bkyxwUuh27bE3WIvE6uA0wLkODqqQ3AfpK2dS9PyNYWgoVCMfvIBh76t_CE_Wb0CLIMSmwDW11dIeqBL8WdU/s320/Chapter%20heading%20-%20There%20goes%20flukes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-59026306875985748672023-08-13T13:22:00.002+12:002023-08-14T08:41:34.985+12:00Captain of many things<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQf5g4kywWGjPSOl2DWZUKxEhcmC1oB0YbxzYgnxT25E4OSVuG6xMhqr5XJbp55MGnE9ReKITWxrmrQniKkUzBxfYW8DyZk5gWY-4IVAqVTZvr_XmbLtqaYchGK1kJZakZ88TQ-W-6d3D8VgXyA5grX9EKSGLpOSB7oBYWgfXVz_cwtKWGjrsohRJhpUA/s2250/Greyhound.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2250" data-original-width="1744" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQf5g4kywWGjPSOl2DWZUKxEhcmC1oB0YbxzYgnxT25E4OSVuG6xMhqr5XJbp55MGnE9ReKITWxrmrQniKkUzBxfYW8DyZk5gWY-4IVAqVTZvr_XmbLtqaYchGK1kJZakZ88TQ-W-6d3D8VgXyA5grX9EKSGLpOSB7oBYWgfXVz_cwtKWGjrsohRJhpUA/s320/Greyhound.jpg" width="248" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Whaling bark Greyhound.<br />New Bedford Free Public Library<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="layout-grid-mode: both;">Timothy C. Allen, born
1821, was ‘killed by a whale’ on August 2, 1852, while second mate of the <i>Sacramento</i>.
(Westport Vital Records) Just over a month later, his young wife, Abbie W.
Chace Allen, gave birth to a son, named Timothy Chace Allen, after his father.
Just two weeks later Abbie, aged just 19, died of ‘bilious fever’
(probably puerperal). The baby was raised in the household of his uncle, Deacon
John Allen, and despite his father’s abrupt death while whaling, chose whaling
as an occupation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Timothy Chace Allen first sailed at the age of 15 on the <i>Greyhound</i>,
leaving port May 23, 1868. According to the crew list he was five foot seven
inches, and had given his residence as Westport. The captain was John Milk
Allen, also of Westport. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just 30 years
old (born April 1838), John Milk was the son of Humphrey and Mary Milk Allen,
and his wife (who did not sail) was Martha Gifford Allen. It seems apparent
that he was a relative, which would have helped Timothy chose that career.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Timothy grew over the voyage — when he shipped again on the <i>Greyhound</i>
in 1872 he was 20 years old and <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>5 foot
11 inches (tall for his time), light-skinned and brown-haired. Again he gave
his residence as Westport, and again John Milk Allen commanded — until January
1873, when he left the ship, sick, at St. Helena, and the first mate took over.
According to the records, Timothy brought the ship home, a remarkable feat for
such a young man, and from then on he commanded the <i>Greyhound</i> over three
voyages, 1875 to 1878; 1879 to 1883; and 1883 to 1884. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Rosa Seale, whom he married in
1875, was born on the island of St. Helena on April 10, 1858, the daughter of
Henry and Mary Seale. (MSVR, death certificate; the 1900 New Bedford census,
which names her Isabella) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seale was a prominent
and respected name on the island, dating back to the first Seales who served
with the St. Helena Infantry of the East India Company; while recruited from
the regular military, the officers had to be of good reputation and well
educated in England. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Major Robert
Francis Seale, who had the important post of assistant storekeeper, was also a
talented geologist who produced a book of intriguing sketches called </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The Geognosy of St Helena </span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">(1834). </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Rosa evidently married Timothy
on the island, during one of the ship’s frequent visits, there being no
marriage record in Massachusetts. She certainly sailed with him: Annie
Ricketson on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pedro Varela</i>, March
12, 1882, noted that her husband Captain Daniel Ricketson gammed with the ship;
‘It was the bark <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Greyhound</i>, Capt Allen
he had his wife.’ (NBWM, PMB 287, 816, 887.) <span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The bark <i>Greyhound</i> was sold into the merchant trade
in 1884, and Captain Allen took the vessel out to Australia with a general
cargo, returning to New Bedford with oil in autumn 1885. He then bought a share
in the packet schooner <i>Hastings</i>, and took command until 1886, when he decided
his seafaring career was over, and applied to the New Bedford Police Department.
Starting off as a patrolman, he soon became a lieutenant, and in 1893 he was
promoted to captain. It was a post he tried to leave as he accumulated interests
in more ships, including the whaler <i>Leonora</i>. His letter of resignation
was shelved as he was considered too valuable to be let go, and it was not
until 1908 that he finally retired, having insisted that Mayor Edward Hathaway
accept his resignation. (NB <i>Evening Standard</i>, January 8, 1908)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Rosa Seale Allen died on February 9, 1917, and is buried in
the Abner Wilcox Cemetery, Westport, Massachusetts. On Christmas Day 1918
Timothy wed Florence May Gammans Tripp, of Acushnet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was a widow 43 years old, and this was
her second marriage. (MSVR) Captain Timothy Chase Allen died April 7, 1923, and
is buried with Rosa in Westport. (Obit. <i>Sunday Herald,</i> Boston, April 8,
1923) Florence recovered fast, marrying a widowed bookkeeper, Otis Tuttle, in
October the following year. (Many details about the two Timothy Allens can be
found on websites administered from Westport, including the facebook page for
the Westport Gravestone Cleaning and Restoration group.)<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Many thanks to their researchers and also Kiwi researcher Kay Vincent for invaluable help. <br /><p></p><p>A truly remarkable man. Here as a police captain, metamorphosed from a whaling skipper.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiC2Wtlp5LD3goXEBjz8TxiJbVPAmyH3-FC-OMkdzdj6RiKJPDSrvCkXdCTJXquM-XAPGPkoaXQqygCkbdaKpLVuDhuIPSG3ZKNkJYDW9Acy8Fo6kjAdY38TRvISY62ctZLGMtK-PGAWJ_Kw1C5YD_KNQn-h9V0mK_nbKBHLQarb6C-0Y1Vq_sGD9juaEg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="278" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiC2Wtlp5LD3goXEBjz8TxiJbVPAmyH3-FC-OMkdzdj6RiKJPDSrvCkXdCTJXquM-XAPGPkoaXQqygCkbdaKpLVuDhuIPSG3ZKNkJYDW9Acy8Fo6kjAdY38TRvISY62ctZLGMtK-PGAWJ_Kw1C5YD_KNQn-h9V0mK_nbKBHLQarb6C-0Y1Vq_sGD9juaEg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-3563889571856608272023-07-31T09:56:00.002+12:002023-07-31T09:56:51.817+12:00Whaling stories from early Mangonui, New Zealand<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXAB2chIC9CVm-mfbjekz-iz9ie1rAkQ4aOIk7MD_21LgfgYZMNpSnWdCqL4EImMd8zdy1eBHfDtxqJt9sP0zKBG6Ew6Zfu8EdFaHvZzF-VzbIfXpnVFSipywDyOZe5JYtqb7iW2ZyE_L-Fa9Mq5o2R8vrI7GjFPK1M0Y8-bUNzFAjz5D3qx1OMoAbRiE" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="153" data-original-width="329" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXAB2chIC9CVm-mfbjekz-iz9ie1rAkQ4aOIk7MD_21LgfgYZMNpSnWdCqL4EImMd8zdy1eBHfDtxqJt9sP0zKBG6Ew6Zfu8EdFaHvZzF-VzbIfXpnVFSipywDyOZe5JYtqb7iW2ZyE_L-Fa9Mq5o2R8vrI7GjFPK1M0Y8-bUNzFAjz5D3qx1OMoAbRiE=w400-h186" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-variant: small-caps; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">FISHER</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">, Eliza
Ann Anthony (Mrs. Matthew): <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Matthew Fisher and Eliza Ann Anthony, he of New York, and
she of New Bedford, married in New Bedford on November 2, 1842 (New Bedford Vital
Records). They were both very young, she being 20 and he just two years older. The
following June he sailed off on the <i>Cherokee</i> as third mate, getting back
in 1846.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then sailed as first mate of
the <i>Hunter</i> in 1851, getting back in 1854.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally, he given a command, of the <i>Stephania</i>,
but according to the log Eliza Ann was not with him, probably because she had
given birth to a little girl (Eliza jr) within a year of his return.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, she did sail on the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stephania</i> in 1857: the WSL for July 21,
1857, includes her on the outgoing passenger list; and she also sent reports of
the ship’s progress back to New Bedford (eg. WSL for April 3, 1860). On the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Gazelle</i>, November 12, 1857, Eleanor
Baker recorded that ‘the Stephania of New Bedford came down and spoke us ...
Capt Fisher has his wife on board.’ (NBWM loan log; there is no record of the
little girl Eliza sailing too.) <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Eliza Ann also sailed on the dramatic voyage of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">John Wells</i> in 1861: the WSL for June 30,
1863 noted, ‘A letter from Mrs. Capt. Fisher of bark John Wells (NB), dated
Mangonui [NZ] March 9, 1863, states that Capt. F. had been stabbed by one of
the crew, who was drunk at the time. The act was committed in the Consul’s
store at Mangonui … Capt. F. was stabbed three times and it was thought at first
that he could not live, but at the date of the letter he was getting better. No
cause was assigned for the act, as there had been no trouble on board the ship.’
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This was widely reported in New Zealand: ‘The schooner <i>Kiwi</i>,
Captain McGregor, arrived from Mangonui Saturday afternoon …’ posted the <i>New
Zealander</i>, 9 March 1863; ‘Captain McGregor reports that the Captain of the
New Bedford whaler <i>John Wells</i>, 366 tons, had been stabbed by one of the
crew, a native of Hobart Town. The sufferer, we are glad to state, was
improving, and likely to recover.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Eliza Ann Fisher was being less than candid when she claimed
there was ‘no trouble on board the ship’ — as the Mangonui correspondent for
the <i>New Zealander,</i> March 17, went on to say, ‘Several men are in gaol for
deserting the <i>John Wells</i>, but it is useless for them to desert here, as
they cannot get away … There is every probability of much trouble from the crew
of the whale ship <i>John Wells</i>, as a general spirit of discontent appears
to pervade the whole crew, and threats of mischief are held out by many of them….<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘On the afternoon of the 2<sup>nd</sup> instant, the captain
(Fisher) was standing in conversation with several other persons at Messrs Drury
& Co’s store, when one of the crew, named John Davis, rushed into the store,
in a very excited state, and, with his arms extended, as though he was going to
embrace the captain, exclaimed ‘Life! Life!” He then made several thrusts at
the captain’s left side with a knife which he had in his right hand, two of
which took effect — one through the lower part of the neck, or rather the
shoulder, and the other through the fleshy part of the arm. Davis was
immediately disarmed and secured…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘There are at present eight prisoners confined here. Three
European and one Native constables keep watch day and night. Several of these
prisoners belong to the<i> John Wells</i>, and are to be put on board again
when she sails. They, however, express a strong determination never again to go
in her, and state they will sooner burn her first. There is great reason to
fear that the troubles in this vessel are not yet at an end.’<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">John Davis was charged with intent to murder, and sent to
Auckland to be tried in the Supreme Court, which meant that Captain Fisher, his
wife, and others who were with him during the attack had to go there to give
evidence. The long report of the trial (<i>New Zealander</i>, 31 March 1863)
includes evidence given by Eliza Ann Fisher, who testified, ‘I am wife of the
prosecutor. I was in Mr Drury’s store when the prisoner attacked my husband. He
said “Life, Captain Fisher,” and repeated it afterwards. I saw prisoner stab my
husband, and afterwards the wounds inflicted.’ Cross-examined by the jury, she
testified, ‘The wound was on the left shoulder, between the side of the neck
and the upper part of the shoulder.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Davis was found guilty despite long rambling stories of ill
usage on board and a head wound received while on a warship in the Black Sea,
and was sentenced to four years hard labour. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The <i>John Wells</i> finally got away from Mangonui on 16
April, but in August Fisher was forced to fly a flag of distress, having sprung
a bad leak during a storm in the Tasman Sea. Another ship escorted his vessel
as it limped into Sydney. Repairs were made, but the next report of the ship
was in Tahiti, March 1864, in distress, leaking badly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i>John Wells</i> then staggered into San
Francisco, reported there in July. There Fisher sold the battered old ship and
her whaling gear for $10,000 cash and he and Eliza Ann took the train home.
(WSL October 4, 1864) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Unsurprisingly, Matthew Fisher then retired from the sea.
Not only had he made enough money from his whaling ventures (he was listed with
a total worth of $12000), but Eliza Ann would not have wanted to repeat the <i>John
Wells</i> experience. She died in 1887, and he followed her to the grave in October
1900. (<i>findagrave</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-33111649650923025312023-07-29T10:05:00.001+12:002023-07-29T10:05:53.835+12:00A mysterious seafaring family of early Australia<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1QhAZOrkNEoeEmMXlMHWqWegByWHnRDuNo6xYLTno3vbDZ0igMpTRfc7uFyzdAT8gam2tg78_tDlpFljg0ysHHM6zNwMziWoUDxaDYYC9n3djW-sdEzkPVfpf4yJFkvLB0wE32CFGPBECcYtl17qiKiormwfJSnt_66VC-1xUVQ-hkzQoFN5wJi7G8g/s1765/PJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1765" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1QhAZOrkNEoeEmMXlMHWqWegByWHnRDuNo6xYLTno3vbDZ0igMpTRfc7uFyzdAT8gam2tg78_tDlpFljg0ysHHM6zNwMziWoUDxaDYYC9n3djW-sdEzkPVfpf4yJFkvLB0wE32CFGPBECcYtl17qiKiormwfJSnt_66VC-1xUVQ-hkzQoFN5wJi7G8g/w400-h245/PJ.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Port Jackson 1823<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">CURRIE, Mrs. John:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The first record of Captain Currie is as master of the
London whaleship <i>Elizabeth</i>, 437 tons. He was reported at Cable Bay,
South Africa, on 12 April 1833, bound home to London after having left Sydney
on 19 August 1832. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Evidently he made a
quick turnaround, as on November 30, 1833, the ship <i>Indiana</i> arrived at
Hobart from Sydney with Captain Currie, Mrs. Currie, and three children among
the passengers, while the <i>Elizabeth</i> was in port, fitting out for
whaling. (Tasmanian <i>Colonist</i> 3 December 1833). Within days, the family
was settled on board. The <i>Sydney Gazette</i> for 2 January 1834, in a column
headed ‘Van Dieman’s Land news’, noted the departure of the <i>Elizabeth</i> on
the tenth ‘for the sperm fishery, passengers Mrs. Currie and three children.’ <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The ship was next reported at the Bay of Islands, New
Zealand, 7 January 1834, returning there on March 17, 1834. Did John Currie leave his family there? It seems likely. The Aaron Price
diary (kept on Norfolk Island) notes the brief call of the <i>Elizabeth </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>at Norfolk Island 30 September 1834 — ‘… the
whaler “Elizabeth” touched here’. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According
to the <i>Sydney Herald,</i> 16 October 1834, ‘Captain Currie called there for
the purpose of ascertaining whether the report of the depredations committed by
the New Zealanders, was true, Captain Currie having left his wife there. Having
ascertained that such was the case, the <i>Elizabeth</i> started for New Zealand;
she had 800 barrels of oil on board.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The ’depredations’ were the seizure of the <i>Harriett</i>,
Captain Guard, and according to a later report, Currie rescued the stranded
crew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Evidently he picked up his wife
and children at the same time — 21 March 1835, the <i>Sydney Monitor</i> noted ‘Ship
Elizabeth, Captain Currie, arrived from the South Seas, passengers Mrs. Currie
& 3 children and Miss Currie.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then on
14 April 1835 the <i>Sydney Gazette</i> reported ‘DEPARTURES, for London on
Saturday last, the ship <i>Elizabeth</i>, Captain Currie, with oil &c.,
passengers, Mrs. Pinkerton, Mrs. Currie and family, and Mrs. Ford.’ <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The ship arrived at Gravesend 29 September 1835 ‘after a quick
passage of three months and twelve days’ (<i>Sydney Herald </i>8 February 1836).
The <i>Elizabeth</i> with Currie in command departed again on February 4, 1836,
arriving in Sydney in May 1836, after another speedy passage. This time, Mrs
Currie was not reported on board, the only passenger being William Mattinson
(who, incidentally, was a past master of the <i>Elizabeth</i>). The ship was
reported back in London on June 10, 1839. (<i>Sydney Herald</i> 6 May 1840)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On November 10, 1843, John Currie sailed from London in
command of the <i>Luisa</i> (308 tons register), and dropped anchor in Sydney
March 4, 1845 to report a bad-luck voyage, having taken only 460 barrels of oil
since leaving London, though ‘Captain Curry speaks in the highest terms of his
officers and crew’ (SMH 5 March 1845). The ship was then reported cruising
about the Kingsmills on 25 July 1845, and at Samoa in October 1846. Again, it
is not apparent that his wife and family were with him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And that, as far as newspaper records go, seems to be the
end of the story…<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Who was she? And what happened to the family after that? It's an intriguing mystery.</p><br /><p></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-29796447192625189652023-07-20T12:55:00.000+12:002023-07-20T12:55:00.951+12:00Romance of the Sea.<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitbg8gYMC54pH1jLCTdAMXh8gEvN4CjCkKmJH1wzPHhkthtmcEzDCNkwl9x75bT7_cv_N1mdQO36ISKSJL4skXrfOjShrvWtnQjL66d3FrH4uvsCyeAxirpcGgrEx4L22QR9K066wiRjzk_2U8Bs8MwAMCjS5PMqOwcK3dKVpHoxUtf0iIMw5qsMiFE3U/s128/Sarah%20Cossill.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="128" data-original-width="92" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitbg8gYMC54pH1jLCTdAMXh8gEvN4CjCkKmJH1wzPHhkthtmcEzDCNkwl9x75bT7_cv_N1mdQO36ISKSJL4skXrfOjShrvWtnQjL66d3FrH4uvsCyeAxirpcGgrEx4L22QR9K066wiRjzk_2U8Bs8MwAMCjS5PMqOwcK3dKVpHoxUtf0iIMw5qsMiFE3U/w230-h320/Sarah%20Cossill.jpg" width="230" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">Sarah Cossill was born in Mangonui, a tiny outpost in the far north
of New Zealand, in February 1836. She was the daughter of Charles Cossill, an English seaman
who had turned into a settler, and his wife, a Maori woman named Pourewa, but
called Margaret after their marriage. The other main character in this very
unusual story is Charles Albert Evans, who was born in Northfield, Merrimack,
New Hampshire, in February 1827. He was a dedicated whaleman, being a
boatsteerer (harpooner) on the <i>Benjamin Tucker</i> in 1849, second mate of
the <i>William C. Nye</i> in 1851, and first mate of the <i>Arctic</i> in 1854,
which is when the story begins.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It is revealed in an intriguing entry in the New Bedford <i>Evening
Standard</i> for 8 February 1893, which is headed, ‘A Unique Matrimonial
Contract Found in the Fairhaven Town Clerk’s Office’ and goes on to describe the
marriage of Charles Evans and Sarah ‘Gorsell’ on board the whaleship <i>Arctic</i>.
The captain was Ira Lakey, who was really a watchmaker, but had offered his
services to the owners of the <i>Arctic</i>, and Charles Evans was the first
mate. During a call on Mangonui, in the north of New Zealand, Charles had
fallen in love with a beautiful half-Maori girl, and being reluctant to leave
her, he had smuggled her on board. Conditions on whalers being what they were,
he must have had some connivance from his fellow officers, as Sarah’s presence
was not reported to the captain until the ship was too far from land to sail
back.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">So, that left Captain Lakey with a problem, which he
discussed with a ‘council’ of officers, and it was decided that he should marry
the couple, someone having pointed out that a captain could do this at sea. Accordingly,
a contract was drawn up, and in due course was entered at the Fairhaven Town
Clerk’s office, where the journalist found it many years later. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">March 12, 1856, it was dated, in lat. 42.30, long 153 West. ‘To
all whom it may concern,’ it reads, ‘I, Charles A. Evans, and I, Sarah Corsell,
do this day in the presence of all these witnesses, bind ourselves in every
point and particular, in the solemn bounds of matrimony, the same as though it
were performed in the presence of an ordained minister or a lawful appointed
justice of the peace. Our excuse for being married now is that we are so
situated that we cannot live here in a manner proper for civilised beings, only
as man and wife…’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So a ceremony was
staged where the captain, Sarah, and Charles recited the vows as remembered
from attending more conventional weddings, and Sarah was given a ring made by
the crew by boring a hole in a silver coin. The document was signed by nine
witnesses, headed by the captain, and tailed by the harpooners and boatheaders.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Charles took Sarah to New Hampshire to meet his family, and
then, when he was offered the command of the <i>Arctic</i>, she sailed with
him. They departed July 23, 1856, and proceeded to the Pacific via the Cape of
Good Hope. Sadly, while the ship was in the southern Indian Ocean on the way to
New Zealand, Captain Evans was killed. The WSL for May 12, 1857 reported the
tragedy: ‘We regret to learn the death of Capt. Chas. A. Evans, of Ship Arctic
of Fairhaven, who fell overboard from his ship in the night time off NZ in Jan.
last, while beating up for a whale; he was drawn under the ship where he was crushed
by the counter setting upon him. A boat was immediately lowered and his body
taken on board, but life was extinct. The widow of Capt. E., who accompanied him
on the voyage, returned home in the ship Jireh Swift, which arrived at this
port 6<sup>th</sup> inst..’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The issue for June 2, 1857 carried more details: ‘It was
proposed to bury him at St. Pauls Island but the weather was so bad that it was
found impossible. His body was therefore placed in a coffin which was enclosed
in a much larger one, and the space between the two coffins filled with lime and
sand and he was brought to this port [Mangonui, New Zealand] and buried on an island
at the eastern end of the harbor.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘At the time of the accident his wife (whom he had married
from this place 8 months before) was on board and she had the melancholy satisfaction
of seeing him interred within a few yards of her father’s house.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘The funeral took place on Friday the 23<sup>rd</sup> inst
[January 1857] and was attended by all the masters and most of the officers of
the whaleships in harbor and the principal inhabitants of the place. The procession
of whaleboats extended over half a mile - and the funeral service was performed
by W.B. White Esq. Resident Magistrate.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">‘Capt. E. was a native of N.Hampshire USA - aged 29 years.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The issue for 12 May 1857 has a passenger list: ‘In the Jireh
Swift, at this port, Mrs. Evans, widow of the late Capt. Evans, of ship Arctic
of Fairhaven; Mr. Nicholas Blaisdell, of Portland, late mate of bark John C.
Fremont, of California, wrecked on Christmas Island, November 23, 1856.’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Sarah had opted to return to her parents-in-law rather than
stay in New Zealand, possibly because she was pregnant with their grandchild (a
boy, Charles Herbert Evans, was born the following July), and as the <i>Arctic </i>was
at the beginning of the whaling voyage, it was impossible for her to stay on
board that ship. Accordingly, she had begged or bought passage on the homebound
<i>Jireh Swift.</i> In 1861 she married a New Hampshire man, John Heath, who
adopted her little boy. She died in 1907, still in Northfield, New Hampshire. (<i>findagrave</i>)<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_p4OA358Tm1VYtcpIhdQ639yMSPBxcXW9xcObsntmO-ehpzVfTAkHmvsYU0msP1F6V9IoObyO8Ehh0zORaKhnqB09jgt5FC13g8qdVUP8J8fZry58Mf7tBOSbN2tv42TxVGrSwOpuPwiueNYiKA7t9qdHD1xdScc--uVvaRVt3cDMZCuNwFzHb3gfIM/s4000/Mangonui%20cemetery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX_p4OA358Tm1VYtcpIhdQ639yMSPBxcXW9xcObsntmO-ehpzVfTAkHmvsYU0msP1F6V9IoObyO8Ehh0zORaKhnqB09jgt5FC13g8qdVUP8J8fZry58Mf7tBOSbN2tv42TxVGrSwOpuPwiueNYiKA7t9qdHD1xdScc--uVvaRVt3cDMZCuNwFzHb3gfIM/w400-h300/Mangonui%20cemetery.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cemetery at Mangonui.<br />Unfortunately, Captain Evans' precise burial spot is lost -- or maybe there was never a headstone, just a cross that rotted away<br />With thanks to the Butler Point Whaling Museum </td></tr></tbody></table><br />World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-17130060701902874622023-07-15T13:33:00.003+12:002023-07-17T09:33:49.202+12:00Sentenced to the lucky land<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq36I0SS4P52zDgRGuN6kVk8ulihQvPvjeQoJaElh7qIE6zrJ0BRkcNLM0g-T6bZbiLD4DUTzlwqQWa_i1FP2qDnaUOtqNyQuJUADohKdN2Aa7fYYvrCLCshcgg04F_faSNUEqy_tYIE3hEgGyaO9MN35ehZVXwqM7Cdv6F8UH9_6gFhu_hvOAwwYtMdk/s1929/Convicts_at_Botany_Bay.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="953" data-original-width="1929" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq36I0SS4P52zDgRGuN6kVk8ulihQvPvjeQoJaElh7qIE6zrJ0BRkcNLM0g-T6bZbiLD4DUTzlwqQWa_i1FP2qDnaUOtqNyQuJUADohKdN2Aa7fYYvrCLCshcgg04F_faSNUEqy_tYIE3hEgGyaO9MN35ehZVXwqM7Cdv6F8UH9_6gFhu_hvOAwwYtMdk/w400-h198/Convicts_at_Botany_Bay.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Being sentenced to a life far beyond the seas could be a punishment -- and it could be a blessing.</p><p>Both are encapsulated in the story of Richard Cheers, and his son-in-law, Captain John Evans.</p><p>Elizabeth Cheers, the heroine of my story, was christened in Sydney on 23 June 1816, the first
child of Richard and Jane Ann Smith Cheers. Her mother was a convict who had
been convicted of theft and transported to New South Wales on the <i>Wanstead</i>
in 1814. She had married Richard Cheers
15 October 1815, a ceremony he must have been well accustomed to, as Jane Ann
was his fourth wife. She gave him four
children before dying somewhat mysteriously (of ‘sudden indisposition’) in
March 1823. The second child was Mary
Ann (‘Marian’). Two boys, James and William Smith, followed.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Richard Cheers was a remarkably enterprising man. Though sentenced
to be hanged for the theft of a horse, he was recognised as being skilled in farm
management, so was transported as an artisan. The ship was the <i>Guardian</i>
and the year was 1789, when the settlement in New South Wales was desperately
short of provisions. The transport, with its lifesaving load, was badly damaged
on the way after striking an iceberg, and half the crew took to the boats, in a
desperate effort to get to Table Bay. Cheers was one of the gang of twenty
convicts who stayed on board to help the captain get the wreckage into port, so
that the provisions in the hold could be largely saved. It took a dreadful
month, but they managed it. Richard Cheers was transferred to the <i>Surprise</i>,
and landed in Sydney in June 1790 as a free man, rewarded with both liberty and
land for his courage. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">From there, he prospered, setting up a flourishing business
as the first butcher in the colony, sited in what is now the heart of the city,
extending from George and Hunter streets. He built and managed the Black Bull
Inn, plus two extensive land grants, one at Manly. Jane Ann died, drunk and in
disgrace, in March 1823 at the age of 31, and Richard himself had passed away in
February 1827, meaning that his two daughters were considered a prime catch,
being heiresses to a sizeable holding. Meantime they were looked after by an
older stepsister, whose husband was the licensee of the Plume of Feathers Inn.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdwcdC8Gg4qxdWn5USr2Oqk5Ohdi3w1DY3lRtLAGQ1muY-SjugTNI2x32X9Nz3tPEV_-mvOI_Jir-2hiNiqMpzY0FMjnPHbqvUChhTH47NiEzKT7IpJJQ-XfOXhTikc8YOgSyJnaVdl0WbLLKtiq19bc6UI3Taw-5XwdxnigbgS43hzVVgnmthFrHCFEc" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="362" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgdwcdC8Gg4qxdWn5USr2Oqk5Ohdi3w1DY3lRtLAGQ1muY-SjugTNI2x32X9Nz3tPEV_-mvOI_Jir-2hiNiqMpzY0FMjnPHbqvUChhTH47NiEzKT7IpJJQ-XfOXhTikc8YOgSyJnaVdl0WbLLKtiq19bc6UI3Taw-5XwdxnigbgS43hzVVgnmthFrHCFEc" width="286" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Elizabeth's sister, Marian Cheers Egan, with her two daughters.<br />National Portrait Gallery, Canberra </td></tr></tbody></table><br />The first of the two girls to be snatched up was Elizabeth,
who was 17 when she married John Evans, who had been born on a farm in Wales in 1802. He
was quite a catch, too. The year was 1833, in an era when whalemen and sealers
were lions of settler society, as they brought furs and oil that could be sold
on overseas markets and bring money into the money-starved settlement. And,
what’s more, John was a highly rated shipmaster, sailing in and out of Sydney
in command of the <i>Albion</i>. Eventually he was shifted to the whaleship <i>Bombay</i>,
getting back to Sydney in May 1837, just in time to take command of a rather
notorious ship.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">This was the <i>Alexander Henry</i>, George Fennings master,
which had left London on July 9, 1835, bound to whale off Peru. The ship
(actually a snow) was reported at Lima in April 1836, and a year later at
Whangaroa, New Zealand. On 16 June 1837, the whaler arrived at Sydney to be
refitted — and, incidentally, reregistered at that port. Fennings took the ship
out again, but was murdered by natives at Gilbert Island in the Kingsmill Group
(<i>Sydney Gazette</i> 14 February 1837). The first mate, Ralph Lawson, took over
the command, intending to continue whaling, but the men mutinied and forced
him to sail to Sydney. (<i>Ships Employed in the South Seas Trade; Sydney
Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser</i>, 16 February 1837). <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">There the command was given to Captain John Evans. It was a
matter of convenience that allowed the harried Lawson to shift ships, as he
took over the command of the <i>Bombay. </i>And it was now, too, that John
Evans started wife-carrying. He, Elizabeth, and the ship were recorded at Norfolk
Island in June 1839, having left Sydney in April. The ship returned to the
island on 22 October 1839, in time for the birth of their first child — a
daughter, Mary Frances, on November 12, 1839. Eleven months later, in
October 1840, they returned to Sydney via the Bay of Islands, as the vessel was
leaking badly and the crew, as before, was mutinous. <i><o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal">Captain Evans then left the ship to take care of pressing
family business. Elizabeth’s sister, Marian, had been abruptly widowed after
her husband (Henry St John Cahuac, a convict bookseller who had turned into
into successful farmer) was killed by a fall from a horse, and she needed a
manager for the tract of land she had inherited. John and Elizabeth moved onto
the farm, and took over for the next few years. This was when their next
children were born — George St John (named after Marian’s dead husband) in
1842, and another boy, Alfred Essex, on 2 May 1847. On 6 October 1848 Elizabeth
bore yet another boy, Sydney William, then finally another daughter, Kate, born
in 1851. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">John did return to whaling, as his next recorded command is
of the <i>Lady Blackwood,</i> May 1851, but it only lasted until 1852. (Mark
Howard, <i>Masters of the Sydney Whaling Fleet.</i>) Meantime, he had made the headlines
by rescuing the crew of the wreck of the <i>Thomas King</i> in May 1852. One of
the seamen was killed by a fall from the mainmast of the <i>Lady Blackwood</i>,
but the rest survived to register their gratitude for the ‘kindness and
attention evinced towards them by Captain Evans while on board the Lady
Blackwood, he having supplied them with clothes from his own stock, and
contributed to their comfort in every possible way.’ (<i>Sydney Morning Herald</i>,
10 May 1852)<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">Elizabeth died 30 December 1883, and Captain John Evans died
the following year. They are both buried in the Camperdown Cemetery, Sydney. (Biographies of Elizabeth Cheers Evans
and Marian Cheers Egan appear in the Dictionary of Sydney, both written by
Annette Lemercier.)<o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p></p>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178779736451277146.post-61445950434783064452023-07-08T15:25:00.002+12:002023-07-08T15:33:50.033+12:00The Mysterious Mistress of John P. Davenport ,,, and another dubious woman<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA9Ml-rk6fLz9JheWIWSJOrZ-uLHs5c9xWAs6WwgGzyI5tudH_poxMk2l8rwNk65Y3FbSrHR8K6FSzBe8a1YKr5GZGtqPLZVJs3lUijPFgICid8w8rj3y-FtTwki9x3jyd_XhVEjiVQcWz7EcGtUSOhLTYh56-vuIX3L4gaYt9PjW5_K_xXzNxgBE92cE/s355/Capt%20Thomas%20McGrath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="355" height="274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA9Ml-rk6fLz9JheWIWSJOrZ-uLHs5c9xWAs6WwgGzyI5tudH_poxMk2l8rwNk65Y3FbSrHR8K6FSzBe8a1YKr5GZGtqPLZVJs3lUijPFgICid8w8rj3y-FtTwki9x3jyd_XhVEjiVQcWz7EcGtUSOhLTYh56-vuIX3L4gaYt9PjW5_K_xXzNxgBE92cE/s320/Capt%20Thomas%20McGrath.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">This definitely dubious-looking fellow was Captain Thomas McGrath, who started out whaling, and ended up as a blackbirder -- a nineteenth century slaver, who captured Pacific Islanders from their beaches and sold them as plantation laborers.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Capt. McGrath sailed from Hobart on the <i>Grecian </i>in
December 1862, with a crew of 21. About a week out, he called into Botany Bay
to pick up a lady friend, then set out on a whaling cruise that lasted 15
months and netted 6½ tons of oil. Tiring of this, he called into Wellington,
New Zealand, paying off the crew, and signing on some Maori seamen plus a few beachcombers,
and fitting the ship out as a slaver. His mistress was entered as ‘passenger,
Mrs. Blank.’</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">Then he bought provisions, eight quarter casks of rum, two
casks of ale, 10 cases of Geneva gin, one quarter cask of brandy, and two
lady’s side saddles. He sold the rum to the crew. After picking up a ‘cargo’ of
Tongan men he had duped at the small island of ‘Ata, he sailed for Peru, where
he sold the poor fellows. Next, he was reported at Bluff, New Zealand, where
McGrath had the remarkable arrogance to sue Mrs. Seal, the owner of the ship,
for wages due. The court case was a fiasco, as he had not bothered to keep a
log, and he was fined the huge sum of a thousand pounds. McGrath promptly disappeared
(without paying the fine), and the ship was returned to Hobart, but never went
whaling again. (Lawson, <i>Blue Gum Clippers and Whale Ships of Tasmania </i>(1949)
p. 73-75.)<o:p></o:p></p><p>Another interesting character who carried a mistress was John Pope Davenport, who had quite a history.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="wrapcssw10sb2x2"><span style="color: #202121; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">John Pope
Davenport was born on 13 February 1818, in Tiverton, Newport, Rhode Island. Though
there is no record of a marriage he carried a ‘wife’</span></span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> on
the schooner <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alfred</i> in 1845, according
to various entries in the log (NBWM, PMB 1001). She may have been an Australian
girl, as in 1845 the little schooner was a long time in Sydney, from 21 October
to Christmas Day, no reason given. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The identity of the keeper of the book is doubtful, too: it
begins ‘Schooner Alfred outward bound’ on August 28, 1845, and then after September
3, there is a note ‘the remainder is in another book <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>— <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Henry
S. Potter’. The rest, beginning July 14, 1846, ‘Cruising at the Kingsmill Group’
and continuing intermittently, with many dates and pages missing, is in a
different hand. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alfred </i>was at
Sydney October-December 1847, and in Mangonui, New Zealand, March 18, 1848, cruising
as far as the Marquesas Islands in June. Back in Sydney, March 4, 1849, the
first mate got into a scuffle with his boatsteerer and was badly knifed, losing
some fingers. Quite an exciting voyage for Ms. Davenport, especially as on September
19, 1849, at sea, ‘3 AM the Capts Wife was delivered of a Daughter at 9 AM
spoke the Pocklington [of Sydney]’. As was common in that whaling ground, the
schooner called at Lord Howe Island for provisions, and on February 22, 1850 ‘the
Capt & wife went on shore at 7.’ Next day the boats fetched a load of ‘potatoes
& brought also the Capts wife & woman passenger named Hoscott bound to
Sydney.’ <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In December 1851 Davenport was at Tahiti, with no mention of
a wife, and with little oil to report, having sold most of it in Sydney. He filled
the holds of the schooner with oranges for San Francisco, having heard in
Papeete of the big prices paid there for fruit. He did well out of that, but even more inspiring was that on the way to California he had spied large numbers of whales. So, after arriving back
in New Bedford on April 28, 1852, he left the <i>Alfred</i>, selling whatever
share he had in the schooner, and married a seventeen-year-old girl, Ellen
Clark Smith, <span class="wrapcssw10sb2x2"><span style="color: #202121;">on 6 June
1852, in Fairhaven. On the certificate, he declared that this was his first
marriage. </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The couple took passage on a ship bound California via Cape
Horn, but their transport sank off Nicaragua, meaning that they had to cross
the Isthmus of Panama by boat, train, and mule. Then the ship that they boarded
in Panama foundered off the coast of San Simeon, so they had to be rescued yet
again. Davenport bought passage on the steamer <i>Sea Bird</i>, which ran so
short of fuel that bulwarks, bunks and furnishings had to be burned. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">After finally getting to San Francisco, on 24 August 1852,
John bought an old whaleship that was mouldering in the mud, named <i>Otranto, </i>and
fixed it up for whaling; on October 3, 1852, the <i>Daily Alta California</i>
reported Davenport taking the old bark on a whaling voyage. He did not do well,
so just two years later he sold the old ship to the notorious Captain William ‘Bully’
Hayes, and made a living by commanding various small vessels. In 1865 he gave
up the sea, and moved to Santa Cruz to set up a real estate company. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There is no record of Ellen C. Davenport sailing with him on
the <i>Otranto</i>, and the identity and fate of the woman who accompanied him
on the schooner <i>Alfred</i> remain unknown. <o:p></o:p></span></p>As for the new owner of the <i>Otranto</i>, that is quite a story, and involves blackbirding, too.<div>The Pacific was wide and wild at the time, and more than a few wild women played their part. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpLbJW6uiiF8ZyonZYsZXlvAlZu15VC-zmX4o-4PsFIM7XUtvLVgb6AVJXb6sv4JiztNwqOMVxt_tIqZG3UPsXDfnigaW5mrnHD-jbPjSljbrLwdkfNhAg4mPw37o-z1D0QhHb-slowNtkz9gph4p2SEqb28z4lmYE3Pi92aYr1_rl7989n8joPy8dd_s/s2241/beachcomber.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1237" data-original-width="2241" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpLbJW6uiiF8ZyonZYsZXlvAlZu15VC-zmX4o-4PsFIM7XUtvLVgb6AVJXb6sv4JiztNwqOMVxt_tIqZG3UPsXDfnigaW5mrnHD-jbPjSljbrLwdkfNhAg4mPw37o-z1D0QhHb-slowNtkz9gph4p2SEqb28z4lmYE3Pi92aYr1_rl7989n8joPy8dd_s/s320/beachcomber.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><p></p><br /></div>World of the Written Wordhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10695926585496640941noreply@blogger.com0