The “Red Jacket” was built in Maine, in 1854. She was 2,006 tons. Her length was 260 feet, and her beam 44 feet. She was an extremely good-looking ship. Her figurehead was a full-length representation of “Red Jacket,” a noted Indian chieftain. She had been purchased by Pilkington & Wilson for £30,000, for their White Star Line of Australian packets. On her voyage from New York she had made the passage in thirteen days one hour—on one day she logged 415 miles.

On the morning of the 20th November, 1857, I embarked by a tender from the Liverpool Pierhead. It was nearly the top of high water. The crew were mustered on the forecastle, under the 1st Mate, Mr. Taylor. An order comes from the quarter-deck, “Heave up the anchor and get under way.” “Aye, aye, sir.” “Now then, my boys, man the windlass,” shouts the Mate, and to a merry chantie:

A good chantie man is a great help in a ship’s crew. A song with a bright topical chorus takes half the weight off a long or a heavy haul. The chain cable comes in with a click, click of the windlass falls. “The anchor is away, sir,” shouts the Chief Officer. “Heave it a-peak and cathead it,” comes from the quarter-deck, and the tug “Retriever” forges ahead, and tightens the towrope as we gather way. Bang, bang, went the guns, and twice more, for we were carrying the mails, and good-bye to old Liverpool, and the crowds which lined the pierhead cheered, for the “Red Jacket” was already a famous ship, and it was hoped she would make a record passage.

Next morning we were off Holyhead, with a fresh westerly breeze and southerly swell. We were making but poor headway, and shortly the hawser parted. “All hands on deck” was shouted by Captain O’Halloran, and a crew of eighty men promptly appeared on deck, for we carried a double crew. “Loose sails fore and aft; hands in the tops and cross-trees to see that all is clear and to overhaul gear; let royals and skysails alone.”

The boatswain’s whistle sounded fore and aft as the men quickly took their positions and laid hold of the halyards and braces. “Mr. Taylor, loose the head-sails.” “Aye, aye, sir.” The topsails, courses, and topgallant sails were all loose and gaskets made up. “Sheet home your topsails.” “Aye, aye, sir.” “Now, then, my men, lead your topsail halyards fore and aft, and up with them.” Away the crew walk along with the halyards, and then with a long pull and a pull all together the topsail yards are mastheaded to the chantie:—

“’Vast heaving—Belay there. Now brace up the yards, all hands on the lee fore braces.”

sang the chantie man. “Pass along the watch tackle, and have another pull. That will do. Belay there, and man the main braces. Down tacks.” The jibs are run up and the spanker hauled out, and the good ship “Red Jacket” like a hound released from the leash, bounds forward, and runs the knots off the log reel.

Captain O’Halloran was hanging on to the rail to windward, munching, not smoking, his cigar, with an anxious eye to windward, asking himself, “Dare I do it? Will she carry them? Yes, I think she will. Mr. Taylor, stand by the royals, haul on the weather braces, steady the yard while the youngsters lay aloft—up boys”; and half a dozen or so youngsters scampered up the rigging, over the tops, and through the cross-trees, and quickly were the royals loosed and sheeted home. “Well done lads—tie up the gaskets—clear the clew lines and come down.” But we not only wanted all sails, but every sail well set, for we were close on the wind. Jibs and staysails, courses and topsails, topgallant sails and royals must be braced sharp up at the same angle to the wind, and every tack and sheet pulling doing its work. The good ship felt that she had the bit in her mouth, and bounded along, throwing the seas in sparkling cascades to port and starboard. The man at the wheel kept his eyes upon the weather-luff of the fore royal, and kept the sail just on the tremble, so as not to lose an inch to windward.

As evening approached, the wind increased with squalls, the Captain looked anxious, and shouted to Mr. Taylor, “See that all the halyards are clear, run life-lines fore and aft, sand the decks, and see that the lee scuppers are free.” So the good ship plunged along, occasionally taking a sea over the bows, and in some of her lurches pushing her lee rail under water and throwing spray fore and aft; she was just flirting with the weather, romping along, seemingly enjoying every moment, and revelling in her element. “Keep her going,” shouted the Captain to the man at the wheel, “full and bye; just ease her a few spokes when the squall strikes her.” A loud report like a cannon—the second jib is blown clear out of the bolt ropes. “Hands forward—bend a new jib”—not an easy matter with seas coming over the forecastle; but with

the sail was mastheaded.

“Mr. Taylor, heave the log.” “Aye, aye, sir.” “What is she doing?” “Eighteen knots, sir, on the taffrail.” “Good, we shall make over 400 knots by noon tomorrow.” And we did.

We need not say that passengers under these conditions were not at home, or, indeed, wanted on deck, and the fifty saloon passengers and 600 steerage were on such days kept below in an atmosphere which was stifling; but this was rather an exceptional day. We had also soft, bright, sunny days, when life was a delight, a luxury, a dream, and the sea heavenly, but we had something exciting almost every day—sail splits, spars and gear carried away, albatross circling overhead, Cape pigeons, icebergs off Kerguelen Land, and finally we made Port Philip Heads in sixty-four days—the record passage. Bravo, “Red Jacket.”

I leave my readers to mentally compare a passenger’s life on the “Red Jacket”—with its spirit of sport and adventure, its romance, its daily happenings, and its hardships—with the luxury on such a ship as the “Aquitania” or “Olympic” with all their attractions of a first-class hotel, bridge parties, dancing, and entertainment of every kind, regardless of weather—with everything, in fact, but that spirit of adventure which appeals so strongly to the imagination of the Britisher, and which, after all, has built up his character and made him the doughty man he is either on land or at sea.

Chapter VIII

THE “QUEEN OF THE AVON”

A Reminiscence of 1858

The old-fashioned sailing-ship was handicapped by her inability to contend successfully with strong head winds. After the continuance of a succession of north-west gales the river Mersey and our docks became crowded and congested with outward bound ships waiting for a shift of wind to enable them to get away, and when this took place the river was a wonderful sight. I remember, as a boy, standing on the shore at Seaforth and counting over three hundred sailing vessels of all sorts and sizes working their way out to sea on the ebb tide between the Rock Light and the Formby Light ship, and interspersed among them were also a number of sailing-ships towing out to sea. This crowd of shipping was not only very picturesque, with their divers rigs and tanned sails, but was interesting, as it contained many types of vessel now extinct. The “brig,” square-rigged on both masts, was a good-looking, weatherly craft; the “billie boy,” carrying a square sail forward and a jigger aft; the sloop, which did most of our coasting work, had a big square-cut mainsail and jib; and the old Dutch galliot, with her bluff bows and paint of many colours; all these have now practically disappeared.

The most trying winds, however, were the easterly gales, which prevailed in November and December, and also in the spring. With easterly gales blowing I have known Liverpool to be a closed port for weeks together, few or no vessels entering it; and more than once this blockade of our port by easterly gales had a serious effect upon our stocks of cotton and produce. The inward-bound fleet was caught in the chops of the Channel, and was there detained until the wind changed. It is of such an experience I wish to write.

I had gone out to Australia in the celebrated clipper “Red Jacket.” At Sydney I took my passage home in a small barque of 400 tons, called “Queen of the Avon.” I was the only passenger, and selected this little ship purposely that I might learn something of the practical working of a ship at sea. I told the Captain of my wish, and found him quite sympathetic, and he offered to teach me navigation; but when I showed him the log I had kept on the “Red Jacket,” and the many observations I had taken and worked out, he said he felt he could not teach me much. He, however, agreed to my taking my trick at the wheel, and going aloft when reefing or making sail.

When the ship was ready for sea the police brought off our crew, for, in consequence of the lure of the goldfields, it was only possible for a ship to keep her crew by interning them with the police while she was in port—in other words, placing them in gaol. The police and the crew soon set our topsails and foresail, and with a fair wind we quickly passed down Sydney’s beautiful harbour. When we reached the entrance the police, getting into their boat, left us, and we started upon our long voyage to Valparaiso. From Valparaiso we proceeded to Guayaquil, where we loaded a cargo of cocoa for Falmouth for orders.

Our voyage was uneventful. I obtained the knowledge of seamanship I desired, for we were fortunate in having in our small crew an old man-of-war’s man named Amos. Amos was a splendid man, a stalwart in physique, and most estimable in character. He quickly took the lead in the forecastle, and exercised great moral influence. No “swear word” was heard when old Amos was present. When reefing he had the post of honour at the weather earing, and when he got astride the yardarm the weather earing was bound to come home. He taught me my knots, bends, and splices, and looked after me when aloft.

At the end of ninety days we sighted the Wolf Rock off the Land’s End. In the afternoon we were off the Lizard, and stood off shore to clear the Manacle Rocks. The crew were busy hauling up the cables from the chain locker, for we expected to be in Falmouth before sunset, and all hands were bright and gay at the early prospect of being on shore once more. The wind, however, became more easterly, and when we again tacked we failed to clear the Manacles. Standing out again we were blown off the land, and thirty days elapsed before we again made the Manacles, during which time we battled day after day with a succession of easterly gales. We were blown off as far west as the meridian of the Fastnet; then we got a slant, and crawled up as far as the Scillies, only to be blown off again.

It was monotonous and weary work; standing inshore during the day and off-shore at night, mostly under double-reefed or close-reefed topsails, or hove to with a heavy sea running. Indeed, we met many ships which apparently had given up the contest, and remained hove-to waiting for a change of wind. We had some bright sunny days, but mostly drab grey Atlantic days, and an easterly wind always. At the end of ten days H.M.S. “Valorus,” a paddle sloop, came within hailing distance, and offered to supply us with fresh provisions. This offer our skipper declined, much to the disappointment of his crew, for our hencoops had been empty for weeks, and our one sheep and two pigs had been consumed long ago, and we were living upon hard biscuit and salt tack, boiled salt beef and plum duff one day and roast pork and pea soup the next. There was no variation; our food had become distinctly monotonous.

The crowd of ships thus weather-bound increased day by day—ships from Calcutta and Bombay, deeply-laden rice ships from Rangoon, and large heavily-laden American ships with guano from the Chinchas. Some we met almost daily; others came upon the scene now and again, and we welcomed them as old friends. The only vessels that got through to their port of destination in spite of the easterly gales were the fruit schooners conveying cargoes of oranges from the Azores. They were smart brigantines—perfect witches of the sea—well handled, and they never missed a chance. They seemed to have the power of sailing right into the teeth of the wind. At the end of a further ten days another relief ship hailed us, but our Captain again declined any supplies, arguing with himself that the east winds could not last much longer; but another ten days had to pass before a gentle westerly swell told us that westerly winds were not far away, and before twenty-four hours had elapsed we squared away before a westerly breeze. We soon passed the Lizard, and the Manacles, and dropped our anchor in Falmouth, making the passage in 120 days, of which we had spent thirty in the chops of the Channel.

Chapter IX

THE “GREAT EASTERN”

A Reminiscence of 1861

Some account of the memorable voyage of the “Great Eastern,” when she broke down in the middle of the Atlantic, may be of interest. It is an old story, but it is memorable as marking an epoch in the history of the Atlantic trade, which owes not a little of its progress to its failures. The enterprise which produced these failures is entitled to our admiration for its boldness and courage.

The “Great Eastern” was a remarkable ship. She was, in a sense, twenty years ahead of her time. On the other hand, if she had possessed sufficient engine power for her displacement, she would have revolutionized steamship travel across the Atlantic and hastened the era of large and swift Atlantic liners.

The “Great Eastern” was designed by Brunel, and built in 1858 for the East India and Australian trades, for which routes a large coal carrying capacity was necessary. But she never entered those trades. Her speed in smooth water was twelve to thirteen knots, but in a head sea she could do little more than hold her own, hence the cause of her troubles.

The following figures give her dimensions, contrasted with the largest vessel of her time—the “Scotia”—and the ships of to-day:—

It will be seen from these figures how great was the departure of the “Great Eastern” from the largest vessel of her period, and how small she would appear to-day by the side of the “Aquitania.” Not only was she a great advance in size, but she had many other novel points. She was propelled by two sets of engines, oscillating paddle engines and horizontal screw engines, which together developed 11,000 horse-power. She was fitted with six masts and four funnels. Her cabin accommodation was unusually capacious and lofty. Speaking from memory, her saloon was 18 to 20 feet high. She had a smoking room, while in the “Scotia” smokers had still to be content with the fiddlee, sitting upon coils of rope. The “Great Eastern” had but few deck houses, so that her decks were magnificently spacious.

She sailed from Liverpool for New York on a beautiful afternoon in the early autumn of 1861. We had on board about four hundred saloon passengers, and a considerable number in the second cabin. She was commanded by an ex-Cunarder, Captain Walker. The dock quays in Liverpool, margining the river, were lined with a vast concourse of people to see the great ship depart.

We had a splendid run down the Channel, and on the following evening we passed the Fastnet. Our people were having a gay time, singing and dancing on deck, and greatly enjoying themselves. In the middle of this revelry we passed the “Underwriter,” one of the Black Ball sailing-packets, also bound for New York. She was under whole topsails, plunging into a head sea and throwing the spray fore and aft.

We looked upon her with admiration, but with feelings of immense superiority. The old order had passed away, and the new had arrived in the “Great Eastern.” Many were the congratulations expressed upon the advance in naval architecture, and many indeed fancied that the perils and discomforts of the sea were things of the past. The next day was one of those drab grey days so frequent upon the Atlantic. The wind was increasing in force, and more northerly. The sea was getting up, but the great ship, meeting it almost dead ahead, scarcely heeded it. “She is as steady as a rock.” “Wonderful!” were some of the remarks passed around as we took our morning constitutional.

By noon the scene had changed. The wind had veered round to the north, bringing up a heavy beam sea. The big ship began to lurch and roll heavily, taking heavy spray overall. Some of her movements were significant of danger—she hung when thrown over by a sea, and recovered very slowly. A huge sea striking her on the starboard bow swept her fore and aft, and carried away one of our paddle wheels and several boats. An ominous silence shortly prevailed, and it was whispered that the rudder had been carried away. The great ship fell into the trough of the sea and became unmanageable, lurching and rolling heavily and deeply. The seas, from time to time, striking her with great force, made her quiver fore and aft. The second paddle wheel was soon swept away, and boat after boat was torn from the davits, the wrecks in many instances being suspended by the falls. While destruction was being wrought on deck, the damage in the saloons and state-rooms was appalling. They were simply wrecked by the furniture getting loose and flying about, breaking the large mirrors which adorned the saloon, and adding broken glass to the dangerous mass of debris. Many of our passengers were badly wounded.

The engineers were trying to repair the broken rudder-stock by coiling round it iron chains to form a drum, so as to be able to get a purchase upon it. That night was a night of much anxiety, but the behaviour of the passengers was exemplary. The ladies found a part of the saloon where they could sit on the deck in comparative safety, and here they knitted and sang hymns. There was a general effort to make the best of things.

The following morning the weather had slightly moderated, but the sea was still mountainous, and we rolled heavily. The chain cable stowed in one of the forward lower decks broke loose, and burst through the outer plating and hung in a festoon overboard. The cow-house had been destroyed, and one of the cows was suspended head downwards in the skylight of the forward saloon, and a swan which had been in the cow-house was found in the saloon.

The Captain sent for some of the passengers he knew, and told them that, as the crew had broken into the liquor store, he wished to form special guards to patrol the ship. Some twenty or thirty volunteered, and for four hours each day we patrolled the ship, having a white handkerchief tied round our left arm as our badge of office.

Food had become a difficulty. All the crockery had been smashed, so the victuals were brought down in large stew pans, and taking pieces of broken dishes, we helped ourselves as best we could.

In the afternoon the “Scotia,” outward bound for New York, hove in sight. The great Cunarder looked stately and magnificent, and as she gracefully rode over the big seas without any effort, simply playing with them, she told us what design, knowledge and equipment could do. After sailing round us, she bore away on her voyage. Another miserable night followed, and it was obvious that the mental strain was beginning to tell upon some of our people.

The following day the weather was much finer and the sea moderate, but we were still helpless, a derelict on the wide Atlantic. No success had attended the effort to repair the rudder-stock; nothing would hold it. In the afternoon a small Nova Scotian brig hove in sight, and sailed round us, as we thought, within hailing distance. One of our passengers offered the Captain £100 per day if he would stand by us. No answer coming, an offer to buy both his ship and her cargo was conveyed to him, but still no answer came, and in the evening she sailed away. The Captain of the brig was apparently some time afterwards informed of what had taken place, and promptly claimed one day’s demurrage, and was suitably rewarded.

It was now evident that our only hope was to hasten the repair of the rudder-stock. In our dire emergency a young American engineer, Mr. Towle, offered a new suggestion, to build a cross head on to the broken stock, and to steer the ship with tackles attached to it. After some hours’ work and the exercise of much ingenuity, he succeeded, to the great joy of everyone.

The screw engines were still in good order, and the big ship was soon on her way back to Queenstown, where we arrived five days after passing it on our outward voyage. The damage done to the ship was considerable, and some idea of the violence with which she had rolled can be formed from the fact that when the baggage room was opened, it was found that water having got into it, the baggage had been churned into a pulp, and was taken out in buckets.

The “Great Eastern” ended her somewhat inglorious career by laying cables across the Atlantic, and finally was broken up on the New Ferry shore at Birkenhead. She had served, however, one great purpose which had borne good fruit—she taught us that to successfully fight the Atlantic on its days of storm and tempest, which are many, the design of the engine and its power should receive as much consideration as the design of the ship’s hull.

Chapter X

BUILDING AN EAST INDIAMAN

A Reminiscence of 1856

The building of a wooden East Indiaman recalls much of what was romantic in the history of British shipping—much of what was essentially British in the art of the craftsman. The old shipwright with his black wooden toolbox slung over his shoulder, or plying his adze or the caulking iron, is a type of a British artisan unhappily now becoming extinct. He was no ordinary workman following day after day the same monotonous job, for his work called for the constant exercise of his own individuality, of his powers of observation, and his ingenuity in the application of the teachings of experience; the selection of suitable timber, of proper scantling, oak crooks for the floors, aprons and knees, the curved timber for the futtocks, all called for skill and knowledge, and he had to keep constantly in view, when building, the necessity for giving proper shifts to the scarfs and the butting of the planks—all demanding not only thought, but daily presenting new problems which only a trained eye and experience could solve.

The rhythm of the old shipbuilding yard had a peculiar charm and attraction; it was not the monotonous deafening roar of the hydraulic riveter heard in the modern yard, but the music of the adze and the humming of the caulking chisel made a sort of harmony not unpleasant to the ear; while the all-prevailing smell of tar imported a nautical flavour which is entirely absent from the iron shipbuilding yard. We now only think in terms of angle iron, plates, butt straps, and rivets which follow one orthodox pattern. The iron ship is but a tank with shaped ends, or a girder, or a series of box girders, for every deck, and every row of pillaring constitutes a girder; their size and shape are all set out by the draftsman in the drawing office, the work in the yard is purely mechanical; the old skill of the craftsman is not called into play.

It was my good fortune, when I left school in 1856, to spend some time in the shipbuilding yard of George Cox & Son, of Bideford, in order that I might obtain some knowledge of the craft. The firm were engaged building the “Bucton Castle,” of 1,200 tons register, for the Calcutta trade, to class thirteen years A1, the highest class at Lloyd’s. It is of my experience in building that ship of which I purpose writing.

It will occur to many that Bideford was a strange out-of-the-way place for a shipyard. Bideford we only associate with Charles Kingsley and “Westward Ho!” with its long bridge of twenty-three arches, a bridge which has the repute of being a soul-saving bridge, an alms-giving bridge, a dinner-giving bridge, a bridge which owns lands in many parishes; but Bideford, with its wide expanse of sands and tidal bores, is about the last place to suggest shipbuilding. But Bideford, like Plymouth and Devonport in olden days, was in close proximity to large forests of oak and other woods essential to wooden shipbuilding.

The first thought of the builder of a wooden ship was to secure his timber, good natural oak crooks for the floor timbers, knees and aprons, and the futtocks forming the turn of the bilge, and good square timber for the frames, beams, etc. Not only had this to be carefully selected free from rends and shakes, but it had to be piled up in the yard and seasoned. In the same way elm timber required for the sheathing, and the pine necessary for the decks and inside ceiling, all required seasoning before being worked up.

The plans of the proposed ship having been prepared and duly laid off in the drawing loft, the first step was to provide the blocks upon which she was to be built, and the ways from which, when completed, she would be launched. Upon these blocks the keel was laid, usually constructed of elm, which is tough and does not split. The keel was in several lengths, fastened together with long scarfs, bolted through. On each side a rabbit or groove was cut to receive the garboard strake (the first strake of planking). On the top of the keel the floor timbers were laid across alternately, long and short, and on the top of the floors the keelson was bolted. The keelson ran the full length of the ship. There were also sister keelsons on either side, covering the ends of the floors. To the end of the floors the first futtocks were scarped and bolted, and these formed the turn of the bilge, and above came the timbers forming the frame. The selection of the timber required for the floors and futtocks needed a very skilled eye; pieces of timber which would require the least dressing must be chosen, and the piles of timber were examined over and over again to find the piece which would give the nearest approach to the curve required when the ship was in frame. Then came the planking or sheathing. This had to be carefully worked in proper shifts, to prevent the butts of the planking coming into close proximity. The upper strakes or sheer strakes and the bilge strakes were always doubled. In a similar way the interior of the ship was lined or ceiled, all with a view to strength. ’Tween deck beams and main deck beams were thrown across and rounded up, to give strength and camber to the decks. They were fastened to longitudinal timbers running along the sides of the ship, called shelfs, and these shelfs were secured to the framing of the ship by wooden knees reinforced in high-class ships by iron knees. The structure was fastened by wooden treenails and metal through-bolts of copper or yellow metal. The butt end of every plank was secured by a metal bolt, in addition to treenails securing it to every timber.

I have said enough to prove that the shipwright of the olden time had to exercise more individuality and skill than is necessary to-day.

The shipbuilder’s work was not completed when he had launched his ship; she had to be rigged and fitted out, and copper-sheathed to prevent the ravages of worms and marine insects; and in course of time the ship had to be salted, the spaces between the frames being filled with rock salt to preserve the timber from decay.

American ships, which were very numerous and handsome in design, were usually built with hacmatac frames and pine sheathing, and Canadian vessels were built entirely of soft wood with iron fastenings, and rarely received a higher class than nine years A1.

Although the reminiscences of the old wooden shipbuilding days are pleasant and interesting, if we had been limited to wooden ships the progress of commerce and the spread of civilisation would have been greatly hindered. It was not possible to build a wooden ship of over 4,000 tons—I think this was the size of the “Great Republic”—and the number of vessels required to lift the merchandise now requiring to be carried by sea would have exhausted our available forests of timber. The iron and steel ships have saved the situation, not only enabling us to move the cargoes the world requires, but enabling us to construct steamers of large size and great speed which have built up a passenger trade which, even sixty years ago, was never dreamed of.

It is remarkable that in land travel, just as the growth of the population demanded it, we have had improvements in the mean of locomotion—the pack-horse, the wheel, the steam engine, the railway, and electric traction have followed each other. So at sea—from the ancient galley to the wooden sailing ship, the clipper ship, the paddle steamer, the screw steamer, the high-pressure engine, the condensing engine, the double and triple expansion engine, the turbine, and we have in front of us looming largely oil fuel, to be followed probably by some form of electric propulsion. From this it would almost seem as if a Providence provided for us transport facilities in proportion to our needs for the conveyance of our products and for travel.

I was interested in recently visiting Bideford to find that the old shipbuilding slips still exist—although unused for nearly fifty years. They have this year been bought by the firm of Hanson & Co., who have a small ship under construction.

Chapter XI

OUR RIDDLE OF THE SANDS

Shortly before the late war a small volume entitled “The Riddle of the Sands” had a large circulation. It described the adventures of two friends, who, in a small yacht, spent their summer vacation in cruising on the Friesland Coast of Germany, and it gave a graphic account of their discovery of a wonderful network of canals and waterways which had been made through the sands, connecting the ports of Emden, Wilhelmshaven and Cuxhaven. Mysterious craft flitted about, and their own movements were carefully watched. What is this “riddle of the sands” they asked? The war gave the answer. It was a great submarine base for an attack upon England.

We in Liverpool have our riddle of the sands, which, although very different in character, has proved equally elusive. It has defied scientific solution, the teaching of hydrodynamics, and has from time to time almost threatened the existence of the port of Liverpool, and with it the prosperity of our manufacturing districts.

The approaches to the port have not been maintained (although assisted) by the use of mechanical or scientific means, but by encouraging the natural forces to do the work necessary to maintain the deep water entrances clear and serviceable. There are many now living who remember that the deep water approach to Liverpool was through the Rock Channel only with three feet of water at low water, with dangerous and shifting shoals off the Spencer Spit, and the long lee shore off the West Hoyle Bank. If these conditions had continued the Liverpool of to-day would not have existed. The development of the northern deep water approaches is an interesting study. Liverpool has solved her own “Riddle of the Sands,” not by colossal ambitious engineering schemes which might have been fatal, but by patient watchfulness of what nature was doing, or trying to do, and judiciously assisting her efforts. Nature has practically closed the Rock Channel and the old Victoria Channel, and concentrated her forces and opened up the Queen’s Channel with over 20 feet of water at low tide in the dredged cut at the Bar, thus making the port open for ordinary vessels during twelve hours out of the twenty-four, and making Liverpool the great port she is—the only deep water port on the West Coast capable of taking such great ships as the “Aquitania” and “Olympic.”

The Riddle of the Sands as it presents itself to us, divides itself into two portions:—

each forming a very interesting and entertaining subject of inquiry.

The Riddle of the Upper Estuary

We have an upper estuary of the Mersey formed like a huge bottle with a narrow neck entrance at Seacombe, through which the tide rushes at springs at the rate of five or six knots. At Rock Ferry this estuary, like a fan, spreads out to Widnes, Runcorn, Ellesmere Port, and Garston. This vast basin is filled by the tidal waters twice in each day, forming a great lake; at low water we have a vista of sandbanks and water, very beautiful in their colour and light effects, the favourite haunt of wildfowl, which in olden time filled the decoys at Hale and Widnes.

During the Parliamentary Inquiry into the proposal to construct the Manchester Ship Canal, it was given in evidence that each tide brought into this bottle-necked estuary 100,000 tons of sand, which was held by the water in mechanical suspension and deposited on the banks at slack water, which takes place at the top of high water. The ebb tide carries this sand out again. About half ebb a process of erosion takes place. Tidal streams form through the sand banks, and gradually underpin the sand, which falls into these streams and is carried out to sea. On a quiet summer evening the process of erosion going on can be heard at Bromborough, the loud reports caused by the falling sands being distinctly audible.

This Riddle of the Sands makes quite a fairy tale, so full of surprises, so wayward and erratic. Craft and even ships which have disappeared long since suddenly come into view. The coals which fall overboard when coaling our great liners in the Sloyne creep along the bottom and pile themselves on to the sandbanks, and form a welcome supply of fuel to the villagers. Wells of beautiful fresh spring water bubble up on the shore at Shodwell, and formerly supplied the Runcorn coasters with water.

At the mouth of the Alt, and also at Hoylake, the low tides expose the remains of two remarkable primeval forests, from which have been gathered many tokens of long bygone generations.

There is one thing these sands will not do. They will not obey the dictates of man unless they conform to their moods and methods.

The original scheme for the construction of the Manchester Ship Canal proposed to cut a channel through the sands from Runcorn to deep water at Garston, a distance of about ten miles, protected on either side by training walls of stone. The Mersey Docks and Harbour Board very strongly and successfully opposed this part of the scheme, maintaining that by thus stereotyping the channel, the process of erosion would be destroyed and the estuary would become permanently silted up with sand. There would not be a sufficient head of water impounded each tide to keep the sea channels and approaches to the Mersey scoured and fit for navigation.

The magnitude of the reservoir of water gathered at high water in the upper estuary may be gauged by the fact that spring tides rise 30 feet and neap tides 20 feet, and form the mighty power for scouring the sea channels. The riddle of how to treat the upper estuary has therefore been solved by leaving nature severely alone and permitting no interference.

The Riddle of the Outer Estuary

When we come to consider the conditions affecting the outward estuary, which extends from the Rock Light to the Bar, we have to take into account not only the scouring power of the ebb tide, and its capacity as a sand carrier depending upon the force of the current and the volume of water, but also the action of waves which is very powerful in preventing the undue accumulation of sand upon our shores and upon the great sandbanks lying off the entrance to the port.

Standing on the shore at Blundellsands at low tide and during a westerly gale, I have seen the shore from Hightown to Seaforth a moving mass of sand, spreading itself over the surface like a sheet. Placing a stick into the ground, in a few moments a heap of sand would accumulate on the windward side. These sand storms fill up all the mouths of the Alt, and pile the sand up in big banks. If there was no correcting force these sand storms would quickly fill up the shallow shores and destroy their capacity to impound the tidal water which assists the scouring power of the main stream; but at high water with a westerly gale the waves churn up these deposits of sand, and the ebb tide carries them out to sea. After a westerly gale I have seen the shores swept of loose sand down to the hard shore beneath, and the many outlets of the Alt washed clean, and the black marl which forms their banks exposed. I do not think that this wave action has been sufficiently considered in selecting the shallow flats on the west side of the Burbo Bank as the place of deposit for the sand dredged from the Bar. They are frequently violently disturbed by the action of the waves, and the sand is carried by the flood tide back again to the Bar.

There is another action of which we must take notice; every stream creates an eddy of slack water, or, it may be, a counter current of much reduced velocity, in a stream heavily charged with sand such as our tidal streams, and these eddies may create inconvenient deposits of sand and accretions to the banks which have to be watched.

The Old Sea Approaches

Having set out the natural forces we have to deal with, we will proceed to consider their effect upon the outer approaches to the River Mersey. These approaches twenty-five years ago were very indifferent. The Bar only carried eight feet of water at low tide, and practically for vessels of any size Liverpool was a closed port for eighteen hours out of the twenty-four. By the employment of sand dredgers, which have removed millions of tons of sand, this difficulty has been overcome, but in deepening the Bar the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board have greatly added to the work which the ebb tide has to do. That work has to be supplemented by the almost continuous use of sand dredgers, and has been also assisted by the construction of the Revetment on the Taylor Bank. This has prevented the flood tide frittering its strength away over the Taylor Bank, and confines and concentrates the strength of the ebb stream; but still the formation of inconvenient lumps in the Crosby Channel suggests that the ebb tide has more than it can do. It has been suggested that by confining this channel with training walls constructed along the Burbo Bank and the Crosby shore the power of the ebb tide would be increased. It is, however, forgotten that the effect of training walls would be to diminish the volume of water, and therefore its sand-carrying capacity, and also that training walls along the Lancashire shore would rob the channel of the large amount of water now impounded at high water on the shore, which forms a valuable addition to the first part of the ebb.

The changes in the outer estuary during the past fifty years have been quite remarkable.

The old sea channel was the Rock Channel striking off to the west at the Rock Light, and the fairway was marked by two land marks which were prominent objects upon the Bootle shore; while the Hoylake and Leasowe Lighthouses indicated the fairway through the Horse Channel. The Rock Channel has shoaled, and is no longer used. The old Victoria Channel took its seaward course between the Great and Little Burbo Banks. This in process of time has shoaled and narrowed, and is no longer of any service, and the main channel pursues a north-west direction between the Little Burbo Bank and the Taylor Bank, and crosses the Bar through the new Queen’s Channel.

The Taylor Bank, which now stretches from the Crosby Lightship almost to the Bar is of recent formation, and takes the place of the Jordan Flats. The rapid growth of the Taylor Bank no doubt induced the Dock Board to construct the Revetment, and it has proved an effective bulwark against the rebound of the stream round Askew Spit, and its extension to the north seems to be desirable. The strong flood coming through the Crosby Channel is no doubt mainly accountable for the erosion which has taken place at Hightown, and which is now taking place at Hall Road. The latter can be prevented by the erection of a timber groin to give a south-west direction to the flood stream.

I have made these sands and sand banks a long study. The late Rev. Nevison Loraine and I explored, in our canoes, every nook and cranny of the sand banks, and loved to bathe in the pools which formed at low water on the Burbo Bank; but this long experience of the riddle of the sands makes me afraid to dogmatise—nature so often rebels and does the very opposite to what you expect, and the teaching of the past tells us that she has been a good friend to Liverpool, and had better be left alone, only helping her, as by the Revetment, to concentrate her energy in the direction she wishes to go. A step in the same direction might be taken by closing the channel which has formed across the Burbo Bank. In my canoeing days this channel was a mere gutter, but now it is sufficiently large to abstract much water from the main stream. It has also often occurred to me that the old Formby Channel might also be diverted. It serves no useful purpose for navigation, and if the ebb tide which now flows through it could be turned into the present Formby Channel it would increase the scour; but experience may have demonstrated that the flood tide demands the old channel, and if so it has been wisely left open. I think it is probable that the flood tide making through this old Formby Channel strikes the main stream of the flood coming through the Crosby Channel and rebounds on to the Hightown and Hall Road shores, causing the erosion at these points.

Great credit is due to the Conservators, the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board, and to Captain Mace, R.N., for the care and wisdom with which they have watched over the approaches to our port, and to the successful way they have handled our “Riddle of the Sands.”

LIVERPOOL:
LEE AND NIGHTINGALE, PRINTERS, 15, NORTH JOHN STREET
—
1920.