Year: 2014

No.62 Diary of the War at Sea 1

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Diary of the War at Sea: an Icelandic trawler, 1914

This week marks the first edition of the ‘Diary of the War at Sea’ element of Wreck of the Week, in which one post a month will be devoted to a wreck from 100 years ago, for the ‘duration’ of the First World War Centenary.

On the night of 26-27 August 1914 a series of explosions occurred off the Tyne as one by one six ships fell victim to a newly-laid minefield. The first victim was the Skúli Fógeti, an Icelandic trawler homeward-bound for Reykjavik from Grimsby.

The sowing of mines brought the war close to the English coast, but losses of neutral vessels caused consternation, with the press inveighing against ‘promiscuous mine-sowing’: ‘this callous and inhuman mode of warfare, if it can be called warfare . . . more likely to do harm to peaceful trading ships than to the fighting ships of a belligerent’. (1)

The Times published a list of the nine neutral vessels sunk in the North Sea since the outbreak of war: two Dutch, two Norwegians, and five Danish vessels. (2) Among the ‘Danish’ vessels was the Skúli Fógeti although she was correctly described elsewhere as Icelandic: the confusion probably arose because Iceland was yet to achieve full independence from Denmark (1918, with ties to the Danish crown being severed on the proclamation of the republic in 1944).

The New York Times republished an official British communiqué denying British involvement in minelaying: ‘The Government has learned that on or about Aug. 26 an Iceland trawler is reported to have struck a mine . . . At least one foreign newspaper has stated that the mine was English.’ (3) Inevitably it was front-page news in Iceland: it was reported that the vessel was insured for 155,000 kronur, but she had no war risk insurance (4), something that by 1915 was becoming the norm, certainly among Danish ships. (5)

In the first month of the war, therefore, we can see it is already a World War, with the consequences of the assassination of Franz Ferdinand in Sarajevo on 28 June 1914 reaching further afield to touch more and more non-combatants.

Aerial view of Tynemouth Castle and Priory, looking out to the North Sea. K920310 © Skyscan Balloon Photography. Source: English Heritage
Aerial view of Tynemouth Castle and Priory, looking out to the North Sea. K920310 © Skyscan Balloon Photography. Source: English Heritage

(1) Times, 28 August 1914, No.40,618, p6

(2) Times, 29 August 1914, No.40,619, p5

(3) New York Times, 30 August 1914, accessed via < nytimes.com/archive > article and issue date citation only

(4) Morgunblaðið, 28 August 1914, No.293, p1,369

(5) Statistisk Oversigt over de i aaret 1915 for Danske Skibe i Danske og fremmede farvande samt for fremmede skibe i Danske farvande indtrufne Søulykker, Bianco Luno, Copenhagen, 1916

No.61 The Vina, 1944

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Target Practice

I have written before about how the downgrading of ships towards the end of their service life becomes part of a wrecking process (see: Vogelstruis); although the final end of the Vina came about through environmental causes despite being helped along by prior human agency.

 

Detail of the Vina, courtesy of the Nautical Archaeology Society
Detail of the Vina, by kind permission of the Nautical Archaeology Society

Built in 1894, she was a fairly small steamer of 1,021 tons in use in the Baltic trade for the J T Salvesen company, who had a dozen vessels just before the First World War. As so often, the fleet was much depleted by losses in that war: by 1939 only three ships remained to the company – by which time the Vina was obsolete. A major feature of both World Wars was the requisitioning and purchase of civilian vessels for wartime service in a number of roles: trawlers went from fishing to minesweeping and patrol duties, liners carried troops and wounded soldiers instead of passengers, and cargo vessels carried supplies for the war effort, sometimes what were euphemistically termed ‘Government stores’.

Even if ships like the Vina were no longer fit to put to sea, they could still perform a useful wartime function. From 1940 the Vina was on standby to be scuttled as a blockship at Great Yarmouth in case of invasion, but in 1944 she was towed further north along the Norfolk coast to Brancaster, to be used by the RAF as target practice in testing out a new rocket. It was an ideal location for the plethora of RAF bases in Norfolk and Lincolnshire such as nearby RAF Little Snoring, assigned to Bomber Command.

The final wreck event for the Vina came not from the RAF sinking her, however, but from a gale which sprang up and drove her ashore on 20 August 1944. Here is what is left of her, after being pounded by the RAF 70 years ago, and after 70 years of tides, storms, and partial post-war salvage.

Boiler and engine of the Vina, courtesy of the Nautical Archaeology Society
Boiler and engine of the Vina, by kind permission of the Nautical Archaeology Society

 

No.60 Sombrero

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Phosphate cargoes

This week we will have a look at wrecks from one of our most picturesquely-named departure points, revealing Britain’s connections with Sombrero or Hat Island in Anguilla, and taking a look at a typical 19th century cargo whose true nature is often hidden behind agrochemical euphemism – nitrates, phosphates, fertilizer.

The island once looked like a three-dimensional sombrero: vaguely hat-like in shape, it once also reared out of the sea like the crown and brim of a sombrero, until the crown was diminished by quarrying from the 1850s onwards. The reduction can already be seen in this contemporary print from the heyday of the Sombrero trade in 1865, depicting ships crowding round this little island of only 92 acres. It also shows the source of the island’s natural resources, the seabirds wheeling in the air whose accumulated guano provided rich phosphate fertiliser for farming.

As so often with wrecks of ships involved in a particular trade, our wrecks date from the zenith of Britain’s guano interests in Sombrero, very nearly contemporary with the print. Two barques illustrate what must have been a typical route, lost in the Bristol Channel, bound for Gloucester: the Caravan in Walton Bay in 1869, and the Cornwall, sunk following collision off Lundy in 1871. By 1890 the island was effectively ‘quarried out’: centuries of seabird ‘resources’ had been rapidly depleted and dispersed to fuel the needs of American farmers in the 1850s and British farmers thereafter.

We know of 30 wrecks laden with guano, which was normally sourced from bird cliffs and bat caves. I cannot resist telling you, however, that a couple of other wrecks lost in English waters homeward-bound from Islas Lobos de Afuera or Islas Lobos de Tierra off Peru would appear more likely to contain guano from a less common source: from seals.

No.59 Struck by lightning

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A Shipwreck, after Vernet: Apsley House © English Heritage Photo Library
A Shipwreck, after Vernet: Apsley House
© English Heritage Photo Library

The dramatic lightning lighting up our skies last week (see gallery), inspires this week’s piece on the Grace Dieu struck by lightning one winter’s night in January 1439, and now a designated wreck site.

The Grace Dieu was not struck at sea, but instead while laid up in the River Hamble, where she still remains after catching fire and being partially broken up in situ: an inglorious end to her uncertain career with only one known voyage in Henry V’s service. Even though laid up, she seems to have at least one mast standing, for ‘half of one great mast, totally burned in the upper part’ was recorded, the lower half being salvaged and sold for 40 shillings. An analysis of Shipwreck by Lightning published in the 1850s shows that, as we would expect, lightning struck the mainmast in two-thirds of cases (p27).

Although lightning strikes seem to have been reasonably common, they more often caused damage rather than destruction. This is borne out by our shipwreck record in which we know of only 8 vessels struck by lightning, including the Grace Dieu: in her case, the lightning triggered a deliberate breaking-up process rather than consuming her totally. Total loss was often helped along by a combustible cargo (a deck cargo of timber, Matthew and Thomas, 1783; cotton, Robert Shaw, 1847; spirits, Luna Nueva, 1880). The Matthew and Thomas was wrecked in port, while Shipwreck by Lightning (pp1-27) uncovers several examples of 18th and 19th century warships damaged by lightning while laid up on the south coast – just like the Grace Dieu. Some of these were also lost in the winter months, rather than the summer, when, of course, lightning is more common.

The other known wrecks associated with lightning are from a much later age with more surviving records, from the late 18th century onwards: there may be more simply recorded as ‘burnt’. Of course ships were lost in storms, but I was surprised at how few records actually mentioned lightning as part of a storm context.

Contemporary shipwreck paintings regularly show bolts of lightning illuminating the scene, but we should not forget artistic licence: it was a shorthand for ‘storm weather’ and a means of highlighting the wreckage against darkened clouds and heavy grey seas, not necessarily an indicator of cause of loss, as in this painting belonging to EH, above.

No.58 Caen Stone

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The Building Blocks of Wreck Knowledge 

Inspired by my recent trip to Caen, I decided this week to have a look at wrecks laden with Caen stone.

Four of our wrecks are known to have been carrying stone specifically described as sourced from Caen. This form of limestone became a popular building material in England for post-Conquest abbeys, cathedrals, and castles: a demonstration of Norman might in Norman stone.

To see maquettes from the Bayeux Tapestry Museum depicting Norman ships unloading stone at the Tower of London, click here (two images on the right-hand side).

Despite all this medieval building activity, we currently know only of post-medieval Caen stone wrecks in English waters. As we would expect, all came ashore on the Channel coast, within a 50-mile stretch of coastline bounded by Dungeness to the east and Hastings to the west. The first, an unknown vessel (we don’t even know if she was English or French), was driven ashore in 1616 somewhere between Lydd and Rye, from which an anchor and cable were taken in assertion of right to wreck.

In early October 1852 the Honoria was driven ashore near the Black Rocks, Brighton, while bound to London. Her sails were torn to shreds in mid-Channel by an ‘equinoctial’ force 11 gale, so that her master was forced to let her drive before the wind. The ‘sufferers’, who were much exhausted by their efforts, were saved and lodged in ‘comfortable quarters’, a somewhat unexpected description for accommodation in the local workhouse!

In much the same fashion John and Mary, also bound to London, was driven ashore near Rye by another ‘equinoctial’ gale in late September 1856. This, however, ended less happily, as the master, who did make it ashore, was left to mourn his wife and four children, who perished.

In 1870 the Thomas Hubbuck, again London-bound with Caen stone, struck near Dungeness like her 1616 counterpart. On this occasion all were happily saved. The lifeboat went out to the scene, but was not required: it was then beached at Dungeness, rather than battling back in the prevailing weather conditions. The men and horses sent to fetch the boat back overland were nearly ‘smothered’ in an unexpected quicksand from which they were extricated only with difficulty.

What contemporary projects in England required the import of Caen stone for new buildings, repairs, or sculptures? Occasionally we can tie the loss of stone cargoes to specific works, for example Portland stone for the New Bridge at Blackfriars, or Dundee stone for the Import Dock at Wapping.

Any suggestions, therefore, for the use of Caen stone in 1616 or in Victorian London in 1852, 1856 and 1870?

 

Traduction en français: 

Après avoir passé un bon séjour à Caen, cette semaine j’écris un peu concernant les épaves chargées de pierre de Caen.

Quatre naufrages chargés de pierres extraites des carrières caennaises sont coulés autour des côtes anglaises. La pierre de Caen, d’origine calcaire, est devenue la pierre de choix pour les constructions anglo-normands après l’arrivée de Guillaume le Conquérant dès 1066: abbatiales, cathédrales, et châteaux sont tous également construits en pierre de Caen, exprimant la conquête normande de l’Angleterre en pierre aussi normande.

Veuillez cliquer ici pour voir des maquettes du Musée de la Tapisserie, Bayeux, où se trouvent des navires normandes qui débarquent pierre de Caen aux bords de la Tamise où la Tour de Londres est en train de construction (à droite).

Malgré tous ces bâtiments outre-manche du Moyen Age, nous n’en connaissons pas de naufrages médiévales chargés de la pierre de Caen: les quatre naufrages dont nous avons la connaissance se sont coulés à partir du XVIIe siècle, tous aux côtes de la Manche, entre Hastings et Dungeness. La première est échouée en 1616 entre Lydd et Rye, dont nous savons peu de détails: nous ne savons même pas si c’était un bateau anglais ou un bateau français. Les autorités anglaises en ont pris une ancre et une chaîne comme “right of wreck” (“droit d’épave”), ancien droit qui accordait aux grandes domaines de propriétaires terrines ou ecclésiastiques le droit de prendre quelque partie du navire échoué et de son cargaison, si c’était sauvée, lui aussi.

En octobre 1852 le navire Honoria est échoué près des Black Rocks (Rochers Noires), Brighton, en route pour Londres. Ses gréements sont rompus par un vent qui hurlait de force 11, mais les marins naufragés bien épuisés en sont tous sauvés. Quatre ans plus tard, le navire John and Mary est de même façon échoué près de Rye: quoique le capitaine se soit échappé avec toute l’équipe du navire, sa femme et ses quatre enfants se sont malheureusement noyés.

En 1870 le Thomas Hubbuck, en voyageant aussi vers Londres chargé de pierre caennaise, est, tout comme le bateau de 1616, aussi échoué près de Dungeness. Heureusement, toute l’équipe est sauvée dans leur propre bateau; le canot de sauvetage est parti en mer, mais on n’en avait pas besoin, parce que les marins se sont sauvés. Le canot est donc placé sur terre à Dungeness, les sauveteurs épuisés ne voulant pas le retour en mer en pleine tempête. Les hommes et les chevaux commandés de le récupérer par voie de terre sont presque péris aux sables mouvants inattendus, desquels ils ne sont pas extraits qu’avec des plus grands périls.

On peut quelquefois lier les épaves chargées de pierres particulières avec leurs ouvrages destinataires, pierre de Portland (Dorset) pour le Pont Nouveau de Blackfriars (Londres) par exemple, ou pierre de Dundee (Ecosse) pour le Quai des Imports, Wapping (Londres).

Quels sont donc les projets contemporains en Angleterre en 1616 et au troisième quart du XIXe siècle auxquels la pierre de Caen était destinée – nouveaux constructions, réparations des bâtiments anciens, ou œuvres sculptés?

No.57 Three in Clee

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Three Wrecks in Humberston/Cleethorpes

In a new departure for Wreck of the Week, I hand over the stage to Hugh Winfield, archaeologist at North East Lincolnshire Regeneration Partnership, who writes this week’s guest blog on the rich wreck archaeology of Cleethorpes.

Over the years Hugh and I have collaborated on an ad-hoc basis on wreck recording in the inter-tidal zone in this area, to mutual enrichment of our records, the North-East Lincolnshire Historic Environment Record and the National Record for the Historic Environment database. Hugh’s work has resulted in the local listing of a specific assemblage of wrecks in the Humberston/Cleethorpes area. Four wrecks are included, three of which are described here, the fourth being buried:

In a small cluster on the south bank of the Humber lie the shipwrecks of three wooden sailing vessels. The remains appeared at the end of the 20th century, along with a fourth wreck that has since disappeared again, and are readily accessible across the firm sands and peaty clays of the Humberston and Cleethorpes foreshore.

When standing at the wrecks, one of which is over a kilometre from dry land, one can’t help but wonder why they appeared and why there aren’t more along a coast that has hundreds of documented losses.

One explanation is that at the end of the 20th century, for unknown reasons, the channel which comes from Tetney Haven swung north, cutting across the sands in front of the Humberston Fitties, reducing sand levels and exposing these three wrecks.

But how did these wrecks end up here in the first place? Were they wrecked on their way to one of the ports, like Grimsby Docks further west, perhaps driven onto the shore during a storm where they stuck in mud, or were they deliberately abandoned and left to decay?

The furthest wreck, number 1000/20/0, is probably the youngest and is only exposed at very low tides. It is recognisable for L-shaped steel reinforcing brackets, part of a larger latticework frame, which stand proud on one side of the wreck.

1000/20/0 in 2012
1000/20/0 in 2012: Taken by Hugh Winfield, © North East Lincolnshire Council

At first glance this seems almost certainly to be a wreck, as it still carries a cargo of chalk boulders, but a nearby collection of similar boulders which appear to be associated with a long demolished sewage outfall puts this in question. Is it possible that the vessel was already at the end of its life, the rickety wooden hull held together by a steel frame? Was it perhaps used as a lighter to carry an excess number of stones for the construction of the outfall, being abandoned once its job was done with the leftover boulders sinking with it? Or was it a heavy cargo vessel, its hull reinforced by a steel frame for safely carrying heavy loads, which was merely a victim of fate?

The most prominent wreck, number 1000/33/0, stands almost completely clear of the sand and mud apart from the keel: in fact it is surprising it doesn’t just float away! With closely spaced and robust ribs, thick keelson and wide belly, it is clearly designed to carry a significant load across the sea. Two mast steps identify it as a brig of some kind, and at a length of 22m it is of considerable size. The wreck shows no obvious sign of damage that would have caused it to be lost, but the fact that its keel is so firmly wedged into the mud that even with the rest of the vessel clear of the sand it does not move, suggests that it may have run aground.

 

1000/33/0 in 2012
1000/33/0 in 2012 Taken by Hugh Winfield, © North East Lincolnshire Council

The third wreck, number 1000/33/1, is the smallest and is usually only visible as short sections of ribs sticking out of the sand. However, when storms scour the sand off the beach another well-constructed vessel appears, entirely devoid of any metal fittings. This is almost certainly the oldest of the three vessels, and has the strongest indication of accidental loss. Following storms in 2012 a large gap could be seen in the planks and ribs on the port side of the vessel close to the stem post suggesting that it was damage through collision with another object such as a pier or another vessel – of course the origin for the “gap” cannot be known for certain given the decayed nature of the wreck, but it is an interesting possibility.

1000/33/1 in 2012
1000/33/1 in 2012 Taken by Hugh Winfield, © North East Lincolnshire Council

Another possible origin for the gap in the hull of 1000/33/1 is relevant to all three wrecks. Although it appears to have involved steam trawlers rather than wooden hulls, the principle is the same. Recorded in the history of the 19th century steam trawler Magnolia, also lost locally in 1923, is the subsequent scrapping of another vessel called Cedar after it struck the wreck of the Magnolia just a few weeks afterwards. Following the collision the Cedar was moved to Clee Ness, just up the coast from the three wrecks discussed above, in order to be scrapped at low tide. Scrapping of a vessel in this way involved deliberate beaching at high tide, followed by cutting open its side at low tide once the waters had receded from the foreshore in order to easily empty its cargo and salvage any fittings. This would obviously leave a hole in the wreck’s hull similar to that seen on 1000/33/1.

The three wrecks will undoubtedly continue to pose the questions of their construction, use and loss, conjuring thoughts of panicked mariners thrown off their feet, hearing the groan of timbers as their ship shuddered to a halt, driven onto the mud and sand by a sudden storm so close to their destination, or of local enterprise, salvage, and recycling in clearing wreck obstacles.

Many thanks to Hugh for his contribution, which well illustrates the heritage of recent wreck archaeology in the Humber region. Other guest bloggers are also lined up to make an occasional appearance in future editions, but for now Wreck of the Week will be taking a short summer break for a couple of weeks.

 

 

No.56: Victualling the North

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Berwick Castle and Royal Border Bridge (c) English Heritage Photo Library. With the town cut off and occupied by the Scots, the only viable means of replenishing supplies for the English garrison at the castle was by sea.
Berwick Castle and Royal Border Bridge (c) English Heritage Photo Library. With the town cut off and occupied by the Scots, the only viable means of replenishing supplies for the English garrison at the castle was by sea.

For want of a nail . . .

Every so often one comes across a wreck that had a direct hand in how history played out (rather than being a participant in, a witness to, or a victim of, a historic event, or even a historic event in itself).

Here, then, is another of our occasional forays into wrecks associated with the locations of English Heritage sites. Following their victory at Bannockburn in 1314, the Scots took the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed on 8 April 1318. Berwick Castle held out a little longer, finally surrendering after an 11-week siege in late June 1318.

Inevitably, the castle surrendered because there was no wherewithal to keep going. In the meantime, on 4 June 1318, La Trinite, laden at London on Edward III’s orders for the castle at Berwick “then in his hands” with wheat, 42 “bacon-pigs” and barrel goods of provisions, miscarried on the Gunfleet Sands, off the coast of Essex. She was also laden with iron, for the “munition” of the castle.

Perhaps the outcome would have been the same regardless, but surely the loss of the Trinite contributed to the surrender of the garrison. Perhaps we shall never know, but we can imagine the men at Berwick looking out forlornly every tide for a ship which would never come in, as their resources dwindled to nothing.

As I have written before, most medieval wrecks are preserved in the historic record because the events after the wreck were usually contentious, showing human nature at its worst, scrapping over the remains. In this case, an account of the Trinite survives because the event was a national calamity. Her significance is all the greater because this is the first known Gunfleet Sands wreck in our records: it is over 300 years before another wreck in our records specifically mentions the Gunfleet.

From the dry annals of the Calendar of Close Rolls and the Calendar of Inquisitions Miscellaneous, we see that a wreck influenced the course of English history, and guess at the hidden despair behind historic events. To adapt the rhyme traditionally associated with Bosworth in 1485, for want of 42 “bacon-pigs” a castle was lost . . .

No.55: Sambut

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Two sections of Mulberry Harbour used for the D-Day landings of 1944 and relocated to Portland Harbour in 1946. Listed Grade I
Old and new: Two sections of Mulberry Harbour used for the D-Day landings of 1944 and relocated to Portland Harbour in 1946, as seen from Portland Castle. Listed Grade II. (Image courtesy of Andrew Wyngard)

D-Day

[This blog entry was originally written to commemorate the 70th anniversary of D-Day, 6 June 2014, and has been updated for the 75th anniversary, 6 June 2019.]

Today, on 6 June, I would like to turn my attention to a wreck which took place shortly after noon on 6 June 1944.

Although the south coast was the prime departure location for D-Day, it’s important to remember that other ports also contributed to the huge invasion effort with ships, men and materials crossing the Channel from other ports. Air cover and support operations for Normandy also took place from airfields that were not necessarily the closest to the invasion sites, such as RAF Rivenhall/USAAF Station AAF-168.

The Thames was another focal point of activity in the run-up to the Normandy landings and beyond. For example, in the run-up to D-Day aircraft struck at the Pas-de-Calais, drawing enemy attention away from the actual invasion site, as part of Operation Fortitude, a co-ordinated deception operation. The Thames also played its part on D-Day itself.

On D-Day -3, 3 June 1944, troops had embarked on SS Sambut in London, including members of the 92nd Light Anti-Aircraft Regiment of the Royal Artillery. (1) It was common during wartime for embarkation to take place several days beforehand and there were cases later in 1944 when troops ‘swung at anchor at Glasgow in the murk for five days before we finally set sail.’ (2) On 6 June 1944 convoy ETM-1 left Southend under the command of Captain Willis, bound for Normandy, composed principally of escorts and American Liberty ships loaned to Britain under the Lend-Lease programme, Sambut sailing with her sisters Samark, Samarovsk, Sambut, Samdel, Saminver, Sammont, Samneva, Samos, Sampep, Samphill, Samvern, and Samzona, (3) carrying troops, vehicles, and ammunition. Cargo was stowed inside other cargo to maximise space: lorries were filled with motorbikes in some cases, gelignite in others.

Unfortunately, shells fired at random from German gun batteries on the Calais side struck the Sambut off Dover at 1215. Lorries and petrol cans on deck caught fire, followed by a gelignite explosion in the hold. The troops tried to jettison some of the munitions but it was quickly realised that it was a futile effort. Within 15 minutes the order was given to abandon ship, and by 1245 the ship had been completely abandoned, although not without the loss of 136 crew and military personnel out of 625 (562 military/63 crew) on board. (4)

She was the first Liberty ship to be lost in Operation Overlord, half way through D-Day itself: other Liberty ships would follow as the Normandy campaign wore on over the ensuing weeks and months, such as the well-known Richard Montgomery, also off Southend, in August 1944.

The Sambut shares several features in common with other 20th century wartime wrecks. Primarily, of course, her combustible cargoes contributed to her loss, but blazing wrecks in navigational channels were also a danger to other shipping, and this hazard was compounded under wartime conditions by their potential to direct enemy attention towards operations.

Her master had been ordered to lower the ship’s barrage balloon to make the vessel less conspicuous against the white cliffs of Dover, but it was already too late: either the ship had already been spotted or the barrage from the shore had managed to score a lucky hit.

As with the War Knight off the Isle of Wight in 1918, so with the Sambut in the Straits of Dover in 1944: the burning ship was scuttled by her own side, as the Royal Navy fired a torpedo to finally sink her. (5)

One other feature of 20th century wrecks, as we have often recorded in this blog (for example, the Ballarat, 1917) is that they tend to be well-documented by ‘real-time’ evidence in a way that was not possible before the advent of photography, and of course it then became critical to document operations as they unfolded, for both record and propaganda purposes. This moving film in the IWM Collections records a church service aboard Samarovsk followed by a view of the Sambut on fire, with explosions visible at intervals.

At one and the same time the vessel is characteristic of the archaeological remains of 20th century conflict around the English coastline, and a unique reminder of a specific day which turned the tide of the war.  Today she lies intact and upright on the seabed, a tangible reminder of 6 June 1944.

(1) William Wills, “92 LAA Regt. Loss of the Sambut on D-Day“, BBC People’s War archive, 10 July 2005

(2) Oral history reminiscence, Corporal Cant RAF, Convoy KMF 36, November 6, 1944

(3) Convoy ETM-1, Arnold Hague Convoy Database

(4) Tom McCarthy, True Loyals: A History of 7th Battalion, The Loyal Regiment (North Lancashire/92nd (Loyals) Light Anti-Aircraft Regiment, Royal Artillery, 1940-1946, 2nd ed., Countyvise Editions Ltd., Birkenhead, 2012, republished online

(5) ibid.

(6) UKHO 13665

No.54 The Dudgeon

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In their Quincentenary week we take another look at the work of Trinity House, this time examining lightvessels as warning lights, wreck markers, and wrecks in themselves.

This week in 1736 the Dudgeon lightvessel first went on station, the second lightship after the Nore in the Thames Estuary in 1732. Demand from the east coast coal trade between Newcastle-upon-Tyne and London led to the marking of the Dudgeon, a dangerous shoal off the Norfolk coast.

Such early lightvessels proved their worth both as hazard markers and as reference points for locating wrecks. In 1785 the Mayflower of Scarborough ‘foundered nigh the Dodgen light’ and in 1824 the captain of a passing ship reported that he: ‘in passing the Dudgeon Float . . . bearing about NNW 8 miles, saw a sunken brig, with her royal masts shewing, painted white, and two vanes flying.’ He ‘supposed her to be from the northward, but not a collier.’

Lightvessels in their turn could become wrecks. Moored at their stations, they were prone to becoming casualties of the very same hazards against which they warned other shipping. There were other patterns of loss: the Dudgeon station was among the most unfortunate, with three incidents within 50 years. None were to the shoal itself, despite early concerns about the Dudgeon lightvessel parting her cables three times in two years (1), but to two other major causes of lightvessel loss.

As moored vessels, lightships were equally unable to take steps to avert collision, so the Dudgeon was ‘run down’ in 1898 and again in 1902: 38% of lightvessel wrecks recorded in English waters were lost to collision. Their inability to take evasive action also meant that, when war came, aerial bombardment was also a significant cause of loss, accounting in just two years for 26% of our recorded lightvessel wrecks. The East Dudgeon lightvessel was sunk by air attack in 1940, along with six others in 1940-1. The crew escaped, but were overwhelmed by the elements, with only one survivor.

Strangely enough, given how early lightvessels were wooden ships exhibiting lanterns, we have no recorded lightships wrecked by fire, or are there others of which we are not yet aware?

(1) Light upon the Waters: A History of Trinity House 1514-2014 p87-8

No.53: The Quincentenary of Trinity House

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Trinity House, the General Lighthouse Authority for England, Wales, the Channel Islands and Gibraltar, will celebrate its 500th anniversary on Tuesday 20th May, commemorating the granting of a Royal Charter by Henry VIII on 20th May 1514.

We look today at the first mention of Trinity House in the wreck records of Historic England. Since its earliest days, Trinity House has been concerned with the safety of mariners in all respects, including responsibility for licensing ship pilots as guides into harbour.

In the 16th century pilots with intimate knowledge of the Thames Estuary were required to assist ships to pick their way between the parallel diagonal sandbanks that bar the way to the Thames: the Maplin, the Barrow, the Sunk, the Long Sand, and the Kentish Knock. (Between them they have accounted for nearly 600 recorded wrecks.) Over the centuries many a ship has gone aground in navigating a previously safe channel between these banks.

The details of an incident in 1527 – when a pilot clearly failed in his mission – are preserved in a letter from Charles V of Spain to Henry VIII, concerning a ship inbound for London from Cadiz, whose master, one Arnaton de Gamon, accused her pilots of deliberately running her ashore ‘vpon a banke of Thamyse’. (1)

Reading between the lines, Arnaton was also accusing local boatmen of discrimination, treating him less favourably than their countrymen aboard his ship whose cargo was salvaged and restored to them. The same boats broke up his ship in situ. Arnaton was furious, valuing his loss at 1,100 ducats and asking for a further 900 in compensation, and urging Charles to send out a ‘letter of mark and reprisal against the English’.

Though an international incident was averted when Charles mildly refused this course of action, but instead ‘entreated Henry to see that justice may be done to the said Arnaton’, the story nevertheless represents a turning point. Arnaton’s complaint was a throwback to the Middle Ages, for which the majority of wreck records survive in the form of such grievances brought to a royal authority. The 16th century marks a shift towards wreck records via other reporting mechanisms, such as the records of Trinity House: shipwreck sources become much more diverse.

To help celebrate the Quincentenary, another article on Historic England’s Heritage Calling blog looks at lighthouse heritage . . . and for a link to Trinity House’s own history blog, please click here.

(1) Letters and Papers Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, 1627-30, reproduced in more detail in The Trinity House of Deptford 1514-1660, G G Harris, London, 1969