The wool clipper Loch Vennachar suffered an identical dismasting to the Sir Lancelot in 1892. At the time she was in the Southern Ocean and compelled to divert to Mauritius. Note the jury rig on the foremast.
The Sir Lancelot at anchor. Her boats were painted green as depicted in this picture. This was a tradition Robinson had taken from his early days sailing the Brocklebank Line.
The re-rigging was carried out by a group of riggers that MacCunn had to bring in from Liverpool, as there were simply not enough local experts to carry out the job quickly. The workforce toiled night and day through the blistering cold of one of the hardest winters in 30 years. By night, huge tar barrels were lit and the riggers worked on by the light and roaring heat of the blaze. Fights broke out between the exhausted Scousers and the local Cornishmen, but work continued apace and the clipper was once again ready for sea by 31 January.
Leaving the blistering cold behind, the Sir Lancelot made a good run out to China. She was late, though, and Robinson received orders to load tea at Shanghai. This was a disappointment as the tea racers would all be leaving from Foochow. Shanghai was 600 nautical miles further up the coast and this meant 600 miles further to beat down the China Sea. Robinson was effectively out of the race, and it looked like his plan to avenge his defeat in the previous year’s race would have to wait until the following season.
The race line-up
Down in Foochow, the tea shippers had chosen a new vessel as their favourite. The Maitland had made an extremely rapid passage out to China and was a very distinctive vessel, carrying not only skysails, but moonsails above these. Most clippers only carried a single skysail on their mainmast and this extra cloud of canvas gave the Maitland a striking appearance. It had clearly impressed the shippers and after towing out of the Min River, she had stretched away to the open sea with her moonsails set. The old rivals Serica and Taeping were next. The biggest threat, the Ariel, did not get away until 13 June, a full 12 days behind the Maitland, but Captain John Keay had faith in his ship.
Meanwhile, up in Shanghai, the thoroughbred Sir Lancelot was surrounded by has-beens and also-rans. She departed on 15 June in company with the John R Worcester and the Challenger, which were hastily dropped below the horizon. Despite his substantial handicap, Robinson still believed that he could win the race. His only real hope was his own incredible ability as a skipper. It was this that had kept him at the front of the field for so long. The Fiery Cross, his previous command, was actually a smaller version of the supposed also-ran John R Worcester. The only difference was her captain and many believed that a hard-driving, diligent skipper like Robinson (or Keay of the Ariel) added an extra half a knot of speed over the course of the run from China to England.
Carrick Roads, Falmouth, was the ideal shelter for the crippled Sir Lancelot.
Captain Richard Robinson, painted in his prime.
The Maitland’s sail plan brings home what a remarkable cloud of canvas a clipper carried. She was the only tea clipper to carry tiny moonsails above the skysails at the very top of her masts.
A chart of the China Sea, illustrating the intricate pattern of islands and reefs. On her 1867 voyage, the Sir Lancelot took the longer route marked via the Ombai Strait between Timor and Java. The route marked through the Sunda Strait is the track taken by Sir Lancelot’s rival Thermopylae in 1869. As can be seen, her captain initially shaped a course east for the Ombai Strait, but the wind switched and he headed back west, then south to Anjer (see here).
A clipper ship on the wind under a press of sail. This looks to be an example of a ‘doctored’ photograph, as the ship seems to be heeling over in a somewhat exaggerated manner.
‘Go ahead’ Robinson
Robinson was a Cumbrian who had served his apprenticeship in the Whitehaven-owned Brocklebank Line. He had quickly come to their attention as a smart but ‘somewhat fiery’ officer and had gained command of the Veronica, a China trader not noted for her speed.
His passage home in her was impressive, however, and he was approached by Chaloner, owner of the Fiery Cross, to command the crack clipper. This was Robinson’s opportunity and he did not disappoint, winning three of the next four season’s races. These performances earned him the nickname ‘go ahead’ Robinson as, even on land, he always seemed to be in an incredible hurry. This led to an incident often spoken of in jest amongst clipper crews. Robinson was taking a stroll through Foochow with some of his fellow skippers. He was bedecked in a magnificent suit of pale silk. As always, he was in a burning hurry and, on entering a narrow alleyway, he barged ahead of the group to a chorus of irritated cries. At this moment, one of the occupants of the boarding houses that lined the narrow street opted to empty the contents of a chamber pot out of the window all over Robinson’s magnificent suit. He beat a hasty and undignified retreat back to his vessel, paying a high price on this occasion for his impatience.
Yet it was this burning urgency of spirit that ensured he was a man who lived to drive a ship hard. His energy meant that he had the will to keep pushing onward day and night. He also enjoyed the challenge of navigating the China Sea. A narrow, reef-studded passage was a thrill to him rather than something intimidating. Perhaps his most striking philosophy was his strong dislike for bracing the yards sharp up and beating into the wind. Robinson wasn’t afraid to add a few more miles to a voyage as long as he could keep his vessel moving full and by through the water.
As the Sir Lancelot ran down the China Sea, this philosophy dictated that he took a much longer course than usual. Generally vessels made for the Sunda Strait, to the west, but on this occasion the breeze held for the Ombai Strait, over 1,000 nautical miles further east. The route was longer, but the Sir Lancelot was running free before the wind and that was all Robinson cared for.
The Sir Lancelot catches up
Despite the substantial extra mileage, the Sir Lancelot made a quick passage out of the China Sea and hopes were up; perhaps it was going to be possible to win the race after all. The clipper stormed out into the Indian Ocean and her ever hustling skipper let the boat fly before the breeze in no uncertain style. Day after day she raced across a glittering azure sea, her bow wave hissing by with the power of a fire hydrant, throwing up great billowing clouds of white water with every thrust of the ship, her sails curved with the wind, purposeful and beautiful. The south-east trades seemed to acknowledge the urgency of the situation and hurried her along her way.
Off the Cape of Good Hope, she ran into one of her rivals, the Flying Spur, which had left Foochow six days before the Sir Lancelot’s departure from Shanghai. As the Sir Lancelot approached, Frederick Paton, midshipman aboard the Flying Spur, rubbed his eyes in disbelief at what he saw. He described the scene thus: ‘It was a stormy day and the wind was a “dead muzzier” [on the nose]; Flying Spur was carrying what we considered to be a heavy press of sail, viz: whole topsails and courses with outer jib, whilst other ships in company were close reefed. But Sir Lancelot, coming up on the opposite tack so as to cross the other’s bow, was actually carrying three topgallant sails and flying jib.
‘We looked at the approaching clipper with amazement, for the amount of canvas Sir Lancelot was staggering under was tremendous considering the wind. Indeed such cracking on would not have been possible but that she had the run of the sea abaft the beam, whereas Flying Spur and the ships on the other tack had it before the beam. As the two clippers converged on each other, they began signalling, and this nearly led to disaster on the Sir Lancelot, for just as she was athwart the hawse of the Flying Spur, her helmsman, paying more attention to the latter’s signal halliards than to his own steering, allowed his ship to come up in the wind and get aback.
‘In a moment the Sir Lancelot was heeling over and getting stern-way – within an ace of being dismasted. We were so close to the clipper that we saw the watch below come flying on deck in their shirt tails. Sir Lancelot’s crew were as smart as paint in whipping the sail off her, and the clipper brought her spars to windward and sto
od up, but it was a close shave. As things calmed down, we saw Captain Robinson spring upon his careless helmsman, knock him down and jump on him.’
The Sir Lancelot’s bow.
The Sir Lancelot anchored at the Pagoda anchorage. The iron clipper Blackadder is to the left.
Several days later, the Sir Lancelot was racing up to St Helena when a clipper under a huge press of canvas was sighted ahead. This proved to be the shippers’ favourite, the Maitland, and as Robinson’s vessel closed with her rival, it was evident she was hanging out every single one of her many flying kites, including her much-vaunted moonsails. It was no use, though: the Sir Lancelot was too much for her. As his vessel forged ahead, Robinson signalled: ‘Goodbye, I shall be forced to leave you if you cannot set more sail.’ The crew loved him for that. They were utterly triumphant now. The Sir Lancelot seemed invincible and the men were jubilant and exhilarated. The weeks of demand and toil paid off in a few perfect hours.
On she raced; Robinson’s old rival the Serica was passed in the night. He didn’t know it, but he was really only racing the Ariel. The rest of the pack had fallen behind, blown away both by the miracle of these two vessels and the unparalleled skill of their commanders. The Ariel was also flying. She had also passed the Serica and then overhauled the Fiery Cross in the run up the Atlantic, although she had only dropped the veteran racer after an epic tussle. She now seemed on course for victory, having reached Bishop Rock on 20 September 1867.
The Sir Lancelot had actually sighted land on 19 September, a full day before the Ariel, but that land was Mizen Head, Ireland. Robinson’s desire to keep his ship flying was leading to unusual results. As dawn broke, there was a deputation among the excited crew; they were 96 days out of Shanghai, a passage never before approached, yet all was utter confusion: ‘Where the hell is the old man taking us?’ they muttered, utterly bemused. The usual landfall would have been the Lizard peninsula on the Cornish coast.
On 20 September the Sir Lancelot was beating up between Bishop Rock and Seven Stones, a most unorthodox piece of navigation for a big ship, but it was a piece of daring that paid off. She turned the corner into the English Channel and romped up before a fair south-westerly, docking in 99 days. The Ariel, arriving in the chops of the Channel a couple of hours later, found the breeze had slackened away to nothing and was ultimately vanquished. The China race was won against all the odds and Robinson was confirmed as the captain to beat above all others.
A new rival
Where do you go from there? Robinson had won the race more than any other, yet he continued to push on. In 1868, he made the trip in 98 days, but was narrowly beaten by his great rival Captain Innes, who had quit the Serica and was in charge of a beautiful new clipper, the Spindrift. In 1869, however, he produced a performance that truly set him apart from the rest.
The Sir Lancelot was once again late to reach Foochow, and when she arrived, Robinson and his crew found that the focus was firmly on another ship, soon to be a legend in fo’c’sles the world over: the Thermopylae. The name of this Aberdeen-built clipper had already been mentioned along the coast, while the Sir Lancelot had undertaken a gruelling series of intermediate voyages in the China Sea. After racing out to Hong Kong, the Sir Lancelot had fitted in four passages laden with rice between Saigon, Bangkok, Hong Kong and Yokohama. This was exhausting work, with the crew alternately sweltering in the unbearable heat of these stifling ports and then being driven like fury by their demented skipper whenever they escaped the cloying heat of the land. By June, they were pretty much done in and were hugely relieved when the last of the rice was discharged in Yokohama and the ship raced to Foochow to join the tea fleet.
A photograph of the Pagoda anchorage in 1869. At the far left is the Ariel and beside her lies the Thermopylae. In the middle of the anchorage, the Serica is drying her sails and the Lahloo is to the right, seen stern on.
A fine image of the Thermopylae at anchor. This is an example of a photograph that has been painted over.
The Sir Lancelot reached Foochow on the morning of 20 June 1869 and spent the day working her way up the tortuous narrows of the Min River. She made the tranquil waters of the Pagoda anchorage with the last of the evening light. The Sir Lancelot shattered the peace as her anchors were dropped with a roar and a shower of sparks. Silence returned and the exhausted crew made out the shadows of their rival vessels in the last glow of evening. Tall spars silhouetted charcoal black against the dark hills and shimmering moon-kissed water, anchor lights already twinkling in the gloom. The crew tumbled gratefully into their bunks for some well-earned rest. Shortly thereafter only the steadfast tread of the watchman could be heard aboard.
Being selected for anchor watch after a demanding passage was definitely a case of drawing the short straw. On this night, however, with the cool night air above and water gently murmuring below, there was some rest and repose for the luckless man tasked with patrolling the deck. Only the incessant tropical showers interrupted the peace. As dawn approached, the man on watch was also treated to a truly magical sight. The first rains of the monsoon season had rendered the Pagoda anchorage almost unbearably humid, and steams and mists lay soft on the steep valley sides of the Min Gorge and poured across the glassy waters of the anchorage where the clipper fleet lay.
The Salamis was built in 1875 as an iron version of the Thermopylae, but was ten feet longer than her composite sister. She was also extremely fast and proved to be the quickest iron ship in the Australian wool trade.
Thermopylae lying at the Pagoda anchorage awaiting her cargo of tea.
The Pearl River, Macao. One of the many stopovers which held up the Sir Lancelot during her lengthy spell of intermediate passages in 1869.
Clippers and sampans in a Chinese anchorage.
The Thermopylae seemed utterly invincible as she raced down the Indian Ocean and the Leander was no match for her.
The Sir Lancelot running down the China Sea under a press of sail.
The Thermopylae running well in the Indian Ocean.
As the first glow of dawn illuminated the scene, the drowsy watchman stirred, tapped out his pipe on the rail and peered through the mists as the beautiful ships were slowly revealed. They were eyed with pleasure by the old seaman and counted off like old friends. The elegant Spindrift, winner of the previous year’s race, lay above them; the Taeping, Ariel, Lahloo, Serica and Leander were nearby. Yet there was one newcomer that gave pause; a stranger among friends, her hull was not black like the others, but a rich dark green. The watchman strained to make out her name and, lit by the first rays of dawn, the letters glinted gold: Thermopylae.
As the sun burnt through and the sampans started to go about their daily work, Captain Robinson was rowed ashore and made inquiries about the strange new vessel. He didn’t have to wait long to find out more as the port was abuzz with talk of the newcomer. She had been launched in Aberdeen earlier in the year for the White Star Line and sailed out to Melbourne under the command of Robert Kemball in the autumn of 1868, breaking the record to the port with a passage of 60 days. She had then sailed across to Shanghai from Sydney and promptly broken that record too, with a 28- day run. Now she had come to Foochow to put the cream of the China tea clippers to the sword.
All lauded her achievements, but she had already caused quite a stir in Foochow among the senior skippers of the tea fleet. On her main mast, the Thermopylae was proudly displaying a gilt cockerel at her masthead, emblazoned with the motto ‘While I live, I’ll crow’, spelling out all too clearly to the gathered fleet that the Thermopylae was their superior. To the Victorian seafarers, this unseemly display of bragging was too much. After all, the new ship had yet to prove herself on the China run.
Robert Kemball and his officers found themselves rather subtly being given the cold shoulder. In the sweltering heat of the day, as the clippers were loaded with teas by the Chinese stevedores, the skippers would retire to the shade of huge awnings rigged over the decks of the clippers or recline in cane c
hairs on the cool verandahs of the club house. As they unwound, they cogitated on the new arrival and her masthead adornment. It was difficult not to fume at the gall of this newcomer. Crews were also simmering with resentment as they laboured in the sticky heat, and there was much talk of how to bring the cocksure newcomer down a peg or two.
A couple of nights later, a group of seamen aboard the Taeping decided to take action. One daring sailor opted to swim across to the newcomer and, sneaking aboard, stole the cockerel and smuggled it back to his own ship. Uproar ensued the following day and Kemball turned on his fellow skippers, accusing them of being in on the scheme. True or not, no one owned up and the cockerel was not restored to the Thermopylae’s masthead until a replacement was supplied on her return to London. It is fair to say that emotions were running high as the clippers were loaded with tea.
The bad blood must have made Kemball all the more determined to beat the tea fleet home. Nevertheless, the Thermopylae was not the first vessel away. The shippers still favoured the Ariel, despite the fact that John Keay, her skipper since 1866, had left her the year before. It was the Ariel, followed by the Leander and the Lahloo, that were first away and first to be towed through the steep gorge of the treacherous Mingan Pass. The Thermopylae left a few days later, banners streaming. A puff of smoke and the boom of her cannon echoed around the Pagoda anchorage to announce her departure. Imagine the frustration aboard the Sir Lancelot, still only partially loaded, as her new rival slipped by. Yet loading had to continue and it was some 12 days before she finally got away.
Clipper Ships and the Golden Age of Sail Page 11
