Beautiful Star and Other Stories

by Andrew Swanston

  Like all Fifies, Beautiful Star’s long straight keel gave her speed and we were soon close enough to the island to see the lighthouse. I tried to interest Willy in it, but got only as far as Stevenson and the refractor light before he made a face and went to talk to Robert, who ordered us below again while the sails were lowered. When we came on deck, the boat was at anchor two hundred yards from the island’s rocky cliffs, where gulls, kittiwakes and razorbills had formed colonies.

  ‘Don’t tell me puffins nest on the other side, Julia,’ said Willy, ‘because I know that.’ I ignored him.

  We stayed there for an hour or so tucking into the contents of Willy’s kit barrel, while Father, Willy and the crew discussed the boat. Back we went below while the sails were set for the return journey and then we were off again. It took longer back into the breeze, but I did not mind. In fact the sun, the gentle wind and the salt spray were exhilarating. Despite myself, I enjoyed it.

  Mr Miller was waiting for us as we entered the harbour and hurried along the pier to where we tied up. ‘Well, James,’ he called out, ‘how did she go?’

  ‘She’s as fast as any, George, and easier to handle than some. We’ll have good fishing with her.’ And, turning to Willy, my father continued, ‘And what did you think of her, Willy?’

  ‘She’s the finest boat in Fife,’ replied Willy, beaming.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ I agreed. ‘And she’ll find the fish, too.’

  Father laughed. ‘I hope so. We’ll be sailing south soon and we’ll need good catches. And how about you, James? What did you think?’

  ‘I think I should be going with you, that’s what I think.’

  Father shook his head. ‘No, James, not this time. We’ve a full crew. You can join us in the spring.’

  On a bright afternoon in early October, Beautiful Star was among thirty boats from St Monans, together with forty-three from Cellardyke and nine from Pittenweem, to set sail in convoys towards the rich fishing grounds off East Anglia. There they hoped for good fishing before returning home until the new year, when they would head north to Shetland and Caithness.

  The ‘English fishing’ had been popular for about a dozen years. It could be very profitable but involved a long journey and six weeks or more away from home. Fishing families had mixed feelings about it and some boats preferred to go north to catch ling and haddock with long lines.

  The boats made a grand sight as they left harbour, the tide and their powerful lug sails quickly sweeping them out to sea and far away from the crowded pier. Beautiful Star stood out as one of the larger boats and easily the newest. Her tarring and sails were as light and white as could be.

  Settling in the middle of the convoy as if being protected by older relatives, she sped away over the horizon. Mother had insisted that we all go down to wave Beautiful Star off. Thane and Quest were in the same convoy, so the piers were full of Patersons and Allans. Apart from a few tearful children, the mood was cheerful. The last voyage of the year, the hope of good reward from the English herring, and the prospect of husbands and fathers at home over Christmas.

  There would be nets to be mended, ropes to be tarred, old clothes to be repaired, new ones to be sewn or knitted. The boats would be hauled up and prepared for the new season, the fishermen would gather at the harbour to talk boats and fishing or just to pass the time of day, there would be visits to friends in Elie, Pittenweem and Anstruther and perhaps an outing or two to St Andrews or Cupar. Even with a break from the fishing, it would be a busy time.

  We watched Beautiful Star until she was out of sight, by which time it was well into the afternoon and the autumn light was beginning to fail. Deciding that we might catch one last glimpse of the convoy, Willy and I set off up the hill towards the church. From there we did see the last sails dipping below the horizon, although it was too dark to see which were Beautiful Star’s.

  We also saw the tall figure of Mr Foggo in the graveyard near the rocks. Dressed, as always, in black, and standing motionless as he gazed out to sea, he must have been watching the boats. As a minister, he would not have been welcome at the harbour on the day of a sailing, but it crossed my mind that he could possibly have been seen from one of the boats. I hoped not because that would have greatly alarmed the fishermen. Theirs was not a superstition I shared, yet there was something unsettling about seeing him. Willy and I looked at each other but said nothing, then walked quickly home together down the hill.

  At this time, before the age of steam ships, in favourable conditions the voyage from the waters of Fife to those of East Anglia took about forty-eight hours. On the voyage, it was usual for the steersman and one crew member to keep watch on deck, while the others rested below. The time spent was usually well invested, given the size and quality of the expected catches, and the Fife fishermen were welcomed and respected for their steadiness and skill. So much so that the Yarmouth Independent that year carried a report which was reprinted in the East of Fife Record. The report compared the ‘Scotch fishermen’ favourably to their East Anglian counterparts and ventured the wish that the visitors would have a beneficial effect upon them. The Scots, it seemed, were ‘sober, reliable, canny men’ who seldom missed church on a Sunday. The local men, by contrast, ‘earnt their money like horses, and spent it like asses’.

  Mother enjoyed reading the piece out to us. She told us we were lucky to have been born in Scotland and not among the drunken savages down south. She did not tell us, although we knew, that our uncles William Paterson and David Allan were quite capable of holding their own in any Yarmouth inn.

  Respectability and sobriety were not the only differences between the men of Yarmouth and their ‘Scotch brethren’. When East Neuk boats first started making the journey to the ‘English fishing’, they were thought absurdly small and vulnerable by comparison with the local two- and three-masted, fully-decked English luggers up to seventy feet in length. The same newspaper report expressed some concern over their ability to withstand heavy weather. But the skill of the Scottish skippers and their crews made an impression, and they were soon accepted as at least the equals of the local men.

  Two days after he left we received a telegram from Father to tell us that they had arrived safely in Yarmouth; some men also wrote letters and sent back messages with other boats that were returning home. Hardy though they were, all but the youngest of the fishermen had families and, during long nights on the boats, wives and children must have seemed far away. Nights ashore were not much better for some. Each man took his own bedding but not all found beds. The youngest had to sleep on the floor of their lodging house if there were not enough beds to go round.

  Father was conscientious at sending letters and telegrams home. The telegrams did little more than tell us about the fishing. This was known locally as ‘the word’. If you wanted to know how good the fishing in the south had been, you asked what ‘the word’ was. The letters, however, were long and detailed. They were written on Sundays after church, and told us about his lodgings, his English friends and about Beautiful Star. He said that she was much admired, so much so that ‘half the men in Yarmouth have been aboard to inspect her. If I’d charged them a guinea each, I could give up the fishing and come home.’ We wished he would.

  Of the forty children in the Adventure School, twenty-seven had fathers and brothers away with the fleet. It was a difficult time for all of us. Concentration was harder and tempers shorter. One day, however,a large brown parcel arrived at school from Mr Smith’s bookshop in St Andrews. In front of all the children, Miss Brown untied the string and carefully removed the brown paper. Inside was a brand new edition of The Atlas of the World.

  ‘Now children,’ she said, holding it up for all to see, ‘this is what we need.’

  The atlas had one hundred and fifty pages of coloured maps and a further seventy-four devoted to an index of countries and place names. The maps were wonderfully detailed, especially those of Great Britain and Europe, and the atlas immediately became a favourite with the
children. All through that autumn, it was taken down from the shelf and the pages carefully turned until somewhere or something of interest caught our eye. Knowing what would hold the children’s attention most readily, we started with maps of the east coasts of Scotland and England. We worked our way down from Lerwick, past Wick, Fraserburgh, Peterhead and Arbroath, to Eyemouth and Berwick, each of them busy fishing communities. We considered the size of each place and its likely population, and discussed historical events – the Battle of Culloden, the Highland Clearances, the Moray Firth disaster – but we only strayed inland occasionally.

  The Grampians, Glasgow and Edinburgh were speedily dispatched as we sped southwards. Pausing briefly at the important harbour towns of Yorkshire and Lincolnshire, we arrived at Great Yarmouth. This was our destination because this was where our fathers and brothers were to be found, the men of Cellardyke, Pittenweem and St Monans, braving discomfort and danger, steadfast against all that the North Sea could hurl at them, bringing home much needed money for their families and soon, we hoped, to embark on the return journey. Everyone loved the atlas.

  While the fleet was away, Willy went with his father on a trip to Aberdeen and Lossiemouth to see for themselves what was going on in the yards there. Steam-driven boats were appearing along the coast and there was talk of a new design.

  When they returned, Willy could hardly wait to tell us all about it. ‘We went to Stonehaven first, then Peterhead, then Lossiemouth,’ he told us breathlessly. ‘The railway goes right round the coast up to Wick, but we didn’t go that far north.

  ‘We saw decked Fifies being built at Stonehaven and Peterhead, but Lossiemouth was the most interesting. One of the yards there is working on a new design which is a mixture of Fifie and skaffie. We saw some drawings and a scale model. It was fully decked and had a straight stem like a Fifie, but an angled stern like a skaffie. The idea is that it will have a Fifie’s speed but be easier to handle because of its shorter keel length. Two masts, it’ll have, up to sixty feet, fore and mizzen sails and a jib. They plan to try out the design before building a full-size boat. It’ll be well over seventy feet, nearer eighty probably. And they’re even talking about a steam-driven capstan.’

  When Willy stopped briefly to draw breath, James had a question. ‘Will that mean they’ll carry more nets?’

  ‘It will. The hauling in will be much, much easier. And it’ll also be used to raise the sails, so they’ll be bigger. More sail, more speed.’

  ‘When do you think we might see one?’ I asked.

  ‘A year or so, perhaps. They’ll want to test it thoroughly before sailing this far.’

  ‘And what’s the design to be called, Willy?’ Mother asked politely. I think she feared more outlay on another new boat.

  Willy looked puzzled. ‘Now that’s odd, Mrs Paterson. They’re calling it a Zulu of all things.’

  ‘A Zulu? Why?’

  ‘It’s in support of the Zulus the English are fighting in Africa. The Highlanders think the Zulus are being treated much as they were during the clearances.’

  ‘It’s a funny name for a boat, but I suppose it’s their boat so they can call it what they like. What would you call it, Willy?’

  ‘It’s being made in Lossiemouth, so I’d call it a Lossie.’

  ‘So would I,’ she said, ‘unless we’re fighting people called Lossies somewhere.’

  Willie ignored the joke. ‘Here’s something that will interest you, Julia. In Peterhead I met a man named Storm. I thought it was an unusual name for a Highlander, so I asked him about it. He told me that he was descended from a baby who had been washed up in a wooden box at Nairn about two hundred years ago. From the markings on the box they thought the baby must be German and had been put in the box when the ship it was on was sinking. The fishing family who brought him up named him Storm and there are now quite a few Storms in the area.’

  And he had a wooden box under his arm. ‘I’ve got something to give you, Julia,’ he said, opening the box. ‘Well, it’s for everyone really. I made it for you.’ He took out a model of Beautiful Star, about twelve inches long, with a wooden hull, tiny iron fixings and canvas sails secured by plaited cotton ropes. The planking was clinkered and it had a three-quarter deck.

  I was astonished. ‘Did you really make it, Willy?’

  ‘I did,’ he replied sharply, frowning at my tone. ‘It took me two months. I worked from plans in the yard. Everything’s to scale and it’s made of pine and elm.’ Adding with a smile, ‘Father did help a bit’.

  It was beautifully made. We examined it minutely and agreed that it stood comparison with anything to be found in the shops in St Andrews or Cupar. ‘It’s lovely, Willy,’ I said.

  He was delighted. ‘Look, Julia. Here are the hatches and that’s the kaymsin. I made these hooks and toggles from scraps of iron. Do you know what they’re called?’ I did not. ‘That’s the breist hook at the stern for a reefed sail, and that’s the teck hook for a fully reefed sail.’ He pointed them out.

  Having told me the names and functions of all the boat’s features, he asked me to paint on the name. ‘You’re much better at writing than me,’ he said. I’ve brought paint and a brush.’

  ‘Of course I will, if you’re sure.’

  When I had carefully painted on the name with Willy’s fine brush, we put Beautiful Star on the mantelpiece above the range. Father and Robert would love it.

  The first boats to return to St Monans arrived on the Wednesday after All Hallow's Eve and three or four more followed every day that week. Some of the Cellardyke and Pittenweem boats had also returned safely and, by the end of the following week, less than half the fleet were still in the south. Several weeks of hard fishing and the demanding journey north were exhausting, but their families were always there to welcome them and the men came ashore smiling, delighted to be home. The weather throughout October had been stormy and strong winds had dispersed the herring shoals, resulting in only mixed catches and many broken nets, but the trip had still been profitable for them. A few boats brought home as much as five hundred pounds to be shared among the crew.

  At school I could tell which fathers had returned just by looking at the children’s faces. The strain of absent fathers and brothers told even on the six-year-olds and, when they returned, the joy was visible. The boys talked about little else, comparing reports of the fishing and stories from the south. They talked of storms and seas and sails, of boats and crews and catches. I could just imagine each of them sitting at a father’s knee, listening to his report to a much-relieved wife and soaking it all up effortlessly. The girls said less but their smiles told us everything. Each morning there were more of them.

  It was at the end of that week that the first autumn storms hit the east coast. Very high winds and drenching rain lashed the villages and we were among many families who left the comfort of their houses only to attend Sunday service. We had to enter the church by the back door, the front door on the seaward side remaining firmly closed against the wind and a tide which swept over the rocks and threatened to reach the south wall. It would have been easier by far to have stayed at home but, particularly with men still away at the fishing, attendance was a solemn duty. Prayers were said for the safe return of all; Mr Foggo delivered one of his lengthy sermons and ‘Eternal Father’, Mr Whiting’s poem set to music, was sung with extra vigour. Afterwards there was none of the usual standing about. Heads down and backs bent, we all struggled home as quickly as we could.

  For three days, up and down the coast, boats in harbours were hurled about, slates flew off roofs, chimney bricks came down, debris swirled dangerously about in the streets and windows and doors stayed firmly shut. Most cottages in the village were protected from further damage by their thick stone walls, but outside it was dangerous and frightening. In Cellardyke the storm and a very high tide beat down the sea walk at the Golden Strand, exposing the herring boats wintering there to the sea. Even on the Sabbath, everyone, including the Kirk Elders, turned out
to rebuild it before the next tide.

  Telegrams from the south reassured us that all was well with the fleet and the winds gradually, very gradually, abated over the next two days. On Tuesday, the Cellardyke harbour master received a wire informing him that two more boats had left Grimsby that day, believing it safe enough to start the journey. This was followed by wires the following day to say that most of the remaining thirty-one boats, encouraged by forecasts of calmer weather, had also left.

  Father’s message, telling us that weather permitting he would leave in a convoy on Friday afternoon, arrived on Thursday. It was a relief that the skippers now felt able to set sail and that all should soon be safely home, but the winds were still more than blustery in the north. We could only hope that their journey would be quick and safe.

  On Friday the two boats that had left on Tuesday arrived safely in Cellardyke. They reported strong winds but an otherwise uneventful journey. My mother, whose quiet calm had been rather shaken by the ferocity of the storms, was visibly relieved.

  ‘Thank God for their safe arrival,’ she said. ‘It’s an anxious enough time when the boats are far away and we all know what an autumn sea can be like. Let’s pray we see the others home tomorrow.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ said James testily. ‘They’re fine boats with the best skippers and crews there are. We’ll see the first ones tomorrow morning, I shouldn’t be surprised.’

  The winds now being no more than moderate and the skies clear of rain, James was surely right. The storms had passed, and the passage home should be good. We went to bed that night in good spirits.

  But in the early hours of Saturday morning I was abruptly woken. Screeching and furious, the wind had risen again. Even more powerful than before, it crashed against the cottage as if trying to rip out our front door and smash through our windows. It woke us all. Shocked at its sudden ferocity, we knew that a storm of that strength would not be narrowly confined and was probably lashing the coast from Wick to Lowestoft. Worse, it would be at its most destructive out at sea, where as far as we knew, thirty-one boats, including Beautiful Star, were trying to get home to Fife.