Beautiful Star and Other Stories Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  PREFACE

  BEAUTIFUL STAR

  THE FLYING MONK

  HMS ASSOCIATION

  THE TREE

  THE CASTLE

  A WITCH AND A BITCH

  THE BUTTON SELLER AND THE DRUMMER BOY

  Copyright

  BEAUTIFUL STAR

  &

  OTHER STORIES

  Andrew Swanston

  For my family

  PREFACE

  Each of this collection of seven stories is based on a true historical event and includes real as well as imaginary characters. Other than that the stories are linked only by being, I hope, interesting bits of history.

  I learnt about Beautiful Star from a newspaper cutting on display in the little church of St Monan on the edge of the Fife village of St Monans. It struck me then as a story that would reward further research. And so it proved. Before the advent of steam, the hardy fishing folk of the East Neuk depended on their skills as boat builders and sailors, on the vagaries of the herring and the capricious North Sea and on each other. Now there is little commercial fishing but the villages and harbours are still there and so is their history. The fate of five fishing Fifies and their crews in the storms of November 1875 is a part of that history. All the main characters, including the well-named minister Mr Foggo, the narrator, Julia Paterson, and her extended family lived in the village at the time of the story.

  The story of Eilmer,the Flying Monk,I came across as an historical footnote and felt that it too deserved to be more widely known. Try asking someone in which year the first recorded – by the almost contemporary historian William of Malmesbury – manned flight took place. I doubt that one in fifty will know, any more than I did before visiting Malmesbury. A thousand years ago Malmesbury was a renowned centre of learning – just the sort of environment in which a curious mind like Eilmer’s would flourish.

  Eilmer was also very unusual for the time in seeing what we call Halley’s Comet twice in his lifetime. On both occasions the comet presaged bloodshed – first from the arrival of the Danes and later from that of the Normans.

  ‘A witch and a bitch’ was an expression used to describe Jane Wenham, also known as the Witch of Walkern. Her story – a cause célèbre at the time – illustrates how beliefs in witchcraft persisted into the eighteenth century and how readily a village could turn against an ‘incomer’ and use the law against him or her. Jane was poor and unpopular but a witch she was not.

  ‘The Castle’ is the story of the gallant defence of Corfe Castle led by Lady Mary Bankes, mother of twelve children and widow of Sir John Bankes, Privy Councillor and close advisor to King Charles, during the War of the Three Kingdoms. There are various historical accounts of the siege and I have selected from them that which best suited my story. If not the origin of the word ‘turncoat’, it certainly offers a good example of its use.

  ‘The Tree’ is based on the best known story of the collection yet is perhaps the most whimsical. William Giffard did hide in the oak tree with the king, but the boy… Well, who knows?

  The stories of the button seller and the drummer boy, one English the other French, are well documented, although their names remain a mystery. I learnt about them while researching my book Waterloo: the Bravest Man and have put them together to form a single story, linked by their presence at the battle. I have given neither of them a name because it seemed more appropriate not to.

  Who could not be intrigued by the name Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell? His flagship, HMS Association, and the three other vessels gave rise to the Longitude Act of 1714 and the later solving of the problem of longitudinal navigation by the brilliant clockmaker, John Harrison. For that alone his is a tale worth telling.

  I thank my agent, David Headley of DHH Literary Agency, for encouraging me to put these stories on paper, and my editor, Rebecca Lloyd of The Dome Press, for her expert advice.

  BEAUTIFUL STAR

  1875

  It was after church one Sunday in January of that year that Father first mentioned the idea. ‘I’ve been thinking about a new boat’ he said, ‘and I’ve spoken to Angus Miller. He’s going to do some designs. The Angel’s fourteen years old now and she’s only thirty feet. She looks like a child beside the English boats and she was built for local work, not long voyages. Now we’re going south every autumn we need a decked boat and a good deal bigger.’

  A new boat made sense. Boats were getting bigger all the time and there was talk of the St Monans harbour being expanded. At least Miller’s yard was by the harbour, so the boat would not have to be hauled down the hill on rollers. That was a dangerous business. Our Uncle William had lost two fingers on his left hand that way.

  ‘Can we afford a new boat, James?’ asked my mother.

  ‘I’ve told Angus no more than seventy pounds. And anyway it’s not settled yet. I’ll decide when I’ve seen the plans.’ We all knew that was a fib. He would never have raised the matter if he had not already made up his mind.

  Praying in public and the smell of fish are two things I have always disliked and both still remind me of that time. My mother, Julia Paterson, for whom I was named, claimed that she could tell a fish by its smell. I couldn’t. Herring, ling, cod, mackerel – they all smelt the same to me and it was a smell that no amount of soap and water or rubbing with lavender ever quite got off my hands.

  As for church, I found the Sunday ritual tedious and embarrassing. Religion should be conducted in private. But off we had to go, all eight of us, to the little St Monans church – men and boys in suits, ties, and ‘guid socks’, women and girls in bonnets or neepyin’ shawls, everyone in clean boots, with hands and faces scrubbed and polished. And all for an hour of singing and praying and half an hour of Mr Foggo. He was well named, the minister. His sermons were impenetrable.

  Afterwards there was another half hour of polite gossip outside the church before we were allowed to walk home over the stone bridge, down the hill and along the street by the harbour which we called The Shore. Walk, mind. No running on Sundays.

  Churches themselves I quite like when they are empty, and ours was more interesting than most. Built in the thirteenth century and restored six hundred years later, it is so near the sea that on windy days we all had to enter by the back door in case a sudden gust tipped a child or an elderly worshipper on to the rocks below. The story is that King David gave the church to the village after he had been rescued from a shipwreck or nursed back to health after an arrow wound. Or perhaps both.

  It is the conformity I find difficult, just as I have always hated having to wear a uniform, wave a flag or belong to a club. Father said I was an awkward child; Mother said I’d grow out of it. I never did. I still avoid herds, flocks and shoals.

  Like most fishermen, father tried to be at home on Sundays. That was not possible in early spring when the fleet sailed north in search of the herring shoals or in autumn when they made the long journey south for the ‘English fishing’, but otherwise he seldom fished on a Sunday. Ours was a God-fearing community, tight-knit, enduring, resilient, and the large Paterson family was at the heart of it.

  On fine Sunday afternoons father and mother took a walk around the village and if I was not too busy preparing my lessons for the week, I went with them. By then I had started as a pupil-teacher at Miss Brown’s Adventure School. I was lucky to be appointed. A vacancy came up at just the right time and Mr Nevin, the parish school head teacher, had spoken for me. He knew I wanted to teach and he knew I hated fishing. ‘You wouldn’t be much of a fisherman’s wife, Julia,’ he told me, ‘but I think you might make a teacher.’ On the first point at leas
t, Mr Nevin was right. As soon as I had qualified, I planned to find a position in St Andrews or Edinburgh. Or anywhere where there were no fish.

  The motto of St Monans is ‘Mare Vivimus’, although, apart from Mr Nevin and Mr Foggo, I doubt if there was a person in the village who could read Latin. It was a typical Fife fishing village, built on a steep hillside between the larger villages of Pittenweem and Elie and facing directly out to sea. Returning St Monans fishermen saw the church at the western end of the village and at the eastern end a windmill built to pump seawater to long defunct salt pans. Inland from the salt pans there was once coal mining but that had ended after a fire sixty years ago.

  The village was dominated by the harbour and by The Shore which ran around it. The grand houses on The Shore – three storeys high with crow steps at the tops of their gabled walls, grey slate roofs and tall windows, were owned by the fish merchants. The cottages of fishing families like ours had pantiled red roofs, dark windows scanning the sea like so many eyes and whitewashed walls overlapping the roofs to prevent tiles being lifted by the wind. The East Neuk of Fife is a windy place.

  Twisting cobbled streets ran up the hill away from the harbour, with drying greens for the nets squeezed between the cottages, and steps cut into the hill – welcome shortcuts for fishermen hauling their kit home to dry, or their wives carrying baskets of fish or children late for school. Mr Nevin’s Parish School and Miss Brown’s Adventure School were both at the top of the hill.

  Except in church, father always wore the traditional fisherman’s rig of woven jacket, long inner waistcoat inside the trousers, shorter outer waistcoat buttoned up to the neck, thick woollen trousers and leather boots. It was his uniform and he was proud of it. I cannot now picture him, or my brother Robert, in anything else. Clay pipe in mouth, steely blue eyes, pepper-and-salt side-whiskers, cap at a jaunty angle, skin weathered by sun and sea – the image is as clear as it ever was. And Robert was working at looking just the same.

  Our cottage was typical: three rooms downstairs, one for living, cooking and eating, the other two for sleeping; and another room upstairs, partitioned into a storage loft for nets and equipment at one end and my parents’ bedroom at the other. At five years old, Alexander was still young enough to share it. When they were first married, it must have been quite spacious but twenty-two years and six children later, it was anything but.

  In a village of two thousand souls everyone knew everyone else, even if they could not quite remember how they were related. None of our cottages were big enough for major family gatherings; baptisms and weddings were celebrated in The Anstruther Arms, deaths in the Church Hall.

  Towards the end of February, before The Angel sailed north in search of the spring herring shoals around Lerwick and Wick, father took four of us – Robert, Margaret, James, and me – down to Miller’s yard. He wanted us to see our new boat being built.

  It was a short walk along the harbour to the yard, where Angus and Willy Miller were waiting for us. A year older than me, big and bluff, red-haired and blue-eyed, Willy’s only interest was boats. He could not have told a daisy from a daffodil and I doubt if he had ever read a book but he had an encyclopaedic knowledge of local boats and was as proud as could be that his great-great-grandfather had started off as a wheelwright and joiner over a hundred years earlier, later turning his hand to building small Fifie yawls. Willy was learning his trade as a boat-builder in his father’s yard and while father and Mr Miller disappeared into an office, he insisted on giving us a tour.

  The main timber yard was a large rectangle with a blacksmith’s forge and a steam kiln for shaping timbers on one side, and a joinery shop, saw pit and timber stores on the other. Behind the yard were offices and storage rooms, with a moulding loft above them. A slipway ran straight down to the harbour from the building berths in the main yard.

  As we walked round we saw wood being sawn over the saw pit, nails being hammered into planks, and timbers being moved from the stores to the pit and from the pit to the yard floor. We heard the hiss of cold water on hot iron in the forge and men chattering away in their soft Fife voices.

  There were lengths of oak, larch and elm waiting to be sawn and bevelled, some of them twenty or thirty feet long, fifty-foot pine trees destined to become masts, heaps of iron fixings, saws, chisels, adzes, nails of every size and shape, planes, hammers and rope – huge lengths of rope – lying in coils and hanging from hooks. Some of the ropes were as narrow as half an inch in diameter but the thickest, used for mooring, might have been twelve inches. The sweet smells of newly sawn timber mingled with the pungent ones of tar and paint. They were a world apart from the smell of fish.

  Laid out on the yard floor were the templates for our new boat. ‘We made a half-size model to your father’s instructions, as usual, and then laid out a full-size plan,’ Willy told us. ‘Now we’ve got the main templates down and we’ll start finding timbers for each one. She’s a three-quarter-decked Fifie. Her keel length is forty-three feet, so she’ll be first class. Her depth is just over seven feet and she has an internal width of sixteen feet.’ Willy, of course, knew every measurement and every detail. ‘Nearly all the boats we build nowadays are decked but the cabin takes up space. Still, the decked boats are much safer and that’s what really matters. She’ll carry two lugsails and a jib. And a crew of seven.’ There was no stopping Willy in full flight, and he knew the local name of everything on a boat – kaydie, sheeg, cracker, kaymsin – everything.

  ‘What’s her tonnage, Willy?’ asked James.

  ‘Seventeen and a half. Her frame will be oak and her planking larch. One of the lugs will be fixed, the other dipping.’

  ‘When will she be ready?’

  ‘About ten weeks, so not in time for the Drave, but your father is planning to join the English fishing in the autumn.’

  When Father emerged from the office with Mr Miller, he was beaming. ‘Well, what do you think? She’ll be grand, won’t she?’

  Robert too was beaming. ‘She will, Pa. The finest boat in the fleet, I should think.’

  ‘Will I be coming, Pa?’ asked James. ‘Willy says you’ll be taking her south for the autumn herring.’

  ‘No, James. You’re only thirteen and you won’t have finished at the cooking school. And it’s dangerous enough without the worry of being poisoned.’ Poor James. He hated the cooking school, a necessary evil for all young men wanting to join a crew, and was desperate to join Robert on the boat. Father saw the look on his face and softened a little. ‘We’ll see, James. Perhaps. If there’s room.’

  Mother had stayed at home with Agnes and Alexander. When we got back, Robert and James bombarded her with descriptions of the boat. She listened quietly until they had finished and then asked, ‘And what is she to be called?’

  We looked at each other in confusion. None of us had thought to ask what her name would be. Then we looked at Father.

  ‘Beautiful Star.’ he said, ‘She’ll be called Beautiful Star.’

  All through that spring we were in and out of Miller’s yard where we watched lengths of timber and lumps of metal being cut and sawn and hammered and shaped into what would be our fine new fishing boat.

  The yard was full of wonders and Willy loved telling us all about them. Miller’s employed about fifty men, who all had long beards and bushy whiskers and wore filthy old hats. The longer and whiter the beard and whiskers, and the more filthy and ancient the hat, the longer their owner had been working in the yard. They were badges of office.

  Mr Miller himself was nearly always there, checking every detail of the boat and sometimes insisting that a timber be replaced by one with a better grain or that a metal fastening be strengthened by the addition of another. When Willy asked for the twentieth time when she would be ready, he was firmly reminded by his father that nothing would be rushed and that every inch of the boat and its equipment would be perfect, because ‘brave men’s lives depend upon it’.

  From timbers which had been cut in the wi
nter from the nearby Balcarres Estate and brought to the yard by teams of enormous cart horses, Father had chosen a suitable length of oak for the keel. ‘We have to make sure the grain is good and that it has dried out properly,’ he explained. ‘Then we’ll choose timbers for the stems with grains that will go well with the keel. That’ll give her the strength she’ll need.’

  The keel was laid down on a full-size template that had been drawn out on the moulding-room floor and taken to the yard. Once the keel was down, the stem post was hoisted into place by a pulley rigged to a frame in the shape of a large ‘A’. Mother placed a silver coin under the post for luck. I asked Willy why the keel was laid down at right angles to the slipway.

  ‘It’s because a ship as big as Beautiful Star might otherwise run down the slipway, straight across the harbour and into the wall,’ he explained. ‘Then she wouldn’t be so beautiful, would she?’

  We watched the stems being sawn over the saw pit and bevelled into shape, then planed and fitted to the keel. Platforms were erected around the carcass for the men to work on. There was enough good grown oak available for most of Beautiful Star’s timbers to be cut into shape, so the steam house was not much needed. While the boat was taking shape in the yard the blacksmith was busy in the forge, fashioning long iron nails, metalkneesto reinforce the joints and dogs for clamping the planks. The forge was a hot, noisy, uncomfortable place, and we only ventured in if the timber yard was quiet.

  On the other side of the yard, joiners worked with planes and axes on the huge pine logs which would become her masts.

  Willy and I saw a lot of each other while Beautiful Star was being built. Sometimes I went down to the yard with Margaret or James, sometimes alone. Learning to teach forty small children to read and write and, under Miss Brown’s watchful eye, to sew, kept me busy enough but there were Sundays and evenings and a short Easter holiday.

  Sewing was an important part of the curriculum for both girls and boys. Squinting over her narrow spectacles, Miss Brown always insisted on precise and appropriate stitches – neat herringbone for hems, slipstitch for folded edges and over-sewing to prevent fraying. ‘That’s no good at all, Julia,’ she once scolded me. ‘Your stitches might be all that hold a sail together and keep a fisherman alive. Remember that every time you use a needle.’