Marie Celeste

Captain Leask Published in Beths Newfangled family Tree Volume 2 Issue 1 July 2008.  Pat Long, from Orkney and BuyOrkney

Captain William Leask and The City of Florence…

Scots didn’t just cross the Atlantic to emigrate. Many of them spent their working lives sailing to and fro to Boston or New York or even round Cape Horn to San Francisco.

One of these was my great-grand-uncle, William Leask, and this picture was taken in a studio in Market Street, San Francisco, on one of his many trips there as a sea captain.

He was born in Coldomo, Stenness, Orkney in 1851 and died in the same house just 51 years later but fitted many adventures into the intervening years.

The Brassbounder

He went to sea and eventually became master of the City of Florence. David Bones book The Brassbounder, describes life as an apprentice under his command. Of medium height, though broad to the point of ungainliness, Old Jock Leask (in his ill-fitting shore clothes) might have passed for a prosperous farmer.

However, he goes on to say, but it needed only a glance at the keen grey eyes peering from beneath bushy eyebrows, the determined set of a square lower jaw, to note a man of action, accustomed to command. A quick, alert turn of the head, the lift of shoulders as he walked arms swinging in seamanlike balance and the trick of pausing at a windward turn to glance at the weather sky, marked the sailing shipmaster the man to whom thought and action must be one.

There is an interesting, though unsubstantiated, family story of his early career. He and a fellow crew-mate had lost confidence in the captain of their ship and were convinced he was going to drive the ship under. They therefore jumped ship in Valpariso in Chile, where they were approached by someone recruiting for one of the sides in the American Civil War. If this part of the story is correct, Leask must have been very young, as the war ended when he was fifteen. When they refused to sign up, they were turned in as deserters and thrown into jail. However, a short time later there was a minor earthquake and, in the panic, the prisoners were set free.

The pair of them set off and crossed South America, which, understandably, took some time. When they eventually reached Buenos Aires they decided that the only way to get home was to hand themselves in to the authorities. When they did and said which ship they were off, they were told that was impossible, as the ship had gone down with all hands.

After an absence of several years Leask arrived back in Stenness. The story goes that the family were out singling neeps (hoeing swedes) when they saw a figure walking along the shore of the Bay of Ireland. “My, that looks like William”. It is William and he was handed the hoe while his brother went in to tell their mother to put another tattie in the pot. Another tale, which may or may not be true, is also, sadly, unsubstantiated.

When sailing as a mate, on an unfortunately unnamed ship, they came across the Mary Celeste. William Leask, in charge of the ships boat, was sent across to investigate. He led the way onto the deserted ship and, finding no sign of life, wanted to salvage it. However, their own ship was already undermanned and the captain decreed that the Mary Celeste had to be abandoned once more.

Before he left, Leask took the ships chronometer and sextant. He gave the chronometer to his captain and kept the sextant. My grandfather could remember being shown this sextant when he was a small boy . When the Strand magazine published the story of the Mary Celeste, a member of the family wrote to the magazine with the family version.

When the story was dismissed, the family, almost unbelievably, posted the sextant to the magazine and it was never seen again. It is intriguing to wonder where it sits now, unrecognised.

Captain Leask is said to have rounded Cape Horn forty-two times and one of his worst trips was recorded by the San Francisco Call on 29 July. Unfortunately, we dont know which year.

Something closely akin to a wreck was towed in through the Golden Gate after dark last night, and anchored at Melggís wharf. She had what looked like board fences for bulwarks in half a dozen places, much of her rigging was worn and spliced and even in the inky darkness that prevailed, the few people who boarded her could read the story of havoc by gale and sea. In the wreck of the forecastle were six unfortunate sailors suffering from all manner of wounds, bruises and fractures received in a battle with the elements off the Horn two months ago. The wreck was the British ship City of Florence, so long overdue that the underwriters had bade her farewell and were paying big premiums for reinsurance. “It was an unlucky voyage throughout”, said Captain Leask as soon as the Florence had dropped anchor , and so his log of the cruise proved. The Florence sailed from Antwerp on the 30th January, 181 days ago with 9590 barrels of cement, consigned to Mever, Wilson & Co. It was foggy all the way down the channel, and then such light airs were experienced that it was March 1st before the north-east trades were picked up. Fine weather lasted till April 25th when 50 Degrees south in the Atlantic was crossed, and a day or two after that the City of Florence real trials began.

Leaving Statten Island the ship encountered twenty eight days of the most persistent succession of gales and hurricanes that any vessel lived through, and had she been deeply loaded her arrival would have been extremely problematical. It was during these days of storm that the ship was reduced to a complete state of wreck. No canvas could withstand the fury of the blasts and sail after sail went flying away in shreds. The mountainous seas knocked her down, time after time, and before she could recover, their fellow waves pounded away as though determined to send her to the bottom. Not a movable thing escaped.

First went two boats, falls, davits and all, being washed away as if they were feathers. Two others were smashed to matchwood. The cabin doors were stove in, and the cabin so filled with water that anyone in it at the time must have been drowned.

The unfortunate sailors caught it next. Their forecastle was completely gutted, and an idea of the force of the rush of waters can be had when it It is stated that the stove was torn from its anchoring bolts and washed out on deck.

Captain Leask only saved his chronometers when the cabin was flooded by wrapping them in tarpaulin and sending them to more protected parts of the vessel. After the cabin and forecastle had been pillaged by the waves they tried their power on the iron bulwarks. In places these proved of no more value than paper against the force of the water, and great sheets were shattered and torn away, leaving yawning, unprotected holes, through which many of the crew narrowly escaped being washed at times. Over twenty feet of the starboard main rail went on one occasion.

The breaks in the bulwarks had the good effect of shedding the water freely, and this proved of great advantage in lightening the ship, which, up to that time was rolling with decks full. A great source of danger was encountered in the spare spars breaking loose from their deck fastenings by pulling the ring bolts out. The heavy timbers washed about alarmingly, tearing fresh holes in the bulwarks and threatening the lives of any luckless sailors who chanced to be in their path. Six of the crew had broken bones during the terrible trial, and not a soul on the ship escaped bruises, sprains, cuts and half drowning on deck.

How the captain escaped losing anybody overboard is more than Captain Leask can tell, but the hairbreadth escapes are numerous, and thrilling enough to fill a page. Most of the men are around all right now, but some of the six with broken arms, ribs, etc are suffering severely through their hurts being aggravated by exposure and salt water.

It was impossible to cook anything for days at a time and during one stretch of a week, starvation threatened as well as drowning.

The topmost back stay chain plates were carried away and the main topmast so badly sprung that it was not possible to put on canvas to any extent. The Florence was 37 days from 50 Degrees south in the Atlantic to 50 Degrees south in the Pacific and from thence to port she fortunately had pleasant weather.

The City of Florence is commanded by Captain William Leask of Leigh, Ireland and Stromness and among other members of the crew are Mr Robert Gillies, carpenter and Mr George Berston, Carpenters mate both belonging to Stromness.

In the Brassbounder, David Bone described the ships arrival in San Francisco after a less eventful trip. We were now approaching the farfamed Golden Gate, the talk of mariners on seven seas. The blue headland and the glistening shingle of Drakes Bay to the norrard and the high cliffs of Benita ahead: the land stretching away south, and the light of the westing sun on the distant hills. No wonder that when the Mate called us down from aloft to hand flags there was much of our work left unfinished. After we passed through the Narrows, we had a near view of the wooded slopes of Sausalito, with the white-painted houses nestling comfortably among the trees. A way to the right the undulating plains of the Presidio reached out to the purple haze of the distant city. The Pilot, seeng admiration in our eyes, couldn’t hold his pride, even to us boys, and exclaimed aloud on the greatness of the United States in possessing such a seaboard.

“Saay, boys”, he said. “Guess yew aint got nothin like this in thí old country!”

Young Munro, who was the nearest, didn’t let the Pilot away with that, and he mentioned a glint of Loch Fyne, when the sun was in the west’ard.

Towards the end of his book, David Bone gives one of the best descriptions of the relationship between a master and his ship. Trying to make landfall in Ireland in bad weather, the pilot makes a mistake and they realise they are being driven onto the Stags of Broadhaven, a fearsome group of rocks.

The pilot says they wíll have to run before the wind and trust him to find the safe passage but Captain Leask decides he would rather trust his ship to fight her way back against the wind.

W”íll keep thí sea, if she can weather thae rocks an if she canna!!” A mute gesture then, passionately , “Tí hell wií you aní yer b-y Stags: I back ma ship against a worthless pilot! All hands, there, Mister mainsíl an toígalní síl oan her! Up, ye hounds; up, if ye look fur dry berryin!”

All hands! No need for a call! Breakers ahead. The words that sent us racing to the yards, to out knife and whip at the gaskets that held our saving power in leash. Quickly done, the great mainsail blew out, thrashing furiously till steadied by tack and sheet. Then topgalíní sail, the spars buckling to overstrain; staysail, spanker never was canvas crowded on a ship at such a pace; a mighty fear at our hearts that only frenzied action could allay.

Shuddering she lay down to it, the lee rail entirely awash, the decks canted at a fearsome angle; then righted a swift, vicious lurch, and her head sweeping wildly to windward till checked by the heaving helmsman. The wind that we had thought moderate when running before it now held at half a gale. To that she might have stood weatherly , but the great western swell spawn of uncounted gales ñ was matched against her, rolling up to check the windward snatches and sending her reeling to leeward in a smother of foam and broken water. A gallant fight!

At the weather gangway stood Old Jock, legs apart and sturdy , talking to his ship. Stand, good spars, he would say, casting longing eyes aloft. Or , patting the taf frail with his great sailor hands, Up tae it, ye bitch! Up!! Up!!!î as, raising her head, streaming in cascade from a sail-pressed plunge, she turned to meet the next great wall of water that set against her . Shíll stand it, Mister, to the Mate at his side.

“Shíll stand it, aní the head gear holds. If she starts that!” He turned his palms out. “If she starts thí head gear, Mister!” “They’ll hold, Sir! O good gear”, answered the Mate, hugging himself at thought of the new lanyards, the stout European gammon lashings, he had rove off when the boom was rigged.

Now was the time when Sanny Armstrong ís spars would be put to the test. The relic of the ill- fatedGlenisla, now a shapely togallant mast, was bending like a whip! Good iron, he shouted as the backstays twanged a high note of utmost stress Staggering, taking the shock and onset of the relentless sea, but ever turning the haughty face of her anew to seek the wind, she struggled on, nearing the cruel rocks and their curtain of hurtling breakers.

“How does ët bear noo, McKellar? Is she makiní oaní t?” shouted the Old Man.

The Second Mate, at the binnacle, sighted across the wildly swinging compass card. “No sure, Sir Thí caird swinginí Ö think thereí s hauf a píint Hauf a píint, onyway!”

Grasping the binnacle to steady himself against the wild lurches of the staggering hull, the Old Man stared steadily aloft, unheeding the roar and crash of the breakers, now loud over all eyes only for the straining canvas and standing spars above him. Sheís drawiní ahead, Sir,î shouted McKellar , tense, excited. ìEast, bí nor í aní fast!î

The Old Man raised a warning hand to the steersman. Nae higher! Nae higher! Goad, man! Danna let ër gripe!

Dread suspense! Would she clear? A narrow lane of open water lay clear of the bow broadening as we sped on. Nae higher! Nae higher! Af f! Af f! Up hellum, up!î His voice a frantic scream, the Old Man turned to bear a frantic heave on the spokes.

Obedient to the helm and the Mateí s ready hand at the driver sheets, she flew off, free of the wind and sea tearing past the towering rocks, a cableís length to leeward. Shock upon shock, the great Atlantic sea broke and shattered and fell back from the scarred granite face of the outmost tag; a seething maelstrom of tortured waters, roaring, crashing, shrilling into the deep, jagged fissures ñ a shriek of Furies bereft. And, high above the tumult of the waters and the loud, glad cries of us, the hoarse, choking voice of the man who had backed his ship. Done it, ye bitch! a now trembling hand at his old grey head. Done it! Weathered by Goad!

The men of the Leask family usually arent very big, but they’re strong. My grand-uncle Albert, Williams nephew, had a party-trick of crushing a saucer in his hand, which must have gone down well with his wife.

The ships carpenter told a story that illustrated Captain Leasks strength.

He, his wife and the carpenter returned from church in Hamburg to find that the crew had mutinied.

Leask ran up the gangway and confronted the ringleader , a six-foot tall Scandinavian. One punch sent him up over the poop-rail to land on the deck with a broken leg.

Captain Leask was hit over the head with a marlin spike by a steward whom he’d caught stealing spirits. His health failed and he had to leave the sea. He had been regarded as a lucky captain and the company tried to persuade him to continue to sail on the City of Florence, although he could no longer command her. He, of course, refused. How could he sail as a passenger on the ship he used to command?

As he left the ship he is quoted as saying, Poor old Florence, it wont be long now.

Two voyages later, in 1900, she was wrecked in Half Moon Bay in California and just two years later her captain died of a brain tumour, on 8 February 1902.

He said in later life that he wouldnt send a dog to sea and his three sons stayedon dry land but they might have been better at sea.

Harold was a sniper who died at Hill 60 in WWI and William and Robert died in Africa.

3 Responses to Marie Celeste

  1. kieran devaney says:

    Would love to learn more about the Captain and his Irish origins. I am currently working on a piece on David Bone for RTE radio.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

1 × four =