This edited article about tea-clippers originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 705 published on 19 July 1975.

The Cutty Sark by John S Smith

Protesting creaks came from the Ariel’s three masts as the wind billowed the sails and whistled through the rigging of the tea clipper tied up at the jetty in China’s Foochow harbour in 1866.

In his cabin, the skipper looked up from his charts and turned to his mate. “Are we ready to sail?” he asked.

The mate nodded. “Cargo’s all stowed,” he said. “What do you reckon of the other clippers, sir?”

“They’re fine vessels,” mused the skipper. “But we’ll show ‘em a clean pair of heels, all the way to England.”

Opening the door of his cabin, the skipper stepped on to the deck to look at his competitors. There were four other sailing ships, either tied up at the jetty or anchored midstream. All were waiting for the right moment to set sail for England and each wanted to get there first.

These were tea clippers, fine vessels of the mid-nineteenth century with sleek lines for fast speed. If their freight space was small, this did not matter for the cargo they carried was worth a good deal in London. But it had to be got there quickly to fetch the best price and to keep its quality. Consequently, there was always keen competition among the clipper captains to be the first to arrive in London.

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This edited article about Captain Reeks of the Stella originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 702 published on 28 June 1975.

The sinking of the steamer, Stella, in 1899

A passenger staggered along the heaving deck of the steamer Stella as it bucked and rolled through the waves. He found the captain at the foot of the ladder leading to the bridge.

“The fog is getting much thicker and we don’t seem to be slackening speed, captain,” said the passenger. “Is that quite the safe thing to do?”

The captain frowned. “I think you can leave matters of safety to me, sir,” he replied heavily. “When I think it is right to reduce speed, I shall do so and not before.”

With that, the skipper, Captain Charles Reeks, continued on his way to the bridge. He bitterly resented criticism of his rivalry with the skipper of another steamer, the Ibex, which shuttled between Southampton and Guernsey, the second largest of the Channel Islands.

Each aimed to make the faster trip to Guernsey and so please the holidaymakers from London and the south-east.

For some time, however, the Ibex had been docking at St. Peter Port, the island’s capital first. Sometimes, she was only a few minutes ahead of the Stella. On other occasions, she was as much as twelve hours in the lead.

This rivalry reached its peak at the Easter holiday of 1899. The Ibex had left Southampton fifteen minutes ahead of its rival. Captain Reeks was determined that the Stella would catch up the other ship and pass it, whatever the cost.

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This edited article about magnetism originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 701 published on 21 June 1975.

Looking at the ship’s compass on the bridge with the captain

The Chinese knew about magnetism more than 4,000 years ago. They found that certain iron ores were magnetic and that bar-shaped pieces of the ore would point in a north-south direction when swung freely.

Arab mariners visiting their shores learned how to make magnets by stroking pieces of iron with lumps of a natural magnetic iron ore called “lodestone”. These magnets could be used in navigation, because when pivoted they too swung into a north-south direction.

The ancient Greeks thought up many theories to try to explain how magnets worked. One of these was that the surface of a magnet was covered with microscopically tiny hooks. The surface of a piece of iron which a magnet attracted was supposed to be covered with tiny rings!

The Greeks also invented the name “magnetism”. They took this name from the country of “Magnesia,” in Asia Minor, where the natural magnet called lodestone was found.

And the name “lodestone” itself originally came from “lead-stone” – because compasses made from magnetic materials could “lead” somebody in a given direction.

The first serious scientific study of magnets and how they worked was made by William Gilbert, physician to Queen Elizabeth the First.

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This edited article about underwater exploration originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 701 published on 21 June 1975.

Salvage divers by Andrew Howat

Wearing rubber suits and breathing apparatus, two men dived deep into the water off Grand Bahama in the warm West Indies. Propelling themselves by their flippers, they went farther and farther into the green depths to find themselves amid a myriad of strange plants and fishes.

The two explorers in this underwater world were John J. Gruener and R. Neal Watson of the U.S.A., who made a record descent of 437 feet (133 metres) on 14th October, 1968.

Men using chambers to withstand the pressure of the water have gone deeper than this. But they lack the mobility of skin divers like Gruener and Watson. By studying old wreck sites, sunken harbours and inundated cities, these specialised divers are helping historians and archaeologists to gain valuable knowledge about the past.

Divers are specially trained for this work, for clumsy, unskilled probing could ruin a valuable wreck site and destroy something of vital importance. This is because most ships do not remain intact underwater. The wood in them rots away and the metal parts become covered in weed and develop a solid, hardened “skin”.

Each descent brings a surprise, for who knows what the divers will find as they probe the mysteries of the ocean?

This edited article about Mississippi steamboats originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 700 published on 14 June 1975.

The Robert E. Lee and behind it, the Natchez, rival riverboats in the great Mississippi boat race

Everyone agreed that it was going to be the race of the century. After years of rivalry, the captains of the river steamers Robert E. Lee and Natchez were going to fight it out over the 1,218 miles of the Mississippi River that lay between New Orleans, Louisiana’s biggest city, and distant St. Louis.

It had all the makings of an epic contest, because both men and vessels were well matched. John W. Cannon was captain and owner of the Robert E. Lee, a steamer 285 feet (86 metres) long, 48 feet (14 metres) wide and with a draught of only nine feet (2.7 metres). The Lee was driven by paddle wheels 38 feet (11.5 metres) in diameter and powered by steam generated in eight boilers.

Rivalling it was the 303 feet (92 metres) long Natchez, with paddle wheels almost 43 feet (13 metres) across, commanded by Captain Thomas P. Leathers.

The date was 30th June, 1870, and it was soon to be decided which of these two vessels would reach St. Louis first in a straight race.

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This edited article about transportation to Australia originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 699 published on 7 June 1975.

Emigrants and criminals alike grow excited at their first sighting of Australia by Barrie Linklater

In the early months of 1787, an atmosphere of terror and trepidation prevailed in Portsmouth. The windows of shops were shuttered, the doors of houses heavily barred. People hurried through the streets fearful of every shadow, suspicious of every footfall.

The focus of this fear was a fleet of eight dilapidated transport ships moored in the harbour. On board were 729 men, women and children, all of them convicted of such terrible crimes, all of them considered so criminal that they were to be transported to the other side of the world, to Botany Bay on the east coast of Australia.

At that time, transportation was second in terms of severity only to a sentence of death. However, in their own fearful thoughts, the pickpockets, gamblers, blackmailers, thieves and other criminals who waited in Portsmouth in 1787 faced prospects that made death seem kind. They were so terrified of their future in Australia, 15,000 miles from home, that they sat dull-eyed and stupefied, wept for hours on end or gave themselves up to fits of screaming hysteria.

The source of this abject terror was plain, straightforward ignorance. To the convicts, Australia was as remote as the stars and as completely unknown, a place full of unimaginable dangers and frightful horrors.

This was not the picture of Australia which prevailed among government officials who had chosen Botany Bay as a transportation site. Their much rosier, much more hopeful view was based on the enthusiastic accounts of Sir Joseph Banks, the eminent naturalist, who had sailed to Australia with Captain James Cook seventeen years before.

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This edited article about sailing barge races originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 699 published on 7 June 1975.

A sailing barge

As his tall-masted sailing barge, the Phoenician, skimmed over the water of the Thames, Captain Alfred Horlock knew that he had another winner. He saw the wind billowing the russet sails of his vessel, smelt the salt in the breeze from the estuary, and felt the waves beneath his feet as the ship rode them like a dream.

Behind him were the other competitors in this race, their blunt bows cleaving through the river.

Captain Horlock felt triumphant. He was a skipper who knew how to use the wind and the tide to beat all his rivals in the most graceful races of all time – the sailing barge races on the Thames and Medway, first held in 1863.

Captain Horlock was one of the most successful skippers to compete in these. He won his first race in 1905, and in the years that followed built up a tally of 19 wins out of the 21 races he entered.

He was one of the four generations of Horlocks who had won the barge races, beginning with his grandfather in 1868. The vessels they used were known as spritsail barges, which are among the most remarkable sailing vessels in the world. At one time they were a familiar sight in the Thames estuary and along the east coast of England, carrying their cargoes from one coastal port to another, or up the Thames to London docks.

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This edited article about the Orkney Isles originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 697 published on 24 May 1975.

Viking raiders left Norway for the Orkney Isles

In a large room, deeply carpeted, two men in naval uniform stood in front of a wall-chart of the North Sea. The older man, a stick in his hand, traced a line slowly from the German naval base at Kiel across to a group of islands off the north coast of Scotland – the Orkney Isles.

The year was 1939, With Lieutenant Prien, commander of U-boat U47, Admiral Doenitz, Flag Officer (Submarines) of the German Navy, was planning the impossible – an attack on Scapa Flow, the largest expanse of water at the southern end of the Orkneys.

Scapa Flow is almost surrounded by small islands, and for two world wars ships of the British Home Fleet were based there.

The reasons for choosing Scapa as a naval base were these: firstly, the route from the Atlantic to Germany must pass either through the English Channel, or between North Scotland and Norway. Battleships at Scapa Flow could easily sail to intercept any enemy ships using this last passage.

Secondly, tides and currents swirl dangerously through the channels which separate the little islands around the Flow, making those channels extremely dangerous for shipping, so providing a natural defence from attack from the sea.

Thus thought the Admiralty. Admiral Doenitz, however, thought otherwise.

“You will note, Lieutenant,” he rasped, “that on the east side of the Flow, between the Orkney mainland and the island of Burray, there are two channels through which you might pass. They are partly blocked by sunken ships; you will sail between them. That is all. Heil Hitler!”

On October 8, 1939, Lieutenant Prien’s submarine slipped quietly out of Kiel and into the North Sea. Five days later, as dawn broke, Prien could see a faint blue streak on the horizon. It was Orkney.

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This edited article about Lieutenant Edward Riou originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 694 published on 3 May 1975.

The monument to Captain Riou in St Paul’s Cathedral

In the winter of 1789, the 897-ton sloop Guardian left England on her maiden voyage to Australia. She was bound for Botany Bay with a cargo of cattle, food and supplies for the British colonists in New South Wales. Apart from a crew of ninety-four, she also had on board twenty-five convicts who had been sentenced to transportation, and three warders.

By the afternoon of 23rd December, the Guardian, which was commanded by Lieutenant Edward Riou, had reached the middle of one of the most dreaded stretches of water in the world. The region which sailors call the “Roaring Forties”, lies some 1,200 miles south-east of the Cape of Good Hope, and to avoid it ships have been known to travel by the notorious Cape Horn route.

Lieutenant Riou, however, had neither the time nor the inclination to make such a long detour. He had great confidence in his little ship – the Guardian was only 140 feet (nearly 43 metres) long. But on that particular, foggy afternoon, another hazard presented itself; a huge iceberg was seen off the port bow.

At first the ‘berg did not cause any consternation. In fact the crew were glad to see it, because their drinking water had run low. Now they could collect some chunks of the fresh-water ice and melt them down.

So the sloop shortened sail and her boats set out towards the ‘berg. An hour later, they returned with a plentiful quantity of ice and the Guardian resumed her cautious progress.

She had resumed her original course and was well clear of the iceberg when the lookout spotted more ice ahead. He shouted a warning, but it was too late for the sloop to alter course again.

For a while, as the tall white cliffs slipped past, it seemed that the Guardian would sail clear. Her side scraped against the ice, but there seemed no danger of a direct collision.

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This edited article about Raffles and Singapore originally appeared in Look and Learn issue number 694 published on 3 May 1975.

Raffles loaded specimens of plant-life, maps and all his valued  possessions on to the ‘Fame’ when he left Singapore, by C L Doughty

The diamond-shaped island which an 11th century Indonesian prince named “Sanskrit Singapura” – “Lion City” – was hardly an attractive sight when the British merchantman “Indiana” anchored off a sandy beach there at 4 p.m. on January 28, 1819. From the “Indiana’s” deck, Stamford Raffles could see only its smothering of thick jungle. From beyond the tangled vegetation, the stink of swamps was strong enough to reach Raffles’ nostrils and now and then, the roaring of the tigers that infested the jungle echoed in his ears.

Appearances were not deceptive. Singapore in 1819 was indeed a stagnant backwater. Only the ruins of a walled city built there by a 14th century Malay prince showed that civilisation had ever given it a glance. Since then, nothing had been built on the island, apart from a cluster or two of crude, bamboo huts dotted along the shore and in the odd jungle clearing.

Yet, despite all this, Stamford Raffles went ashore on the morning of January 29 in a state of high enthusiasm and not a little excitement. He made straight for the house of the Temenggong, the island’s ruler, and after customary greetings, came quickly to the point. He had come on behalf of the British East India Company to found a settlement, Raffles told the Temenggong. Would the Temenggong agree?

Though a little startled by the Englishman’s urgency and directness, the Temenggong did so. Shortly afterwards, Raffles took his leave, raced back to “Indiana” and immediately ordered a company of sepoys ashore. Within a few hours, the sepoys had erected a group of tents and a house made of matting for Raffles, and Raffles had selected and furnished with twelve guns a site for building a fort.

By the time the sun went down, the British were firmly in residence on Singapore, and Stamford Raffles could spend his first, uncomfortable night there in the pleasant knowledge that he had snatched a great prize into the orbit of the fast-growing British trade empire and out of the grasp of its rivals.

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