Antoine Vanner writes naval adventures set in the late 19th century as sail was giving way to steam. I was thinking of him last week as I visited (again) HMS Warrior, the first British iron-clad steel hulled ship which carried a full set of sail and a powerful engine.
HMS Warrior
Given his interest, it’s not surprising that the fifth book in his ‘Dawlish Chronicles’ series (named for the hero, Nicholas Dawlish) features an early submarine. Britannia’s Shark, set in 1881, is a largely fictional account of the adventures of ‘the Fenian Ram’, a submarine designed by the Irishman, John Holland. In Vanner’s story the ram ends up destroyed but the real Fenian Ram still exists and is on display at the Paterson Museum in New Jersey.
Vanner’s interest in naval technology means that there is a lot of technical detail in the book, fascinating enough to encourage me to visit the Submarine Museum in Gosport to have a look at the Royal Navy’s oldest submarine, the Holland I (named for the same John Holland).
Holland I
There are a couple of tiny details I’m not absolutely sure of but you certainly get a good basic understanding of how the thing worked and of how terrifying it must have been to sail in. Technical details alone, though, will not fill a novel and Vanner throws in a story that resembles a James Bond film in skipping from location to location with increasingly dramatic (and increasingly bloody) set pieces in each. Whether he is being hi-jacked by pirates off the coast of Greece, fighting Irish nationalists in New York or battling alongside rebel forces in Cuba, Dawlish combines the pluck of a traditional 19th century hero with a willingness to get down and dirty that would not disgrace Bond himself. The result is a book that is high on adventure and excitement if occasionally pushing the limits of credibility. Despite this, Vanner incorporates a lot of real history into his story. As is so often the case, the historically accurate details are often the most incredible. For example Holland – yes, the man the Royal Navy named its first submarine after – was a passionate believer in an Irish Free State and no friend of the British.
The account of the slave revolts in Cuba (the Spanish kept slaves there until 1886) is astonishing to a modern reader and a useful reminder that Britain rejected slavery relatively early.
In summary, this is a great story of historical adventure with a lot of technical and political detail wrapped inside the candy coating of daring deeds and thrilling escapades.
I’m away this week taking a bit of a holiday. I did say that I was going to repost old posts on here when I wanted a break and I nearly did that this week but then I thought that I could instead share a rambling stream of consciousness about what I’m doing with my life.
First up, I’m working on the next James Burke book: Burke and the Lines of Torres Vedras. It’s still very much at an early stage — the point where I’ve written the beginning and I have a reasonable idea of the end and one or two key bits in the middle but I still have to stitch them together into something approaching a whole story. I’m looking forward to it, though, because it will remind me of those wonderful days before covid when we just took off to Portugal to see the Lines for ourselves. It was a great experience and I do recommend them to anybody with any interest in the Napoleonic wars or just people who would like a good walk in lovely scenery.
This being after covid, our break is confined to England. Yesterday we were at Avebury stone circle, which is probably my favourite Neolithic site — massively more impressive than Stonehenge. Of course we arrived there just as summer ended and we walked around it on a grey afternoon in the rain. I did make a quick video which I put up on TikTok. You can watch the first bit HERE. The video doesn’t do the place justice. If you get the chance you really should go to see it.
Tomorrow we are planning a day in the Royal Historic Dockyards at Portsmouth. Those of you who were reading my blog last week might think I should have had enough of tall ships to last me for a while, but I love the Royal Historic Dockyards and we are all looking forward to revisiting some old favourites and perhaps exploring something new. I suspect you may be getting photographs of it on here before too long.
In other writing news, I was absolutely thrilled with this review of Eat the Poor: EAT THE POOR (GALBRAITH & POLE BOOK 2). It’s lovely when somebody not only enjoys one of your books but picks up on all the detail that most people might miss.
What else? There’s going to be a FREE promotion of Tales of Empire later is September, so watch out for that (though if you don’t want to wait it’s only 99p on Kindle). Also later in September, Antoine Vanner will be hosting me writing about spies in Napoleonic times and comparing them with spies today on his excellent blog, the Dawlish Chronicles. Otherwise it’s the usual blogging and tweeting and researching. But not for the next couple of days.
When we went to Gothenburg earlier this year, we passed an 18th century ship moored up at one of the wharfs (as you do).
It wasn’t an actual 18th century ship but an reconstruction of a vessel that had sunk just outside Gothenburg in 1745. The wreck was excavated from 1986 to 1992 and the details discovered made it possible to build an exact replica (albeit one equipped with an auxiliary engine and the latest navigational aids). The ship, we learned, was open to the public, but only at weekends and we weren’t going to be staying long enough to see it. So when we learned that it was turning up in London on a stop on its voyage to Asia, we went along to have a look. (Why Asia? The original ship was owned by the Swedish East Indies Company and traded between Sweden and China.)
The vessel was parked up (OK, moored) in Canary Wharf, its 18th century lines a start contrast with the buildings around it.
Although new technology has been fitted to make the ship safe (much of it a legal requirement these days) the vessel still relies for the essentials on 18th century engineering. So steering is through a steering wheel connected to the rudder by rope. There is no hydraulics or mechanical assistance and in heavy weather several crew members will be holding the wheel to keep the boat on course. I was interested to see that, unlike in every film I’ve ever watched, the steering wheel was not on the poop deck but down below and the helmsman had no actual sight of the direction the ship was headed, relying entirely on a compass. Interestingly, a replica compass is alongside the wheel and above it there is a modern electronic indication of the ships bearing. There wasn’t a lot of difference between the two but, given that a lot of the navigation was by dead reckoning the couple of points that the magnetic compass was off must have meant that the ship was often not exactly where it thought it was. No wonder that shipwrecks were so common.
The ship was armed with an assortment of cannon. You can visit the gun deck with its reproduction weapons. All of those on board these days are six-pounders. They are regularly used for saluting as the ship enters port, although they are triggered electrically rather than by lighting the powder with a flame. We were assured that the Canon would always have been principally used for signalling rather than defence . Having written (in The White Rajah) about piracy in the South China seas , I must admit I thought this was a rather sanitised view of the historical reality. Perhaps Gothenburg just got lucky – or perhaps pirates took one look at the gun ports and decided to attack someone else.
The crew used to eat on the gun deck, and they still do. You can see the tables and benches either side of the guns. When the guns are being used the benches and tables swing up and are secured against the hull out of the way.
We couldn’t see the crew’s cabins (below the gun deck, where the cargo used to be carried). I suspect these are not accurate replicas of the way that the crew used to live back in the 18th century. There was the odd hammock on the gun deck, which is where the crew would have slept originally.
You can admire the navigation and listen to the stories about how the crew would have shared their accommodation with a cow but I imagine that for most people the most impressive thing about a ship like this is the rigging. When we were there we watched people having their first experience of going aloft. (The Gothenburg takes on new crew at every port.) There’s no modern technology to help with hoisting and lowering sail, although there are safety lines and the crew wear a harness. Even with a harness, you’re not going to get me up there in a hurry (or ever). It was impressive, though, to watch people start up visibly nervous and by the time they were making their way along the spar, most of them looked surprisingly relaxed.
Fascinating as our glimpse of life on board was, the most striking thing about the ship, to a 21st century eye, is just how beautiful she is.
The White Rajah
My book about a British merchant adventurer’s travels to the East Indies is set around a hundred year’s after the working life of the Gothenburg but the vessels then would have been very similar. There were pirates preying on the ships and James Brooke (my real-life hero) was involved in efforts to reduce the danger they posed to shipping. His six-pounder cannon proved useful on land too, as he got caught up in local politics and found himself taking sides in civil war. This (mostly) true story is a must-read for anyone interested in the reality of the early days of trade with the East Indies. It’s available on Kindle, in paperback and even in hardback.
August 1 was the anniversary of the Battle of the Nile in 1798. I blogged about this two years ago so rather than blog about it again, I’m linking to the old post. It’s here: The Battle of the Nile
I’ve being blogging here for almost five years and on an earlier ‘Blogger’ site for seven years before that and that’s an awful lot of old posts that, although there is a ‘Search’ function on the site, don’t get looked at that often, so I’m going to recycle more than I have in the past.
Partly this is because I think some of those posts are rather good and I’d like them to get a bigger audience but some of it is simply to spend less time blogging.
Every year I probably write more than 50,000 words on my blog on that’s a considerable chunk of a book. In fact it’s longer than some of my Urban Fantasies. The sad fact is that if I spent less time blogging, I would spend more time writing. I’m working on the next James Burke book now and there are some other projects I would like to spend time on and something has to give and that’s something is going to be fresh blogs every week. I’ve threatened to do this before: in fact I wrote a blog post saying this in October 2020. This time, though, I need to at least make a more serious effort. Those books I’m planning won’t write themselves.
That said, if people have particular things they would like to read about, do let me know and I’ll try to oblige.
There will still be a post (almost) every Friday (I’m allowed the odd holiday): it’s just that more of them will be recycled.
Now back to James Burke and men’s fashions in Portugal in 1810.
I thought that we might take a break from 19th century history this week and look at something from around a hundred years ago.
My wife, Tammy Goriely, has been doing some work on the regulation of self-driving cars and this has inspired her to look at how driving was regulated in the past.
The growth of motoring in Britain
The first motor car to appear on British roads was a Panhard et Levassor which the Hon. Evelyn Ellis imported into Britain in June 1895. He obviously started a fashion: by the end of the year there were 14 or 15 cars on the roads – a figure which had increased dramatically by 1900 to over 700.
The first motor cars were restricted to a walking pace by the notorious Red Flag Act (the Locomotive Act of 1865) which required a person carrying a red flag to walk in front of any self-propelled vehicles. (The law was designed to cover steam powered vehicles like fairground tractors.) ln 1896, this was replaced by a speed limit of 14 miles an hour, raised to 20 miles an hour in 1903.
By the end of the 1920s there were almost a million cars (and around a million trucks and motorcycles) in Britain. Inevitably, the number of people killed on the road became a cause for concern.
Increasing road deaths
There had always been road deaths, of course. In 1909, 1,070 people had been killed on the roads, with over half of collisions involving horse drawn vehicles. That is a very similar proportionately to the level of road deaths in 2019 (around 27 per million population).
However, increases in the number of motor vehicles on the roads led to an escalation in deaths. In 1928, almost 6,000 people died on the roads – of which over 5,000 involved collisions with motor cars. Road deaths had reached the astonishing rate of 134 per million people.
The Royal Commission on Transport
Against this background of rapidly increasing road deaths, a Royal Commission on Transport was set up, reporting in 1929.
Sir Arthur Griffith Boscawen, former Conservative politician and Chairman of the Royal Commission
When looking at historical change, there is a natural tendency to think in terms of dramatic turning points: the change from the Tudors to the Stuarts; the assassination of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand. So the Royal Commission on Transport is seen as a pivotal moment in our response to the motor car. It was no such thing. It was a flawed document reflecting the situation at the time and some (often hilariously mistaken) notions of how road transport would develop. Some of its recommendations stuck, such as compulsory insurance and a Highway Code. Others were later reversed (such as its rejection of speed limits and driving tests).
Speed limits
The big problem in 1929 was that the 20 miles an hour speed limit set in the Motor Car Act 1903 was widely disregarded. Nor did people abide by the 10 or 12 miles an hour limits imposed in many towns and villages.
Enforcing speed limits placed a considerable burden on the police. It had also led to clashes between the police and upper-class motorists. As the Police Journal put it in 1928: “with the general advent of the motor car, the police have been put in the position of disciplining the general public, to an extent almost unprecedented.”
Motoring organisations called for an end to speed limits. In 1927, 92% of the 100,000 AA members who replied to a questionnaire favoured abolition. Motoring organisations argued that the real problem was not speed or the technical inadequacies of steering and brakes but “road hogs”. This Toad of Toad Hall character crops up in all discussions of early motoring as the villain of the piece.
The Commission accepted the motoring organisations’ arguments. They recommended removing all speed limits. Speed limits were to be replaced by greater penalties for dangerous driving by the small minority of motorists who caused problems.
Many in London disagreed. The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police advocated a 35 mile an hour limit in London. Metropolitan Magistrates commented:
The suggestion, in plain language, amounts to this: that individuals for their personal benefit should be allowed to drive through the streets of the Metropolis at a speed often exceeding the rate of an express train.
The 1930 Road Traffic Act abolished the 20 miles an hour speed limit. However, local authorities could apply to the Minister of Transport for a speed limit on a particularly dangerous stretch of road.
Following the 1930 Act, fatalities continued to climb, reaching a peak of 7,155 in 1934. The Government rowed back. The Road Traffic Act 1934 imposed a 30 mile an hour limit for built up areas.
Highway Code
The Commission noted the antagonism between drivers and members of the public. To introduce a new spirit of co-operation between road users, the Commission recommended a new “Code of Customs”, to be drawn up the Ministry.
We are confident that everybody on the road will play the game, but the rules of the game must be settled first.
The Commission attached “very great importance” to such a code and suggested that every licence holder should be given a free copy. Thus Toad was to be sent firmly back to Toad Hall!
Driving licences and tests
In 1929, you could obtain a driving licence by paying 5 shillings and showing identification. The only requirement was to be over 17 (or 14 for motorcycles). As the Commission commented: “there is nothing to prevent a totally blind man obtaining a licence if he applies for one.” Action was clearly needed so the Commission recommended that applicants should make a declaration that they were not suffering from a disease or disability. That should sort it!
Many countries had introduced compulsory driving tests, but the AA and RAC were opposed, commenting that tests were of “very doubtful practical utility and the source of considerable expense”. Rather the chief requisite was road sense, “which can only be acquired on the road itself”. The Commission agreed: “with regards to knowledge and experience, no test could be effective.”
Again, when faced with further escalations in road deaths, the Ministry of Transport reversed the policy. Driving tests for new drivers were introduced by the Road Traffic Act 1934, with the first compulsory tests taking place in June 1935.
Compulsory insurance
The Royal Commission most important idea was to recommend compulsory insurance against personal injury to third parties. During oral evidence, the Chairman pressed representatives for the Ministry of Transport on the issue, noting that motor car ownership was changing. As he put it, “People of little means buy cars, possibly on the hire purchase system, and they may do an enormous amount of damage.” The price of cars was falling rapidly, with new mass-produced models such as the Austin Seven and Morris Minor. Moreover, there was now a thriving market in second-hand cars. Motoring was (to his horror) within the reach of the middle-classes.
A 1928 Morris Minor (possibly bought by ‘people of modest means’ who didn’t deserve cars)
The Chairman cited the case of a boy crippled for life who was awarded substantial damages but the driver “could not find a penny”. Civil servants were sent to enquire how compulsory motor insurance worked in other jurisdictions, including Massachusetts, Denmark and New Zealand. The Commission was particularly impressed by the New Zealand Act and suggested something similar.
Other ideas
There were many other ideas to improve traffic. Some had long-term effects. For example, the Commission called for standardising road signs, to replace signs erected by private individuals. They also increased the age for a motorcycle licence from 14 to 16.
Other ideas, however, were rejected out of hand. One was for speed “humps”, to “alter the level of the roads in dangerous places to compel motorists to slow down”. The Commission thought the idea risible. It was “universally condemned”. Uneven road surfaces were bad enough, so why would anyone deliberately make the surface worse?
Technology to the rescue
The most exciting part of the Commission’s work were visits to busy crossings in Manchester and Wolverhampton to see the new “automatic signal lights”. Red lights turned to green, with “the changeover worked automatically by an electrical contrivance”. Similar devices were soon to be erected in London, at Baker Street and Albert Gate. The Commission noted that they would save considerable police resources.
Then, as now, automation and new technology were seen as the answer to dangerous roads. As Tammy wrestles with the regulation of self-driving cars, she can’t help but wonder if history is repeating itself or if the Law Commissions’ Automated Vehicles: Joint Report (January 2022) will be viewed as a significant improvement on the 1929 Royal Commission.
Acknowledgement
This is a cruelly edited (by me) version of a draft paper I am trying to persuade Tammy to publish somewhere where it will be properly appreciated. The photograph of a 1928 Morris Minor is by Malcolm Asquith and used with permission.
