1/3/02

Women and Children First

Trevor Grove

The Daily Mail

THE sinking of the Titanic, immortalised in the film starring Kate Winslet, is probably the most famous disaster at sea. But 60 years earlier - 150 years ago today - HMS Birkenhead sank off the coast of South Africa with a similarly horrific loss of life. Yet, in contrast to the scenes of chaos on the deck of the Titanic, the discipline and self-sacrifice of the 436 men who went down with HMS Birkenhead became legendary and set the standard for conduct in a shipwreck, giving rise to the rule `women and children first'. Here, we tell the story of the ship whose name has become a byword for bravery.

IN FEBRUARY 25, 1852, Her Majesty's troopship Birkenhead steamed out of Simon's Bay near Cape Town and set on course for catastrophe. Her intended destination was Port Elizabeth, just two days' voyage along the coast. It was an easy enough passage for a seaman as experienced as Captain Robert Salmond RN.

His family's naval connections dated back to the time of Queen Elizabeth. Even the difficult waters off the ominously named Danger Point, which lay across the Birkenhead's path, caused him no anxiety.

It was a calm clear evening. The ship was sturdy, iron-built and modern. None of the 643 souls on board could possibly have anticipated that, as her paddles thumped through the sea and her rakish prow sliced south-southeast into the twilight, she was heading for one of the most extraordinary and moving dramas in maritime history.

What was about to occur was a grim human tragedy But it was also a triumph of courage, a display of nerve and gallantry which for a century would become the epitome of a certain kind of British bravery and which, when one reads about it now, seems even more breathtaking than it must have done to the Victorians.

In 1912 came the sinking of the Titanic. Amidst the horrific loss of life, the behaviour of those male passengers who found their way into the lifeboats was judged (and in many cases condemned) by a strict standard: it was the standard set 60 years earlier by the men of the Birkenhead, who not only originated the cry `women and children first', but who died in seeing it fulfilled.

THE Birkenhead, 2IOft long, tonnage 1400, was not an obvious candidate for shipwreck. Apart from her wooden decks, she was built of stout iron plates. She was fully rigged for sail, though her usual propulsion came from two giant paddle wheels amidships, driven by 560 horsepower worth of coal-fired steam engines She was built on Merseyside by John Laird, of the famous shipbuilding family, and launched in 1845.

He had designed the Birkenhead as a powerfully armed frigate. But because the Admiralty was in a dither about the merits of steam versus sail and wood versus iron for its warships, she was consigned to troop carrying. This was why in early 1852, she found herself sailing for the Cape loaded with officers, soldiers, horses and stores.

They were intended to reinforce the British garrisons fighting for territory against the Xhosa tribesmen in the Kaffir Wars. Some men brought their families which accounted for the 25 women and 29 children aboard.

As David Bevan recounts in Stand Fast, his book about the disaster, most of the ordinary soldiers had been in uniform only a few weeks.

Many were young Irishmen, desperate to escape the destitution-of the 1840s potato blight. They were barely trained and had had little time to become imbued with regimental loyalties.

Nevertheless, there had been line into the sea at intervals enough musters and drills on the outward voyage to inculcate a sense of discipline. This was largely thanks to the senior officer on board Lieutenant Colonel Alexandra Seton a tall, 38-year old Scotsman, whose strict authority had helped overcome the boundaries between the ten regiments on board.

By midnight on February 25, the soldiers were down below in their hammocks. Captain Salmond had retired for the night, having reassured himself all was well. On deck besides the officer and sailors of the watch, were two lookouts in the bows.

As the ship was only three miles offshore, there was also a leadsman, casting his weighted line into the sea at intervals and singing out the depth as the Birkenhead nosed at a steady 8.5 knots into the waters off Danger Point.

At 2am on February 26 the cry of `four bells, Sir' came to signal the half-way point in the middle watch of the night. `Strike them,' replied the officer routinely.

But disaster struck first. Instead of the reassuring clang of the bell, a dreadful crash shattered the silence of the night. The Birkenhead suddenly ground to a violent shuddering halt. She had hit a submerged rock that was not marked on the charts.

A few feet to port or starboard and she would have missed it. As it was, the hidden reef had ripped her open from the forepeak to just before the engine room - and already the sea was pouring in.

Within minutes the soldiers sleeping in the forward compartment of the lower troopdeck were dying drowning in their hammocks as they struggled to get out. The few who made it onto the upper decks emerged terrified, half naked and bare-footed.

They encountered Captain Salmond in his dressing gown, calmly issuing orders for the ship to be inspected for damage, the women and children to be brought up and the ship's boats to be slung out.

And there was Lt Col Seton, coolly gathering his officers around him `Gentlemen would you please be kind enough to preserve order and silence amongst the men and ensure that any orders given by Captain Salmond are instantly obeyed?' he said.

It was a classic Victorian tableau: the vessel doomed, the women distraught, the children weeping, but the men upright, resolute and calm. Salmond ordered the eight ship's boats to be lowered, even though he knew they could carry only a tiny fraction of the people on board.

The only real hope, he decided, was to ease the Birkenhead off the reef and trust that there was enough buoyancy in the undamaged parts of the ship to keep her afloat until rescue came.

It proved a fatal decision. As the paddles turned, the hull was struck again, this time below the engine room. A great gash was torn in the ship's belly

The sea roared into the engine room. It dowsed the furnaces, sending clouds of steam up from the red-hot coals. It drowned most of the engineers and stokers; only a few escaped. The engine room was the second largest compartment in the ship. With it flooded, the captain knew there was no chance of saving her

He ordered the horses to be put over the side in the hope they might find their way to shore.

They were blindfolded to hide their fate from them. But quickly the whinnies turned to screams as sharks homed in on them. Many passengers feared they were seeing a preview of their own deaths.

The soldiers and crew trying to free the boats were finding it an almost impossible task. The tackle was rotten; metal fastenings were rusted solid. Eventually, just three were put into the water two eight-oared cutters and a small gig.

With difficulty, the women and children were transferred to one of the cutters. Amidst the wails and tears, Lt Col Seton stood by the gangway with his sword drawn in case any men other than the cutter's crew made a dash for it. No one did.

CAPTAIN Salmond ordered a young officer, Rowland Richards, to take charge of the cutter. Soon the small craft had pulled away, its passengers gazing back with horror at the tragedy unfolding.

It was about 15 minutes since the Birkenhead had first been holed. The swell was remorseless, grinding the rocks into the ship's hull like a knife into her heart. Suddenly there was a thunderous crack and the bow of the stricken vessel broke away.

Her deck tilted, her stern rose high in the sir and her tall funnel came crashing down, instantly killing most of the men working to free another of the boats. The ship was sinking by the head, but Seton stood on the slanting deck, oblivious to the turbulence around him.

He ordered those men who weren't injured or manning the pumps to muster on the poop deck. Some 200 immediately fell into ranks, regiment by regiment. This was the moment when Captain Salmond gave the order to abandon ship.

Climbing a few feet up into the rigging, he shouted: `Save yourselves. All those who can swim, jump overboard and make for the boats. That is your only hope of salvation.'

It seemed to be a reasonable command. But Seton did not agree. He knew that any rush to reach the boats could be deadly for those aboard them.

Raising his hands above his head, his voice cracking with emotion, he pleaded with his men to remain where they were.

`You will swamp the cutter containing the women and children,' he explained. `I implore you not to do this thing and I ask you all to stand fast.'

His officers took up the cry, urging the men to remain where they were for the sake of the women and children. And that was exactly what they did. Only two or three men moved. The rest, as the deck tilted and the water rose, stood fast.

A few minutes later, the Birkenhead broke her back. Those in the bowels of the ship manning the pumps perished almost before they knew what was happening. The men on deck knew all too well, yet still they did not budge.

Some said goodbye to one another or shook hands. One man shouted out: `God bless you all.' Knowing they were doomed, they stood fast until the water had closed above their heads.

One of the few officers to survive, Captain Wright of the 9lst, wrote afterwards: `Every man did as he was directed and there was not a cry or a murmur among them until the vessel made her final plunge.

`All received their orders and had them carried out as if the men were embarking instead of going to the bottom of the sea; there was only one difference, that I never saw any embarkation conducted with so little noise or confusion.'

What made the heroism of these men all the more remarkable was that so many of them were mere youths, barely aware of the requirements of military discipline. Yet they stood to attention as unflinchingly as any officer or NCO, and died with the same grace.

Twenty minutes after first striking the rock, all that remained of the Birkenhead was the top of her mainmast protruding above the surface, to which 40 oil-smeared survivors clung in desperation.

In the sea around them men met various fates. Most drowned or were dragged under by sharks. Lt Col Seton died. Captain Salmond was killed by the falling mizzenmast. A young ensign, who gave up his place in an overcrowded boat so a drowning man could be rescued, was no sooner in the water than he was killed by a shark.

Those more fortunate found pieces of floating wreckage and managed to propel themselves to shore - where one young officer was astonished to see his horse waiting for him on the beach.

In all, 436 men died that night. There were 207 survivors, among them every one of the women and children for whose sake so many had been prepared to lose their lives.

When the news reached Britain in early April, the nation was stunned by the magnificence of what those men had done.

The phrase `Birkenhead drill' entered the language as the epitome of calm and disciplined behaviour in the face of danger

Almost half a century later, when Kipling used it in a poem dedicated to the Royal Marines called Soldier An' Sailor Too, he certainly had no need to tell readers what it meant.

`Their work was done when it 'adn't begun; they was younger nor me an' you;

`Their choice it was plain between drownin' in 'eaps an' bein' mopped by the screw.

`So they stood an' was still to the Birken'ead drill, soldier an' sailor too!'

· STAND FAST b~ David Bevan (Traditional Publishing.)