The Mutiny on the Redcar

Unlike the dramatic events which took place over two hundred years ago on
HMS Bounty, the mutiny on the Redcar is unlikely to feature in the annals of
maritime history. Now largely forgotten, it was an odd affair which took
place in a period which some might describe as the golden age of seafaring.
A time of optimism in the late 50’s and early 60’s when seamen’s wages
and conditions had improved considerably, ships had more style and spent
longer in port, and containerisation meant little more than lashing a few 40
gallon drums on deck. At the trial of the mutineers, however, the prosecution
sought to establish a parallel between the events on the Redcar and those on
the Bounty. Certainly, the mutineers got more than they bargained for, but
any links were quite tenuous. Unlike Fletcher Christian and his associates,
they had not been subjected to the harsh discipline of a sailing ship, nor had
they been lured by the attractions of a South Seas paradise. Not a single
bread fruit plant was thrown, just a birthday party which got out of hand.

In December 1961, I signed on the Redcar in Middlesborough as third mate.

The Redcar was a bulk iron ore carrier owned by the Bolton Steam Shipping
Company of London. The ore carriers were named after towns in North
Yorkshire and sailed in ballast from various European ports to return with ore
from Canada, Algeria, Tunisia, or Norway. On this voyage, the Redcar was
bound for Vitoria in Brazil; I looked forward to enjoying the sun and to my
first job as a qualified deck officer.

Having joined shortly before sailing, I had little opportunity to get to know
the other officers and crew, but she seemed a well-organised ship with no
signs of tension or discontent. Watches were set, and the Redcar settled into
a steady seagoing routine as we headed down the Channel and into the Bay
of Biscay. Here, we met some heavy weather, but it had subsided by the time

1
we reached Madeira. At midnight on 14th December, the Redcar was off the
coast of West Africa when I was relieved on watch by the second mate.

There was more traffic around than usual and the lookout was urged to keep
an eye open for any small fishing boats which might be in the vicinity. I went
below and turned in. I was awoken in the early hours of the morning by a
young apprentice with an order from the bridge telling me to get up and haul
in the log line. Now this was a job that I would have performed cheerfully
enough as an apprentice, but it now seemed beneath my newly acquired status
as an officer. But I had to make my mark and complaining wouldn’t help, so I
dressed and made my way aft. Dawn was breaking over Africa, the engines
had stopped, and the ship rolled lazily in the Atlantic swell. There was an
eerie silence about the ship, and, despite what appeared to be an engine
breakdown, no sounds of activity rose up through the engine room skylights.

The log line and its metal rotator were used to record the daily distance
travelled by the ship. It should have been hauled inboard before the ship lost
way, but it hung down from the stern in a tangle of turns and kinks. I had to
retrieve it to save its rotator from being ripped away by the propeller, and had
just started this task when two seamen appeared at my side and offered to
help. I recognised them as members of the 12 to 4 watch who had signed on
with me in Middlesborough. Although they had been drinking, they seemed
quite amiable and, with a thumb’s up sign, the older sailor told me that I was
OK. Though puzzled, I accepted the compliment graciously. He then
suggested that the kinks in the tangled line could be cleared by reversing it
and paying it out into the ship’s wake. As there was no wake, I watched their
performance with some interest as they went through the act of reversing and
then hauling back the tangled line. They made several attempts and each met
with a marked lack of success. Eventually, exhausted by their efforts, they
both collapsed into a large coil of mooring rope and soon fell asleep.

Having managed to retrieve the tangled line, I made my up to the bridge, but
was ill-prepared for the sight that greeted my arrival. The wheelhouse, which
was packed with officers and crew, resembled an overcrowded railway
waiting room. They were all staring intently at the foredeck. Without
removing his gaze, the Captain enquired about the log line.

‘Your line, Sir,’ I replied, still smarting at being called from my bunk to
perform such a trivial task, ‘Was a bit snagged but the lads from the 12 to 4
watch did what they could to help clear it.’
2
A row of faces turned to meet mine.

‘And where,’ asked the Captain, ‘Are your two assistants now?’

‘They are both curled up fast asleep in the mooring lines,’ I replied.

There was a brief silence then all hell broke loose as officers and seamen
swept past me in a madding crowd.

The helmsman gave me the gist of what had happened. Shortly after
midnight, the lookout left his post and went below to hold an impromptu
birthday party with his watchmate. After consuming thirty-six cans of beer,
they both returned to the bridge and attacked the second mate. He managed to
summon help, but in the ensuing melee, the ship was thrown off course and
the engine room was at the receiving end of a stream of confusing
instructions: full astern, full ahead, full astern etc. Fighting their way off the
bridge, the two seamen roamed the vessel causing considerable havoc and
threatening anyone who got in their way. Had I been asked to retrieve the
log line an hour or two earlier, I might well have found myself chucked
overboard and hanging on to the end of it. The bosun took a beating from
them and I felt quite sorry for him because, as I recorded in my diary at the
time, ‘He is an old man in his fifties.’ This sympathy for the elderly
evaporated a week later when I entrusted him with a 22” flying fish I had
found lying on deck; I returned with a camera only to discover that he had
eaten it.

By the time I arrived on the scene, members of the crew were either in the
wheelhouse or keeping a low profile elsewhere. and the trouble makers were
thought to be skulking around the foredeck. Tucked up fast asleep in the
coiled mooring lines, however, they were easily apprehended and restrained.
Redcar made for the Cape Verde Islands where they were handed over to
the local police force to be returned home to face trial.

A month later, they appeared in court in Middlesborough charged with

wilfully disobeying the lawful commands of their master at sea, multiple
assault, and committing an act likely to cause serious damage to their ship.
The prosecutor outlined the events that had taken place during ‘a night of
destructive violence and viciousness in which the lives of all on board were
put at danger.’ He warmed to his task: ‘Following nine hours of trouble,
3
fighting, and scuffling....these men put their captain in the same position as
Captain Bligh of the Bounty. Unlike Captain Bligh, however, he had no
firearms, weapons, or handcuffs he could use against them. Nor had he a
cell, a dungeon, or a brig to throw them in. All he could do was bring them
to court back in this country.’ The local and national press lapped it up.
Though claiming that ‘Nobody can say what really went on because it all
happened in a mist,’ the two men pleaded guilty to mutiny and were sent to
prison.

Readers of the Bounty saga will recall that after some of the mutineers were
rounded up by the Royal Navy, they suffered much cruelty and danger before
returning to face justice in England. The Redcar affair provides a parallel of
sorts. Whilst the British consul and the police were discussing how the two
might best be accommodated prior to their return, one of the seamen
suggested that the consul would be far better employed if he got of his fat
backside and helped them sort out the chief of police. It was an ill-timed
comment, in which he also managed to cast doubt on the police chief’s
parentage. The accommodation issue was quickly resolved; while awaiting
repatriation, they were allocated a filthy cell in a rat-infested dungeon where
they spent a miserable time reflecting on a night of pointless violence.

Incidentally, the young apprentice who disturbed the third mate’s slumber
fifty years ago, went on to enjoy a highly successful career as a master
mariner. In contrast, the third mate ended up playing a one man band in the
shadows of show business. Lives unfold in so many different ways.

Mudsailor

April 2011