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Posts Tagged ‘mutiny on the Bounty’

Sextant by David Barrie
Sextant: A Voyage Guided by the Stars and the Men Who Mapped the World’s Oceans, David Barrie (William Collins 2014)

When a triumphant emperor rode through Rome, he’s said to have had a slave at his shoulder whispering: “Remember, Caesar, thou art mortal.” This book has a related message for its readers: “Remember, you’re comfortable.” The world has become much smaller and much safer since the days when a sextant was an essential part of every ship’s equipment.

Or has seemed to become smaller and safer, anyway. David Barrie reminded himself of the underlying reality by sailing across the Atlantic in 1973 with two companions in a 35-ft sloop called Saecwen (Anglo-Saxon for “Sea-Queen”). The voyage was powered by the wind and guided by the heavens in the old-fashioned way:

Of course I was intellectually aware of the size of the ocean when we set out from Halifax [on the coast of Nova Scotia], but spending twenty-four days crossing it under sail gave its dimensions a very different and truly sublime reality. The long night watches looking up at the stars in the black immensity of space were a lesson in humility and the experience of a gale in mid-Atlantic left me wondering what it must be like to encounter a real storm. People often talk idiotically about “conquering mountains” or “defying the sea”, but there is no real contest. I was left with an overwhelming sense of nature’s vast scale and complete indifference, and this had a strangely calming effect. We come and we go, the earth too was born and will eventually die, but the universe in all its chilly splendour abides. (ch. 18, “Two Landfalls”, pp. 289-90)

That’s at the end of the book. Descriptions of Barrie’s voyage in the 1970s open almost every previous chapter and set the context first for a history of celestial navigation and then for the stories of the men who used it. Their expertise with sextants and other instruments won them fame, but not always fortune. Nor a quiet and dignified death. Captain Cook charted the Pacific, then was hacked to death on Hawaii in 1779. Joshua Slocum made the first solo circumnavigation of the world in 1895-6, then “disappeared at sea after setting sail from Martha’s Vineyard on a single-handed voyage to the Amazon in November 1908” (ch. 15, “Slocum Circles the World”, pg. 255).

George Bass, after whom the strait separating Tasmania from Australia is named, disappeared too, perhaps at sea, perhaps into the slave-mines of a Spanish colony in South America: “Whatever the truth, Bass was never heard of again.” (ch. 12, “Flinders – Coasting Australia”, pg. 176) That was in 1803. I hadn’t heard of Bass before or of his even more adventurous companion Matthew Flinders. And I didn’t know that Vancouver in Canada was named after the explorer George Vancouver. I’m glad to have changed that.

I had heard of William Bligh, captain of the Bounty, but I’ understood the scale of his achievements better by reading this book. He had witnessed Cook’s death on Hawaii, which was why he didn’t want to risk landing on any of the islands of the Tongan archipelago after he was set adrift in an open boat by Fletcher Christian and his fellow mutineers. Instead, equipped with only a sextant and compass, Bligh set sail for “Timor, in the Dutch East Indies, some 3,600 nautical miles away” (ch. 4, “Bligh’s Boat Journey”, pg. 41). He needed both skill and “bloody-minded determination” to succeed.

He also needed intelligence. That combination explains why this book about mapping the world’s oceans is dominated by men from a small corner of that world: north-western Europe. Cook, Bligh, Flinders and Bass were English; Louis-Antoine de Bougainville and Jean-François de Galaup, comte de Perouse, were French. There’s an “x” in sextant and an “XY” in the human beings who invented and used the instrument. Galileo was one of them: his discovery of the Jovian moons provided a way to determine longitude.

Latitude was relatively easy: you can obtain that by determining the height of, say, Polaris at the north celestial pole. If Polaris is directly overhead, you’re at the north pole. If it’s on the horizon, you’re on the equator. If you can’t see Polaris at all, you’re in the southern hemisphere. Or it’s daylight or a cloudy night. Navigation in past centuries was difficult and dangerous. When Admiral Sir Cloudesley Shovell got it wrong “on the night of 22 October 1707”, he lost four ships and 2,000 men on the “reef-strewn Isles of Scilly” (ch. 5, “Anson’s Ordeals”, pg. 54). Barrie adds that “Shovell himself was washed ashore and reportedly murdered by a local woman who fancied the ring on his finger.”

Even today, with GPS, radar and secure communications, the sea is still claiming lives. This book reminds you of the days when it claimed many more and was a much more frightening place to venture. Those days may return: modern electronics and satellite technology are a fragile system and Barrie describes at the end of the book how some sailors deliberately abandon it, training themselves to rely on their own eyes and brains, not on the pressing of buttons. This book is about balls in more senses than one. The Polynesians who made astonishing voyages over the Pacific didn’t use only their eyes:

When the horizon was obscured and its changing slant could not tell them how their boat was responding to the waves, they apparently stood with their legs apart, using the inertia of their testicles as a guide. (ch. 17, “‘These are men’”, pg. 283)

That’s a reminder of the male biochemistry underlying the courage required to face the sea and the spatial skills that had to accompany it. There are lots of balls elsewhere: the terrestrial globe and the globes of the sun, moon, planets and stars that helped men navigate their way around it. Sextant is a fascinating read about some formidable men and their often frightening voyages. They helped shape the modern world and you can’t understand the modern world without knowing something about them. This book is an excellent place to start.

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Mapping the World by Beau RiffenburghMapping the World: The Story of Cartography, Beau Riffenburgh (Carlton Books 2011, 2014)

A good map is like a swan on a river. Beneath the elegance there is a lot of effort. This book is about that effort: all the millennia of research and refinement that have gone into perfecting maps. Not that any map can be perfect. As Beau Riffenburgh explains here, there are always choices to be made: what do you put in, what do you leave out? And how do you represent spherical geometry on flat paper?

The Flemish cartographer Gerardus Mercator came up with one famous answer to that question:

Mercartor’s major achievement came in 1569 with a new projection that represented a breakthrough in nautical cartography. Since known as the Mercator projection, it is cylindrical-like, with the meridians as equally spaced parallel lines and the lines of latitude as parallel, horizontal lines, which are spaced further apart as their distance from the equator increases. This projection is uniquely suited to navigation because a line of constant true bearing allows a navigator to plot a straight-line course. However, this projection grossly distorts geographical regions in high latitudes – thus Greenland is shown larger than South America, although it is actually less than one-eighth of the size. (“Cosmographies and the Development of Projection”, pg. 51)

So the map looks wrong, but leads right. So does the famous map of the London Underground, which ignores true distances and bearings: the designer Harry Beck made it look like an “electrical circuit, with straight lines and the inclusion of only one feature above ground – the Thames” (“Mapping for the Masses”, pg. 143). Maps are about abstraction: they condense and confine what people find interesting or important about the real world.

So minds mould maps and in writing about maps, Riffenburgh is also writing about culture and politics. About art too, because maps can be very beautiful things, sometimes deliberately, sometimes incidentally. Above all, however, he’s writing about mathematics. What was implicit from the beginning – the importance of maths in mapping – became more and more explicit, as he describes in the chapter “Men, Measurements and Mechanisms” (pp. 70-3). The men are drawn from the world’s most evil and energetic group: white Europeans. Galileo, Newton and Huygens are three of them: as they contributed to maths and science, they contributed to cartography.

Another man is the Yorkshire watchmaker John Harrison (1693-1776), the hero of Dava Sobel’s Longitude (1995). He was a remarkable personality and looks it in the portrait here: proud, determined and self-possessed. He needed all those qualities to get his due. He invented a chronometer that kept accurate time on long voyages and enabled navigators to determine longitude, but British officialdom “made him wait years for all of his prize-money” (pg. 73).

Elsewhere the names are obscurer and the stories sometimes sadder:

In the history of cartography, few individuals stand out for their work in so many geographical regions and aspects of science as James Rennell. Born in Devon in 1742, Rennell went to sea at the age of 14, learned maritime surveying and then, at the end of the Seven Years’ War, received a commission in the Bengal Army as an engineer. … Equipped with quadrant, compass and chain, Rennell began a thorough and scientific survey of [Bengal’s] major river systems, roads, plains, jungles, mangrove forests and mountains. (“James Rennell: Mapping India, Africa and Ocean Currents”, pg. 86)

However, he “never fully recovered from a severe wound received in an ambush” and retired to London to produce his “masterpiece – A Map of Hindoostan, or the Mogul Empire” (1782/1788). But en route to England, he had an “extended stay in Southern Africa” and developed an interest in ocean currents. So he became a pioneering hydrographer too: his posthumous An Investigation of Currents of the Atlantic Ocean (1832) “is often considered to form the historical basis of the study of currents” (pg. 89).

Later in the century, the German August Petermann worked for the Royal Geographical Society and was appointed “Physical Geographer Royal” by Queen Victoria. His assistant John Bartholomew said “no one has done more than he to advance modern cartography”, but Petermann committed suicide in 1878 after returning to Germany (“Maps reach a wider audience”, pg. 132).

Nietzsche would not have approved. But I think he would have applauded this:

Perhaps the most remarkable nautical drawings of all, considering the conditions under which they were produced, were those of William Bligh, captain of the British ship HMAV [His Majesty’s Armed Vessel] Bounty in 1789. Following the infamous mutiny, Bligh and 18 loyal seamen were set adrift in the ship’s launch. During the next 47 days, Bligh navigated approximately 3,600 nautical miles (6,660 km) to Timor, with only one stop. Throughout the journey, which is considered one of the most remarkable accomplishments in the history of open-boat travel, Bligh kept a detailed log and made sketches of his course. (“Mapping Australia and the Pacific”, pg. 77)

His chart is reproduced here. Using anecdotes like that with serious analysis and intellectual history, Riffenburgh tells the story of cartography from Mesopotamia and before to the moon and beyond. The story of maps is the story of man: even pre-literate societies like the ancient Polynesians have used maps to record the sea and its currents. In Europe, maps have reflected every advance in technology, like printing and photography. But as they’ve responded to technology, they’ve altered the way we see and interact with reality. When you look at a map, there’s a whole world of exploration, endeavour and ingenuity just beyond its margins. Mapping the World is about that world: the margins of mapness without which the maps themselves would not exist. It’s a book to stimulate the mind and delight the eye.

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