Quick, a history quiz! February 23 marks the anniversary of A) the start of the siege by the Mexican Army on the defenders of the Alamo. B) The Doc and I getting married forty-seven years ago, by coincidence, in San Antonio.
The correct answer is B, and The Doc and I think it very nice that the people of San Antonio start getting excited and hosting various celebrations every year in our honor. Thank you.
I mention this, because every year at this time, I start getting emails suggesting that I write a blog post about the Alamo. First, I’ve already done that, and since I wrote the truth, I’m still getting hate mail. Secondly, like most Texans, I am uneasily proud of the courage of the Alamo defenders. Uneasy because the primary reason for the fighting, stripped of a century of Hollywood hype, was that those Texicans did not want to accept Mexican law and abolish slavery.
At the time of the fighting, Stephen F. Austin was in Mexico trying in vain to secure a second ten-year extension before Texas had to abolish slavery. Had Mexico granted Austin’s request—there would have been no fighting in Texas during the spring of 1836.
In the almost two centuries since the battle, the story has been rewritten, shaped, distorted and hammered down to fit a culturally acceptable mold. The popular version tells us very little about what actually happened, and uncomfortably far too much about what we “need” to hear.
Instead of the Alamo, let's consider the anniversary of a far better example of valor, but one that has been almost forgotten, unfortunately. Let’s start at the beginning.
The nineteenth century saw such rapid changes in the design of naval warships that between the time a ship was designed and its being launched, it was not uncommon for ships to become obsolete before their christening. So, it was with the HMS Birkenhead, one of the very first iron-hulled warships built for the British Royal Navy.
The Birkenhead was designed as a frigate, with steam-powered paddle wheels amidships, but by the time the ship was launched, the British Navy had already determined that stern screws were more powerful and were far less susceptible to being damaged by enemy fire.
The Admiralty was also having serious misgivings about iron-hulled ships. If the iron was thick enough to provide serious protection, it was too heavy to be powered with the steam engines of the day. If the iron was thinner, though the hull was still stronger than wood, if the iron was punctured by cannon fire or running aground, the irregular intrusions through the hull were difficult to patch under emergency conditions.
As a result of both concerns, though the Birkenhead was designed to be a warship, she was relegated to being a troop transport.
In 1852, the Birkenhead was taking part in the Eighth Xhosa War. Yes, this was the eighth of nine wars between the Xhosa of South Africa and various European powers—mostly British—that took turns demonstrating the advantages of gunpowder over spears. I give both sides low marks for their learning curve, but high marks for determination.
In February, 1852, the ship was transporting the 74th Regiment of Foot and the Queen’s Royal Regiment to Algoa Bay, east of the cape of Good Hope. Captain Salmond, to avoid the rough seas prevalent when Rounding the Horn kept the ship close to the coast. Since the area was famous for rocky shoals—the nearest point of land is called Danger Point—the captain ordered constant soundings. Immediately following the leadsman calling out 12 fathoms (72 feet), the ship struck a submerged rock.
Note. Vernon Wilson, my friend and flight instructor, taught me that while flying in the mountains, it is important to remember that the ground can climb much faster than an airplane can and that no one yet has found a way to fly through “Cumulus Granite”. It is a shame that the Birkenhead’s captain never shared a cockpit with Vernon.
The point the ship struck was not marked on the charts as it is today. The rocky point the ship hit is almost vertical, and when the ship rammed the rock, the stern of the ship was still in water over 60 feet deep. Ironically, the point—just barely submerged—is easily visible in rough seas, but on February 26, 1852, the seas were calm and the point was completely invisible.
Even as Captain Salmond order the lifeboats lowered, Lieutenant-Colonel Seton of the 7th Foot ordered his officers and men to assemble on the poop deck for duty. Sixty men were ordered to man the pumps, adding a little time left before the doomed ship foundered. Another sixty were assigned to the lifeboat tackle, in an attempt to quickly launch the boats. The rest of the soldiers were ordered to assemble on the poop deck, hoping that their combined weight on the most rearward part of the ship could help raise the bow, making the work of lowering the lifeboats easier.
It was apparent to all that there were not enough lifeboats to save everyone on the ship. Though the ship was only two miles from the coast, the shore featured a rocky coast and violent surf for anyone that managed to swim the shark infested waters between the doomed ship and safety.
Captain Salmond ordered that the few lifeboats be loaded with “Women and children first”. This order, so commonly understood today, was not yet a custom back then. Indeed, what today is maritime law, if not human nature, was simply known as the Birkenhead Drill for decades. Not too long ago, while I was teaching a class, the fire alarms sounded in my building. I noted (somewhat proudly) that the men of the class lingered behind—without being told to—while the female students exited first.
The survivors recalled that the soldiers stood in orderly rows on the poop deck and that there was so little talking among them that the calm clear orders of the officers could be easily heard. After the few lifeboats were launched, when Captain Salmond suggested that the men take to the sea and swim after the boats, Lieutenant-Colonel Seton calmly ordered his men to remain aboard the ship until the lifeboats were some distance from the ship, for fear of too many men swimming after the boats full of women and children might swamp them. Seton did order his men to free the nine horses aboard. The horses were so terrified they had to be pushed into the water.
Only after the ship had broken apart and the stern was still loaded with soldiers, did Lieutenant-Colonel Seton tell his men to try and save themselves, suggesting that the strongest swimmers might make their way to shore.
No high-ranking soldier or naval officer survived. When a British cutter arrived the next morning, 40 soldiers were found desperately clinging to part of the Birkenhead’s rigging that extended barely above the waters. Of the roughly 643 men, women, and children aboard the Birkenhead, only 193 survived.
Eight horses and a few men managed to swim to shore. The surviving men reported that those in the water had been repeatedly attacked by sharks, and that most of those who somehow had made it to shore were killed when their bodies were dashed onto the rocks by the violent waves.
In 1892, the British painter Thomas Henry produced a work based on the incident. The painting was widely distributed in England and was the inspiration for Rudyard Kipling’s 1893 tribute to the Royal Marines, "Soldier an' Sailor Too":
To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about,
Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, an' leave an' likin' to shout;
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
If we are going to remember the valor of men who died on this date, let’s remember the over 400 “soldiers and sailors, too” of the 74th Foot and the Queens Royal Regiment who died 168 years ago today, when the Birkenhead went down.
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