Drawing the Plimsoll line at safety

Mar 11 2008 by Peter Elson, Liverpool Daily Post

The Plimsoll Mark is a familiar shipping term – but who was its namesake? Peter Elson reports

IN LATER life, he was revered as “the sailor’s truest friend”, but, during his campaigning career, Samuel Plimsoll was despised and derided by many Liverpool shipowners.

His is a fascinating story of a great Victorian philanthropist, who gave his name to the safe loading horizontal line bisecting a circle painted on every ship’s side.

Plimsoll was derided and humiliated by vested shipping interests, but was hailed a national hero and nearly derailed Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli.

Two crucial issues were at stake. Firstly, the over-loading of cargo ships, and secondly the scandal of the “coffin ships”, says Nicolette Jones, Plimsoll’s biographer.

As a journalist, her interest was kindled when she moved into Plimsoll Road, north London, in 1995.

“It took decades for agreement to what sounds like a rather boring health and safety measure – simply putting a mark on ships’ sides to stop overloading,” she says.

This was complicated by an insurance scam in which unscrupulous shipowners bought rotten ships, repainted, renamed and reinsured them.

These “coffin ships” were sent to sea in the murderous expectation they would founder and their crews drown, so insurance would be paid.

“There were allegations that these ships were being sent out made of wood so rotten it could be scooped out by hand,” says Nicolette.

“Some ships were so over-loaded that the main deck was awash in the slightest waves.”

Legislating against these practices would seem commonsense, but Plimsoll was loathed by certain shipowners.

His copper-bottomed life-long enemy was a Liverpool shipowner called Edward Bates, based at the Albert Dock.

Bates, an MP, did well from shipping and occupied a fine house at Bellefield (Everton FC’s former training ground).

“He was a penny-pinching, belligerent businessman. Bates’s fleet were reputed as being very dodgy, with lots of cases of scurvy,” says Nicolette.

“His great-great-grand-daughter told me he’s still known as ‘Scurvy Bates’ in their family. They’re not proud of him.”

Plimsoll campaigned for six years and wrote the book Our Seamen, in 1873, which was distributed to 600,000 people.

But legislation kept being deferred in the House of Commons to appease shipowners and the book resulted in 13 libel cases against Plimsoll.

The biggest action, a test case, was tried at St George’s Hall, Liverpool. It resulted in a ship-owner, Norwood, losing to Plimsoll, causing others to withdraw.

“Norwood was not one of the worst offenders, but Plimsoll described in his book how this shipowner discharged cargo at sea so his vessel could get over the Mersey Bar,” says Nicolette.

“In 1871, a Board of Trade report that revealed that 856 ships went down within 10 miles of the British coast in moderate conditions. There were many honourable shipowners who supported Plimsoll, as he was quick to recognise.”

One was James Hall, who originally proposed the Plimsoll Mark, who was a Newcastle shipowner whose cause Plimsoll took up. Ultimately, in summer, 1875, Tory Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli refused to put through this legislation until the next session.

Plimsoll lost his temper and accused other MPs of being “villains who colluded with murderers outside the House”.

When demanded that he should name names, he responded: “I want to ask if Mr Bates is the same Edward Bates who lost six ships last year?”

Having named Edward Bates, he was asked to leave the Commons chamber and told to apologise a week later.