We recently posted about an announcement that an additional £35m is being committed for continued repairs to the HMS Victory, specifically to replace rotting planking and frames and to complete the rerigging of the ship. As it has been 256 years since the ship was launched and 244 years since the ship was commissioned, how much of the original ship remains after over two centuries of active service, repairs, and rebuilding? Depending on which source one uses, estimates range from 17% to 20%. The new funds for restoring the ship will no doubt reduce the percentage.
Is there a point at which HMS Victory is no longer the same ship whose decks were trod by Nelson at Trafalgar? Or will HMS Victory always be the same historic ship no matter how often she is restored and repaired?
These are not new questions. They were discussed by the Greek philosophers Heraclitus and Plato by c. 500–400 BC in a thought experiment called the Ship of Theseus.
As later articulated by the historian Plutarch, a famous ship sailed by the hero Theseus, on his return from Crete, was kept in a harbor as a museum piece, and as the years went by, some of the wooden parts began to rot and were replaced by new ones; then, after a century or so, every part had been replaced. The question became whether the “restored” ship is still the same object as the original.
So, is HMS Victory an example of an almost Ship of Theseus, having been more than 80% reconstructed from the original ship? In Victory‘s case, it is not a straightforward question as after two centuries it is hard to determine what is original to the ship and whether “original” is a meaningful term.
The Victory was commissioned in 1785 and saw service in four significant battles. By 1797, she was declared unfit for active service and left anchored off Chatham Dockyard. In December 1798 she was ordered to be converted to a hospital ship to hold wounded French and Spanish prisoners of war. With the loss of the 98 gun Impregnable in 1799, it was decided instead to keep her sailing and she was sent for a major rebuild at Chatham.
Between 1800 & 1803 Victory underwent a large repair at Chatham. At the same time, she was updated according to the latest instructions from the Navy Board. Her external appearance changed dramatically.
In the Battle of Trafalgar, Victory was seriously damaged and would require significant repairs over several decades. In 1831 the Admiralty issued orders for Victory to be broken up and her timbers reused in other vessels. A public outcry against the destruction of so famous a ship led to the order being held in abeyance and Victory was left, largely forgotten, at a Portsmouth mooring.
By 1922 the ship’s condition was so poor that she would no longer stay afloat and had to be moved into No. 2 dock at Portsmouth, the oldest dry dock in the world still in use, to avoid sinking. And in No. 2 dock she remains today, still under repair and restoration.
Does the long and varied history of HMS Victory answer the questions raised by the ancient Ship of Theseus thought experiment? I think it does. A ship, whether Victory or the Ship of Theseus, is more than a finite assemblage of its parts. Ships are complex machines that often can be made to evolve to fit the needs of their service. Perhaps, rather than being the sum total of its pieces, the venerable Victory is a synthesis of its varied lives and the sum total of its history.
There are Japanese temples that have been totally rebuilt from scratch many times, but they are considered the original temple, not reproductions. It’s a little like you can put a new roof on a house and it’s still the same house. There is a spiritual essence that is maintained. On the other hand I have a quibble with the current iteration of Bluenose II, which was a total new build from the keel up, which I thought could have been called Bluenose III, with out detracting from her mission.
Per Allan and Rick, the good fortune in my lucky hat is not in the material of the hat. 🙂
But perhaps this idea will be challenged when the gust of wind that will take my hat and throw it into the sea finally arrives? Hmm.
Wooden ships are like brushes.
“I have had this brushe for forty years. It has had twenty heads and four handles but it is as good as the day I bought it.”
Interestingly, Victory’s original wooden masts were removed and replaced by wrought iron ones from the decommissioned HMS Shah in 1893. The extra weight added to the damaged over the years. They have been removed for inspection but the debate is whether to reinstall the iron masts, remake the original wooden ones or to make carbon-fibre items sheathed with a veneer of wood that would be much lighter. The wrought iron items are important as they were the first wrought iron masts raised on a UK ship and there is a desire to display them but do you display them as a separate display or reinstall them where they were not an original item and would add weight to the delicate structure?
I have been involved in several wooden yacht restorations and it was impractical to restore them to totally original. Glues are a good example, Cascamite had a life of 15 to 20 years whereas Epoxy will last almost indefinitely with no gradual degradation. It is also very hard to obtain many original wood species which are, quite rightly, protected.
If we are any example, I’m told we’re constantly replacing the cells of our bodies with new ones, Does that make us a different person?
HMS Victory is the focal point of the best of the Royal Navy traditions of excellence, as I hope this story indicates.
In 1941, the year of my birth, my father commanded HMS Coreopsis, a flower class corvette on convey duty in the North Atlantic. The convoy was under attack from at least one U-boat. Coreopsis’ ASDIC operator reported a ping, and seconds later, confirmed it as a contact. The chase was on. The target evaded Coreopsis according to a pattern that my father recognized from his own and others’ experience as characteristic of a U-boat’s response. Whatever the outcome, my father knew that while they were engaged, his quarry could not attack the merchantmen in the convoy. So the corvette twisted and turned, chewing up a fair area of the North Atlantic, Coreopsis evading one torpedo, the U-boat dodging Coreopsis’ depth charges. All the while the convoy sailed on, pulling out of range.
Then the lookout yelled “Periscope, sir! Dead ahead!” My father’s response was immediate: “Close all watertight doors, stand by to ram, release shallow-set depth charges.” Coreopsis bucked, shuddered and slowed. The technician ripped off his earphones. “Asdic’s gone sir!” The depth charges exploded so close to the stern that spray drenched the quarterdeck. In the waist of the ship, the first lieutenant shouted, “Diesel oil! And blood!” Only then did my father realize that he had rammed a whale.
Opinions varied about his exploit, ranging from mockery to recrimination. The only way to restore his reputation and chances of promotion was for my father to demand a court martial, which was held … aboard Victory.
The court sat at a table in the space below deck as it had been when the partitions were removed for action at Trafalgar. My father stood where Nelson and his officers had conferred before battle in 1805, when the outcome of the Napoleonic Era’s war at sea hung in the balance as did the Battle of the Atlantic in 1941.
My father’s sword, which he had inherited from his father, lay across the table.
He made his defence, and was asked to withdraw while the board conferred. When he returned, the tip of his sword was pointed away from him. He had been exonerated by the judgement of the senior officers in the presence and context of history.
Am I the same person I was half a century ago? New skin cells, brain cells lost, fat cells gained, new information learned, new memories made, replacement parts…
Good points made, all around!
That’s a great story, Seymour. Thank you.