The sailors were triumphant. No matter that their ship might be wrecked on a notorious stretch of England鈥檚 south coast and they were exhausted from their attempts to salvage its cargo. They still had something to celebrate. Not a single life had been lost and they had just saved a singular and very troublesome piece of baggage.
The baggage in question was a wooden box, longer than a man and heavy enough to contain a corpse. Which it did. But the body, packed around with a sackful of sea salt, was no traveller or empire builder coming home for a decent burial. It was the corpse of a great, silver tunny fish, bound for Henry Acland鈥檚 anatomy museum at Christ Church College in the University of Oxford. When the ship ran aground that January night, Acland, anatomist and medical man, had proved something of a hero. In return, the sailors worked round the clock to restore the doctor鈥檚 tuna to him unscathed.
HENRY ACLAND鈥橲 pursuit of specimens had got him into trouble before. In 1845, newly appointed as reader in anatomy at Christ Church, Acland went on a collecting trip with the naturalist Edward Forbes. The two men sailed around Orkney and Shetland off the north coast of Scotland, dredging up worms, crabs and snails as they went. By the end of the voyage, Acland had 14 crates full of creatures. He sent them by sea from Edinburgh to London from where they were to be forwarded to Oxford. When the crates reached the London Docks, the men from Customs and Excise had other ideas. Acland鈥檚 mistake was to pickle his polychaetes and periwinkles in the local spirit 鈥� whisky. The excisemen suspected this was a wheeze for smuggling Scotch and impounded the lot.
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And then there was the unfortunate incident with the giraffe. At Christ Church, Acland had inherited a small lab just behind the dining room for dissecting specimens, and 鈥淪keleton Corner鈥�, a paltry collection of bones that passed as an anatomy museum. Acland believed all students should learn the rudiments of natural science, and that those who went on to study medicine should be able to see which parts of the body did what and how they worked. Comparison with other animals was invaluable, so Acland began to build up a collection.
Before skeletons could be put on display, the flesh had to be removed and then the bones joined together again. With only a small lab at his disposal, bigger animals posed something of a problem, until one of the college canons, Canon Pusey, offered Acland the use of his stables.
Pusey was an enlightened man. To him, scientific knowledge was the gift of God and the pursuit of it was to be encouraged. His neighbour, Canon Fausset, was less keen. And when Acland acquired a giraffe, Fausset put his foot down. Acland had left the giraffe to macerate in a vat of water in the stables. Soon it began to smell. The stink, declared Fausset鈥檚 coachman, didn鈥檛 just frighten the horses, it was positively harmful to their health.
Fausset sent Acland a note demanding he remove the offending remains. But before Acland had a chance to move the rotting beast, the canon鈥檚 servants had emptied the vat into the street. The sudden appearance of a huge pile of bones was too much for one dog, which made off with half the tail. Refusing to be beaten by a cantankerous canon and a small dog, Acland had a replica tail made and the skeleton eventually took its place in the museum.
Now the cause of Acland鈥檚 woes was a fish. Two days before Christmas 1856, Acland had escorted Henry Liddell, dean of Christ Church, to Plymouth and accompanied him aboard a ship bound for Madeira. Liddell was very ill and, as his doctor, Acland had prescribed a change of climate. After a week on the island, the doctor left the dean to convalesce and headed back to England on the Tyne, an iron-hulled paddle steamer belonging to the Royal Mail Company. The doctor was not travelling alone: with him went a big wooden box containing a huge tuna that he had acquired during his visit.
The voyage was uneventful until the Tyne reached the Bay of Biscay. There, it ran into severe gales 鈥� and the crew blamed Acland. They had seen the box come aboard and jumped to the obvious conclusion: it was a coffin and inside was the body of one of the doctor鈥檚 less fortunate patients. A corpse was bad luck and the sailors wanted rid of it. Fearing mutiny, the Captain decided the body must go.
Acland was aghast. It was only a fish, he protested. He threatened legal action, but the Captain stuck to his guns. Unwilling to lose his prize specimen, Acland relented. He would agree to a 鈥渂urial鈥� on one condition: the lid of the coffin must be lifted before the body was consigned to the deep. As passengers and crew gathered on the quarterdeck to pay their respects, the ship鈥檚 carpenter prised off the lid. The deceased was quite clearly a fish. The sailors went sheepishly back to their duties. The carpenter replaced the lid and the box was stowed away.
The ship鈥檚 luck did not improve. A few days later, on 14 January 1857, The Times carried news of a wreck. 鈥淕reat interest has been excited here today by the report of the grounding, on one of the most dangerous parts of the Dorsetshire coast, of the Royal Mail Company鈥檚 steamship Tyne, on her passage to this port from the Brazils鈥︹�� At 3 am on 13 January, the Tyne had struck rocks about a kilometre off St Alban鈥檚 Head, way off its intended course. 鈥淭he concussion when the ship struck was very great and some of the passengers were thrown out of their berths,鈥� reported The Times. 鈥淭hey were of course in a state of great alarm and confusion and rushed on deck to see what had occurred.鈥�
No one could see a thing in the dark. Even the Captain didn鈥檛 know where they were. For the next few hours the ship bumped about on the rocks and the sea was too rough even to contemplate making a bid for the beach. One man remained calm and collected 鈥� at least according to an account by John Ruskin, one of Acland鈥檚 Oxford friends.
As dawn began to break, wrote Ruskin, Acland emerged from the saloon 鈥渋n punctilious morning dress with the announcement that breakfast was ready鈥�. The other passengers were shocked. How could he suggest such a thing when they might all soon be drowned? 鈥淗e replied by pointing out that not a boat could go ashore, far less come out of it,鈥� wrote Ruskin. 鈥淚n the meantime, as most of them were wet, all cold, and at the best must be dragged ashore through the surf, if not swim for their lives in it, they would be extremely prudent to begin the day as usual with breakfast.鈥� At which thought, 鈥渢he hysterics ceased, the confusion calmed, what suits people had became available to them again, and not a life was ultimately lost!鈥�
Breakfast was a good idea, but the passengers and crew owed their lives to the local coastguard crews. 鈥淎bout noon, the boats were lowered from the ship鈥檚 side and the passengers were slung into them from the deck, the high tide and heavy sea preventing their getting down into the boats in the ordinary way,鈥� reported The Times. 鈥淥ne or two of the boats were swamped and some of the passengers thrown into the water, but they were all saved.鈥�
Acland was the first ashore. He organised food, shelter and clothes for those who needed them and stayed on the beach until the last person was at last safely ashore. The next day he was back in Oxford. A few days later, the tuna arrived.