Remembering Arniston: A Bicentenary Picture Book in Commemoration of the Wreck of the Hms Arniston, South Africa, 30Th May 1815

By Gary Oliver

Remembering Arniston is my first book. It is a story inspired by the immensely moving experience of the 2015 bicentenary remembrance of the wreck of His Majestys Ship the Arniston Transport on the 30th May 1815 in the storm near Cape Town, South Africa.

It is based on the actual people who sadly perished in the wreck - William John Molesworth and Frances Barwell, the 6th Viscount and Viscountess Molesworth of Swords. They were married in Saint Georges Church, Hanover Square, London, England and, together with 378 other souls, they lost their lives in the wreck of the Arniston Transport which was a maritime tragedy and loss of life only to be surpassed later by the RMS Titanic disaster in 1912.

The inspiration for this story comes as well from my love of the incredible natural beauty of South Africa. The tiny, secluded seaside town of Arniston takes its name from the famous wreck of 1815. It is a hidden gem, a treasure trove of natural beauty in itself, which can be found a few hours drive along the Southern African coastline outside of Cape Town.

Gary Oliver

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Africa
• Release date: Mar 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781482861365

Gary Oliver

Gary Oliver is a seminary professor, psychologist, professor of psychology and practical theology, and executive director of The Center for Marriage and Family Studies at John Brown University in Siloam Springs, Arkansas. Formerly the clinical director of Southwest Counseling Associates in Littleton, CO, he is the author of numerous books, including When Anger Hits Home and Real Men Have Feelings Too.

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Copyright © 2016 . All rights reserved.

ISBN

978-1-4828-6137-2 (sc)

978-1-4828-6136-5 (e)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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www.partridgepublishing.com/africa

11/18/2016

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REMEMBERING

Arniston

A Bicentenary Picture Book in Commemoration of the Wreck of the HMS Arniston, South Africa, 30th May 1815

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This is the story of

William Molesworth and Frances Barwell.

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Gary Oliver

Contents

AT THE BALL

IN THE GARDENS

THE WEDDING

THE JOURNEY

CEYLON

THE WAR

HOMEWARD-BOUND TO ENGLAND!

THE STORM

THE WRECK

ARNISTON

AT THE BALL

W estbury Park Manor was the jewel in the crown of stately homes, standing magnificently, overlooking the splendour of the Surrey Hills. It was one of England’s finest homes built by Robert Molesworth, the first Viscount Molesworth in the early eighteenth century. He was the first Viscount Molesworth of Swords in the peerage of Ireland and from an old Northamptonshire family who made their fortune by provisioning Cromwell’s army in the conquest of Ireland. Robert himself was better known to most in his time as a notorious swashbuckling privateer who made an even larger fortune from trading in exotic contraband in far-flung places of the world, and his colourful character lived on through the Molesworth bloodline down the centuries.

The tranquil summer evening was warmer than usual for July. The air was thick with the sweet scent from the rose bushes lining the expansive gardens surrounding Westbury Park Manor, and it was the perfect night for the summer ball in the grand hall. The ball was the highlight of the social calendar of London’s elite families, and it was not to be missed by William John Molesworth himself, the great-grandson of Robert Molesworth.

William mingled with the gathering of England’s finest nobility standing around the tables, being served with champagne, at one end of the ballroom, and he looked resplendent in his scarlet full dress uniform, sporting the unmistakable gold cross mounted on braded lapels of the Seventy-Third Rifle Regiment of Foot, one of King George’s finest regiments. William’s intense eyes and thick dark hair over his broad shoulders were the hallmark of the Molesworth family. He was the product of peerage and breeding and of Sandhurst military college, no less.

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The grand hall was expansive, colourfully lit, and beautifully decorated with exquisite Georgian murals adorning the walls, and tonight was a special occasion with over four hundred people attending the ball. The British Army’s senior ranks and gentry busied themselves talking of the latest news of events in the East Indies campaign, where the king’s men were quite frankly taking a beating in the fight for the pride of the empire, the island of Ceylon. This was while their ladies talked instead of the summer fashions in London and of the latest gossip, while the younger single officers of the Seventy-Third Regiment tried not to be obvious in casting their looks at the single ladies across the ballroom, both of whom had expectations of an exciting evening ahead.

As the orchestra struck up the notes of the first dance of the evening, William broke away from his conversation with the officers under his command, and he walked over to stand by the windows overlooking the gardens so that he had a better vantage point from which to watch the dancing and, of course, to glance over in the direction of the ladies seated on the other side of the ballroom. He sipped thirstily on a tall glass of cool champagne, tapping his foot gingerly to the rhythm of the music as he watched the dancing couples glide in unison up and down the ballroom. Tonight he felt a deep contentment, secure in the Molesworth family home again, where he was born, and he was glad to be back from the Indies and the Ceylon war that he hated so much.

As ever, he was waiting for the perfect moment to take decisive action and his cue for the next dance. Then the moment came—it was the military two-step, one of William’s favourites. As the orchestra struck up the first notes, William strode quickly and purposefully across the ballroom while steadying the sword at his side with one hand and holding the glass of champagne in the other.

‘Good evening, Miss Barwell,’ he said confidently, gazing down at the young lady seated among the group of older women of refinement. ‘May I have the pleasure of your company for this next dance, my dear?’

Frances Barwell was a rose among the thorns. Her youth and beauty shone from her sparkling blue eyes, and she had a look of mild surprise at the sudden and unexpected advance by William as she looked up at the tall figure presented before her.

‘Oh, well, I am not sure. I …’ she responded, hesitating momentarily, and then she turned to look at her chaperone for the evening, Lady Seymour, who was seated next to her, as if to ask for her permission.

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William stood his ground, and with a welcoming smile, he reached out to offer his hand. Lady Seymour nodded to Frances with approval, and Frances rose up to meet him, holding her beautiful sapphire-blue ballgown to one side as she gently curtsied to him in acceptance.

‘And the sword?’ she queried, looking down at his side. The other ladies seated behind Frances giggled in amusement at William’s awkwardness and his moment of forgetfulness, and Frances smiled.

William laughed. ‘Oh, yes, forgive me. I forget my manners. It is but the ungentlemanly habits of a soldier by heart to always keep a sword close at hand in case it is unexpectedly needed,’ he explained, taking off his sword. ‘Lady Seymour, if you would do