And here is my latest entry for the Transit of Venus project blog
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Now I’ve finished the manuscript of my book “Chasing Venus” (well almost), I’ve a bit more time to follow ‘our’ astronomers on their journeys to observe the transits in 1761 and 1769. Take Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon, for example. On 10 January 1761 they were finally on their way. They were travelling on behalf of the Royal Society in London to view the transit of Venus in Bencoolen (today’s Bengkula) on the island of Sumatra. Their ship had sailed from England on 6 January 1761 but only four days later the Seven Years’ war brought their voyage to a violent stop. At eight o’clock in the morning the shape of a lonely frigate appeared behind their vessel – a thirty-four gun French vessel which was ‘crouding down upon him’, the captain said.
Heavily loaded, Mason and Dixon’s vessel was so slow that the enemy quickly caught up with them. Within two hours the French were close enough for Mason and Dixon to see their faces – they were within ‘pistol-shot’. A mast came crashing down, hit by a French cannon another was badly damaged. Splintered wood, torn sails and jumbled ropes covered every surface. Suddenly the first Frenchmen were standing on deck of the HMS Seahorse. The dull life in the Royal Observatory in Greenwich where Mason had worked as the assistant to the Astronomer Royal must have felt like a distant paradise.
Though the French had at least double the number of men, the British were not giving up. At noon, after a battle that had lasted a little more than an hour, the French retreated but it wasn’t a joyous victory for the HMS Seahorse – of their 160 men, eleven had died and forty-two wounded, ‘many of whom’, Mason noted ‘I believe mortal’. The captain decided to sail to Plymouth to have the ‘shattered’ ship refitted. Only days after they had begun their adventure, Mason and Dixon had to admit that it would be ‘absolutely impossible’ to reach Bencoolen.
Strangely, and by sheer coincidence, some 400 miles away from Mason and Dixon, the ship of the French astronomer Alexandre-Gui Pingré was also attacked on the very same day. It was only his second day at sea when Pingré woke to fierce shouts. The captain bellowed orders and a cacophony of voices, feet and metal echoed through the ship. As the captain commanded his men to the cannons, they tore down partition walls. Luggage, timber, ropes and cannon balls tumbled into chaos. Where their cabins had been, passengers now saw heavy artillery pushed into position. Only two or three miles away a fleet of five British warships was preparing to attack. Pingré’s ship veered, zigzagging across the sea with the British looming behind them. Then, the wind suddenly changed and they saw a change to escape.