“This tablet is erected as a memorial of the eleven fishermen of Worthing who on the 25th of November 1850 gallantly put off in an open boat to assist a vessel, the Lalla Rookh, in distress but perished in their humane attempt, and also a memorial of the great mercy of the almighty, who so stirred the hearts of the benevolent that the large sum of five thousand pounds and upwards was raised as a relief and support for the bereaved families and as an encouragement of brave exertion by the cause of humanity.” (From the “Tablet” in the Broadwater Church).

I’m standing in the grounds of the Broadwater Church, and these two separate worlds of scattered roses have converged. I have come here to visit the burying ground of the eight fishermen who washed ashore. At the side of the church, on a small patch of freshly cropped grass, I have found a scattering of pink rose petals, now wilted and turning brown. The remains, I assume, of a recent wedding.

They closed the cemetery at Broadwater Church not long after the eight fishermen’s bodies were interred. This was because of space, and a much larger cemetery was developed a short distance west, a cemetery which is itself now full and closed to burials. The church and the cemetery are enclosed by a low stone wall but beyond this wall, the open fields that defined the area in the 1850s has long been developed and the church now feels crowded into an awkwardly shaped plot of land. Still, the wall and the mature trees give the place a sense of sanctuary, cut of from the four-lane road and shops of Broadwater Street.

I wander the section in back of the church, the area where the dates on surviving stones are circa 1850, but none of the names of the eight are evident. From what I’ve read of the local history, the markers are long gone, although within the church there is a “tablet” that lists the names of the eleven. I am drawn to the edge of the cemetery and the skeletons of several rose bushes, the few remaining leaves are crisp and brown, their blossoms reduced to a few dry hips. The bushes cling to the stone wall, and as I follow the stems down to their dead black stalks, I notice for the first time the flat stones that line the base of the wall, fallen markers cast aside. With no family to maintain the plot, the grave fades back into plain earth, left to be engulfed by grass and bushes. Like the cultivated roses that require attention and nurture to survive.

Earlier that day I walked along the water, stopping to talk to the local fishermen who had just come in from “about five miles out.” I asked if they knew of the Lalla Rookh and the tragedy of November 1850, but none did. I look down at the stones once more. They are blank. Perhaps their text has been worn away or, maybe, they’ve been turned face down like bodies drifting on the open sea. I can see that lone swimmer drifting back to shore and remember the three fishermen who never returned.

Search the West Sussex Past Pictures archive using the term “Broadwater”