The Horns of the Buffalo (8 page)

Simon was horrified. ‘Good lord. What a terrible state of affairs. Does the captain know?'

‘I should think so. But och, this is no' unusual. In this sort of trade - and I'm talking about shipping emigrants, soldiers an' the like - there are never enough boats to carry everyone.' He wrinkled his eyes and looked up at the foretops'1, now drawing comfortably. ‘An' it doesn't really matter. In storm conditions and wi' these sort of passengers, few small boats would stand any chance of surviving. The best hope is to trust to the ship. She's a good old tub and won't let us down.'

Simon frowned, not at all reassured. The
Devonia
was far from young, one didn't have to be a sailor to know that, and during the Biscay storm it had seemed to him that she had laboured disturbingly. ‘But isn't it possible,' he asked, ‘just to be told how the boats are launched?'

The Scotsman looked at him wearily. ‘Yer a wee bit persistent, aren't you? All right. I'll show you. But don't go around upsetting the army, or we'll never get to the Cape.'

The two walked to where the white-painted boats hung from their davits and the Mate showed Simon how, by breaking out a handle from its lashing, it was possible to winch out a longboat and lower it into the sea and then uncouple the lowering cables. He pointed out the four pairs of oars lashed inboard and the casks of water stowed under the bow. ‘But I shouldna attempt to drink the stuff unless you can lace it wi' a dram,' he confided. ‘It's all o' two years old.'

The conversation disconcerted Simon, and despite the Mate's request, he felt bound to report it to the Major. Baxter was quite unmoved. ‘I think we can trust the captain to know what he is doing,' he said. ‘There will be enough boats to go around, I am certain of that. Anyway, I am sure that we are over the worst of the weather.'

But they were not. Another twelve days of clear blue skies and placid seas ushered them over the Equator and down the west coast of Africa, until, when they were a couple of days short of Cape Town and closing in on the coast, a cold wind sprang up from the south-west. It brought with it the icy malevolence of the Antarctic, causing spume-drifting crests to fly like tattered veils from the top of the waves.

The force of the wind increased and the vessel began to sustain a succession of keel-wrenching shocks from the seas breaking heavily on the starboard bow. The black hours of night brought no respite and there was no escaping the crashing noise as the seas pounded the iron plates. The ship pitched and rolled, creaking and sighing, her top spars swinging through an inconsistent arc as they seemed almost to kiss the white rollers. There was no sleep for anyone, and this time, sickness could not divert the soldiers from the fear they felt.

At about five a.m. a loud explosion came from within the ship, strong enough to boom above the howling of the wind and crashing of the sea. Unable to sleep, Simon was standing amidships, clinging to a stanchion by the main mast. He felt the vessel lose her momentum and swing around, presenting her starboard side to the sea.

‘What's happened?' he demanded of a sailor rushing by. The man shouted unintelligibly and disappeared down a hatchway.

The ship was now rolling violently as the great broken-topped swells, surging unchecked across the South Atlantic Ocean, hit her hard a'starboard. The cross trees near the masthead were now swinging consistently in their obeisance to the waves. It seemed to Simon, clinging now to the main mast itself, that all way had been lost and that the ship was doomed to turn turtle. Then the
Devonia
began to tremble with engine life and slowly, very slowly, her head came round and she began to butt into the sea again, albeit with much less vigour, as though she was tired of the struggle.

The Major materialised out of the darkness. ‘Get your men to their muster stations,' he half mouthed, half shouted above the roar of wind and sea.

‘What's happened?'

‘One of the boilers has blown. We are making way again but it is devilishly hard work. We must be ready for anything.'

Simon lurched his way across the corkscrewing deck and plunged below to the for'ard quarters. One lantern only swung from the deckhead, revealing a nightmarish scene of white faces and shrouded figures, some lying, some kneeling, a few standing and clinging to the bunk posts. The smell of vomit assaulted Simon's nostrils. He caught a glimpse of Jenkins, fully dressed and wearing his greatcoat. He nodded approvingly.

‘Fall in at the muster station,' Simon shouted. ‘Look lively. Break out your greatcoats and put them on. Leave everything else. Sergeant Laxer?' But the NCO in charge was lying uselessly on the deck. ‘Jenkins.'

‘Sir.'

‘Make sure everyone is wearing his greatcoat before he climbs the ladder. It's freezing up there.'

‘Where's yours, then?'

‘Damn you, Jenkins. Do as you're told.'

Simon turned and climbed up the companionway. On deck he bumped into the Third Mate and caught his sleeve. ‘What chance have we got?' he asked.

The young sailor put his mouth close to Simon's ear. ‘We're running on only one boiler. The Chief is trying to repair the one that's blown.' He grinned. ‘He's a Scotsman, so he'll do it. Trouble is that we're not really makin' enough headway to stop us from being blown towards the lee shore about ten miles away. So it's a bit of a race against time.'

‘Can we help?'

‘Nae, laddie.' He grinned again. ‘This is man's work. It's no' for tin soldiers.' And he picked his way forward, oilskins glistening.

Simon made his way to the muster point where a wretched bunch of infantrymen were beginning to accumulate - all, he was glad to see, greatcoated against the biting south-west wind. Suddenly, something was thrown over his shoulders.

‘Put that on, bach,' said Jenkins, ‘and set a proper example.'

‘To hell with you, Jenkins,' said Simon. But he buttoned up the coat. ‘Pay attention now,' he shouted against the wind. ‘There's a problem in the engine room but we are in no immediate danger. We have mustered you on deck now to save time in case we need to abandon ship. But this is most unlikely. Now line up in the lee of the deckhouse. No one is to move from here.'

He looked at Sergeant Laxer, who was leaning against the deckhouse, his eyes closed and head down, wretched from sea-sickness. There were no corporals in his batch. His gaze sought Jenkins. The little man, buoyed up by the danger and activity, had lost his own nausea and was now looking at Simon intently, water dripping from his black moustache. Catching Simon's eye, he nodded, almost imperceptibly.

‘Private Jenkins 352 will be in charge until further notice,' yelled Simon.

‘Is there pay, then?' enquired Jenkins, as conversationally as the storm would allow.

‘Report to me any man who leaves this station.'

‘Very good, sir.'

Simon staggered aft, looking for Major Baxter. He eventually found him on the bridge, talking to the ship's captain, who glared at Simon from under his soaking cap. ‘Get off my bridge,' he shouted.

Ignoring him, Simon addressed the Major. ‘I'd like a word, sir.'

Without argument, the Major followed him to the deck below. ‘What is it, Fonthill?'

‘I have no idea how bad things are, sir, but I think we should get the men dressed in greatcoats if they are to remain on deck in this wind. And sir . . .'

‘Yes.' The Major had lost any air of superiority. He knew exactly how to withstand a concentrated barrage of shells but this chaos at sea presented problems that were beyond him. His nerve held - as, for the moment, did his stomach - for he was a brave man. But he felt powerless in these alien conditions. The skipper of the ship was taciturn, unhelpful and, of course, busy. Major Baxter did not know what to do for the best.

‘It is possible, sir,' shouted Simon, ‘that we may have to abandon the ship if we get caught on the lee shore. Do we have any instructions on how to launch the lifeboats?'

‘No. I presume that the crew will do all that.'

Simon shook his head and saltwater sprayed from his nose and forehead. ‘They may, but I know there are not enough boats to take all of our men. If the worst comes to the worst, we cannot afford to have a panic, and anyway, there may not be time for the crew to launch every boat or to show us how to do it.'

‘So. What are you suggesting?'

‘I know how to launch the boats. Let me show the other officers and let us muster by the boats to save time in case we have to use them quickly.' He looked anxiously into the doubting face of the older man. ‘I do think it advisable, sir.'

‘Oh, very well, Fonthill. Tell each muster station to detail two men to fetch greatcoats. Then we will re-muster. I will allocate the boats to each party.'

Dawn was now breaking weakly and the dim light, although only a slight shading of the sky to the east from black to grey, helped the soldiers to make their way to the boats. Deck hands were now attempting to set storm sails and bracing the yards round to harness some of the wind's force to claw a few points to windward. The attempt failed as the mainsail split with a crack like a whiplash.

Once the troops had huddled in detachments by the lifeboats, Simon visited each officer in charge and pointed out the handle lashed to the davits and passed on the instructions for swinging out and lowering. At each new muster point, his eye quickly estimated each group of soldiers and attempted to measure them against the size of the boat. He had no idea how exactly they matched but there were clearly too many men for the space available. He also realised that, if all the boats were to be used, then the ship would have to be either bow or stern on to the sea. A beam sea would tilt the vessel over and prevent at least half of the boats from being swung out. So perhaps the measurement of men to boat space was pointless anyway.

He hurried back to his own detachment. As he neared his men, he sensed a difference in deportment in them to the others. Jenkins was out in front, one hand swinging to and fro. The whole detachment was also swaying - but not in time to the ship's crazy convolutions. They were singing! ‘Guide Me, Oh Thou Great Redeemer', reedy but unmistakable, could be detected above the roar of the storm. Even the Sergeant was attempting to mouth the words.

Jenkins looked up impassively as Simon approached. ‘I thought we'd 'ave a bit of compulsory recreation while we was waitin' for our swim, like,' he shouted, half apologetically. ‘It was better than doin' nothing, see.'

‘Jenkins, you're a genius.'

‘Oh, I know that. But is there money in it?'

The growing light seemed to bring a slight diminution in the storm. The wind had undoubtedly dropped a little, but the seas seemed as high. And it was clear that, try as she may, the
Devonia
was losing her battle to make significant headway to the south-west, away from the dreaded lee shore. Gamely she pushed her starboard shoulder into the serried waves, but the impression that she was being forced back was inescapable.

Simon climbed into the ratlines and, shielding his eyes against the spray, strained to look to the east. There was no horizon, only a few hundred yards of high, spume-tossed waves, marching and crashing towards the South African coast. Nothing more was to be seen, although . . . what was that? A new sound imposed itself above the roar of the storm. At first intermittent, it gradually became a dull, consistent booming. Breakers.

How near was the shore? He strained to see, but still could not penetrate that wall of sea and wind-driven rain. Obviously it was near, because he could hear the sound coming to him against the wind's direction. He leaped down and ran towards the bridge. The Major and the ship's captain were still together, the latter shouting something down the voicepipe, presumably to the engine room.

‘Sir,' shouted Simon. ‘Breakers on the eastern beam.'

‘Damn,' cursed the skipper. ‘What's the bloody look-out doing?' He rushed out on to the open eastern wing of the bridge and directed his binoculars, as though he had no faith in Simon's report.

‘Breakers off the port beam, sir.' The call came dimly from the crosstrees above.

The captain swung round. ‘I can see 'em now. Mr Blakeley,' he called to the First Mate. ‘Get a sea anchor rigged directly and trail it from the stern to bring the bows into the sea. Major, muster your men and allocate them evenly to each boat.'

‘I've already done that, Captain.'

The seaman gave Baxter a quick, appraising glance. ‘Have you now. Good. We'll try and see if we can hold our own but we'll not be able to unless the storm abates. If we have to abandon ship, I'll allocate an officer to each boat. The lucky thing is that if we are where I believe we are, there's a gap in the reef ahead and the lifeboats will stand a fair chance of making the beach.'

He quickly looked about him, without expression. ‘But this old tub is too big to get through without power in this storm. If she hits the rocks, we'll never be able to launch the boats. So it's a question of timing. Stand firm until I give the order.'

‘Very good, Captain,' said the Major. He turned to Simon. ‘You heard what the skipper said, Fonthill. Tell each muster party to stand by its boat but under no circumstances to try and board it or launch until we have the order. In any case, we should wait until a ship's officer arrives to direct us.'

Simon frowned. ‘But . . .' he began, but thought better of it. ‘Very good, sir.'

He half fell down the bridge companionway and relayed the order to each muster party, leaving his own until last. Jenkins was still in control and he looked keenly at Simon as he arrived.