“Where are the boats?” asked the commander.
“We pulled them up far from the beach and tied them to stakes as an extra precaution.
“Good man. Let’s hope there is still some use for them tomorrow.”
Just then an extra high wave smashed into the land below their feet. Broiling water stormed up the beach and covered the green seam of shrub that separated Strand Street from the sand of the beach. No water got into the street but it was not far away. Calls of dismay rose from the crowd on the wall.
“That was a thirty footer,” called someone.
“Thirty five,” said another.
Nobody was leaving. Commanders ordered their sea coats and fought against the wind which came in ever more powerful gusts. Over the bay the first dark curtains of rain moved in, obscuring the ships further out. Ship’s lanterns started flickering from the masts. Now the watchers could even better observe the up and down movements of their ships as the seas rolled in.
“Look!” said one. “Those lanterns completely disappeared into the trough!” It was clear that there were massive waves out there. Another sea rolled up the beach and touched the edge of Strand Street.
“Now, if that wasn’t a forty footer,” said the first mate of the Engelenburg in awe.
The rain came, blinding and stinging in its ferocity. The party on the wall hid behind the ramparts with its sandbag topping. The ships on the bay were no longer visible. After half an hour somebody made a sensible suggestion and the officers’ corps of the home-bound fleet went below under cover. The commanders crammed into the commodore’s quarters while the junior officers stood around in the hallways. There was nothing anybody could do but nobody suggested going back to their lodgings. They ate together from a meal prepared in the officers’ mess and kept up the vigil. From time to time a junior officer climbed up to the wall and brought back news of developments. It was not getting better.
“Actually, this is very unseasonal,” said commander Steffers of the Standvastigheid.
“The company sailing instructions are clear that Table Bay should be avoided from mid-May to mid-August,” said commodore Van Rijkhoff, confirming that he was doing everything by the book. “This is only March so I must agree with you.”
“At least the company cannot charge us with negligence for anchoring in Table Bay,” said commander Kikker, who had his first command of a ship, the Zoetigheid. Since the incident off Mauritius he had had enough of sea disasters.
“No,” said the commodore, “but the directors will be very upset. You don’t know how they will react.” In a locked drawer of his desk on the Engelenburg there was a scathing report regarding the seamanship of commander Kikker. He was going to take a lot of the blame for the lateness of the convoy.
“I don’t understand this. How can we have tides like this in early autumn?” asked commander De Klerk of the Rotterdam.
“This is just normal high tide. We have the spring tides with us in the northern hemisphere of course,” said commander Schouten, the veteran amongst them. “Which means the problem cannot be the tide. I think we are dealing with an unseasonal storm of extraordinary proportions which has been driving a mass of water before it over a vast stretch of ocean. Now it is pushing all of that into the Bay.”
“My guess is that we still have hope,” said Muller of the Herstelder. “May it be a case of ‘quickly come, quickly go’.” He lifted a glass of rum, which they all needed after the exposure on the wall.
“What else can we do but hope that you are right,” said Schouten, “but this is the Cape of Storms. The Portuguese were right to name it like that. We all know the foul conditions of the Channel and the North Sea but how often do you see waves like these in a lifetime of sailing up there?”
They had to wait until midnight for the sound they all dreaded – a cannon being discharged at regular intervals. Those who were dozing in chairs woke up in a flash and followed the rest out the door, up the dangerously slippery steps and onto the sea wall of the castle. The rain drove ice cold into their faces and down their necks. Over their hunched backs flew entire strips of yellow spume that crashed in the courtyard, showing scant respect for the laboriously stacked sandbags. Eager eyes pierced the darkness but there was nothing to be seen. A few people held lanterns over the side. The whole of Strand Street was awash. It was indeed as if they stood on the quarter deck of a ship, surrounded by the sea. Only the familiar motion was missing.
While they were leaning over the side a wave actually splashed into their faces. “Sixty feet!” shouted a voice. A minute later another cannon started booming in the darkness, and then another. Some cowered behind the ramparts. Others stood in the rain and let it all in as they listened to ship after ship sending its distress signals. Van Rijkhoff was one of those who could not be bothered. The directorship was gone. He knew that now. What was left? It did not take long before he was soaked to the skin but he stood – all of seven hours until the first grey of the new day broke. They counted and recounted. Ten ships had sent distress signals. What happened to them? What happened to the rest?
Behind them and long before daybreak there was the sound of hammering. The soldiers were constructing gibbets, which they carried out into the soggy darkness. It appeared that nobody had slept.
The first light of day brought the answers to many questions. The major thrust of the storm was over. It rained only intermittently and the wind was backing and not so strong anymore. The seas receded. The first thing they could make out was a fish flopping in a wagon wheel rut in the street below them, where its shiny sides reflected the very first suggestions of day. As the light improved, commanders scanned the bay for their ships. They had counted correctly. Only five ships were to be seen out there. As for the rest, they were driven on the rocks to the right, where one could make out several wrecks on the coastline.
Van Rijkhoff’s eyes were drawn to the beach itself. On it, familiar bales, barrels and casks lay strewn about, having been hauled out by the sea from the broken hulls of ships. His mind started calculating the monumental effort and costs involved in bringing these items to this point. He could get no further because he found himself on his knees. His shaking hands grabbed for the rough stone but they had no power in them anymore. Other hands picked him up and carried him down to his bed. There he was diagnosed with a raging fever. The next day he slipped into a coma. The surgeons from the ships and the Cape could not quite agree as to whether it was pneumonia after spending the night on the wall, a recurring attack of the bad airs of Batavia, the pox or perhaps a combination of all three that took him away.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Three centuries later, late on an afternoon brightened up by the sun that found a clear patch of blue in the west and with only a light north-easterly breeze blowing, Grant leaned into the companionway of his sleek ocean cruiser. “Change of the watch!” he called.
This time Madeleine heard him and she responded with a shout that he did not understand but took to mean that she was coming. She was there in five minutes, clearly having slept for some time, even though it was daytime. She was adapting.
“Oh, whow!” she said when she saw the fish steaks in the plastic bucket. “How many is this?”
“Only one. But it was a big fish.” On the camera’s viewer he showed her the selfie that he took of himself and his catch.
“I’m glad I did not have to see it die,” said Madeleine. “It’s such a beautiful fish.”
“Well, now you can see it as food only. I gutted it, cleaned it and cut it into pieces. How you prepare it is for you do decide.”
“There’s way too much for one meal. I’m going to freeze most of it.”
“Makes sense. You go ahead in the galley and I will get an update on the weather. I would like to see how our storm is doing. Hopefully it did not simply die in mid-ocean.”
“Talking about storms, look at that!”
“My, oh my,” said Grant. “Just like this morning!” The sun had dipped into a
loose scattering of clouds and the entire western horizon lighted up in colour. “Now that’s what I call deep purple.”
“And orange, as well as red,” said Madeleine. “I like the way it reflects on the blue of the sea.”
“My eyes are probably playing a trick on me,” said Grant, “but I swear the sun had turned green there for a moment.”
“I saw it too,” said Madeleine. “It’s quite rare but it’s not a trick. I’ve seen it once before. It is something that you only see in the area of the Gulf Stream.”
“Or in the Triangle.”
“If you like.”
They watched the last of the colours disappear and went below. While Madeleine made it sizzle in the galley, Grant downloaded some weather faxes and remembered to keep his scheduled call with the routers. When he turned his attention to the galley she already had four or five healthy steaks in a bowl, all fried up and, Grant had to admit, looking very appetizing. Some potato cubes were sizzling in the yacht’s fryer
“Did you get some of that?” he asked.
“I have. You were too excited for me to miss it, but I did not get it all. I guess our storm is coming?”
“And how!” said Grant. “We are heading straight for the big one. You talk about me getting all excited. You should have heard both Hank and Charlie, the guys I normally talk to on the weather nets. Both of them were practically screaming in my ear.”
“What were they saying?”
“Well, as you’ve probably heard, the tropical storm has been upgraded to a full-blown hurricane.”
“How far are we from it?”
“About a thousand kilometres.”
“So what is so dramatic about it? It might not even affect us. We’ve had this smokiness up in the sky all day long but nothing came of it so far.”
“Maybe it will and maybe it won’t. It’s better not to take chances. If it expands sufficiently they say we might get the right quadrant.”
“Which is the stormy one.”
“Oh, you know about this?”
“Of course I do. A hurricane spins in an anti-clockwise direction. The wind in the right-hand quadrant is made up of its internal wind speed plus the forward speed of the whole system over the water. Everybody on the islands knows these things because we talk a lot of weather. Especially in the hurricane season. I just cannot believe it is a real hurricane. Are you sure you’ve heard correctly?”
“I’m positive. They also said it is unseasonal.”
“July – stand by
August – go you must
September – remember
October – all over” sang Madeleine.
“Now what is that?”
“It’s an old rhyming chant from the days when my forefathers sailed their big ships on these seas. Did you get it? October – all over. This is November.”
“I do. How old is this rhyme?”
“I guess about three or four hundred years. It tells you when you have to take your ship away from the islands and when you can come back. September is the danger time when you should rather be far away doing stuff with your ship in England or some other place. Towards the end of September you can come back because from October onwards we do not get hurricanes here, except on the absolute rarest of occasions. Over in the west yes, in the Gulf of Mexico yes, but not here. It’s been like that for centuries. Why is this now suddenly changing? Or have you perhaps brought the bad weather with you?”
“Me! How can I cause bad weather?” Grant was suddenly angry for no reason.
“I’m only joking. What do you get so upset about?”
“I’m not upset. It’s just that these weather guys said that it’s time to get out of the way.”
“All right, are we going to do something immediately then?”
“I’m not panicking, even though, as I’ve just heard, we are sailing with our bow pointing at a real, live hurricane. I kind of agree with you about these cirrus clouds just sitting there but not bringing anything. Why don’t we see more action in the sky? My feeling is that we are far away and safe. We still have time. What I think we do have is a justification to use the engine. We will turn north and motor, even if it is just to get those guys off my back. But first,” said Grant, eyeing the Mahi-Mahi steaks, “let’s eat.” Grant was definitely feeling a little jittery but he was determined not to show any worry, not when Madeleine seemed to take all the hurricane talk so lightly.
“How fast can we go with the engine,” asked Madeleine as they tucked in.
“Maximum ten knots, but it uses a lot of fuel that way. We’ll never make it to Bermuda with what we have on board. To conserve fuel and give us range, I think we will stick to six knots. It should be enough to outrun the Mahi-Mahi. You’ll be glad for that, I suppose.”
“This one tastes all right,” said Madeleine. They were both eating with their fingers and were squeezing juice from lemons as they went along. They did not bother getting into the cockpit. Grant kept a watch on the radar screen at the navigation station because the temperature outside had suddenly dropped to the lowest so far on their trip. Madeleine gestured with a half-pressed lemon toward Grant.
“You know why they call the Brits limeys, don’t you?”
“I have a feeling you are going to tell me.”
“It’s because British ships always had a large quantity of lemons on board, once they figured out that it prevents scurvy.”
“A lemon a day kept the doctor away. Interesting.”
“And what do they call the Germans?”
“Now you got me.”
“Krauts, and for the same reason. They kept sauerkraut on their ships, also for the scurvy.”
“They should give you a job at the United Nations.”
“Haha, thanks. I just thought you might find it interesting. You don’t look like the type who reads anything other than trading updates and quarterly reviews. I figured that trivia like that would be totally new to you.”
“Oh it is,” said Grant, “and I do find it interesting.”
Even with Grant’s voracious appetite they were left with a piece each that went into the fridge for breakfast the next morning. He stacked all their dirty dishes into the dishwasher, with Madeleine ferrying plates and standing by while he continued to clean the fryer by hand. It was greasy work and he used up a lot of dishwashing liquid.
“All right,” he said, when all was done. “Let’s get to the real work.”
They furled until the yacht stood on the choppy sea with bare poles. Grant pushed the start button of the engine and brought the bow around until the compass read due north if you allowed for the small deviation. They waited until the boat reached a speed of just over six knots. Then he set the throttle and the automatic pilot and nodded formally to Madeleine who stood by expectantly, in full anticipation to do her duty.
“The bridge is yours,” said Grant formally, and left.
Madeleine stuck her headphones on and even though she was not required watch the sails, out of habit placed herself on the windward side.
It was a dark night. The moon peeked only occasionally from between heavy, drifting clouds and when it did so it had a distinct halo, a bit like the sun had during the day, only stronger. To the south-east, where the danger was, there was an even thicker haziness, the same that they had seen during the day. It obscured all but the brightest stars. She scrutinised the horizon on that side a lot but there seemed to be no change and she reckoned that it was now confirmed that they had given this one a miss. To the north she could not make out the familiar Pole Star either. A bank of cloud, about a hand above the horizon, obscured it. A cold wind blew from that direction, or to be exact, from north-northeast, a bearing that she confirmed from the compass. She shivered and went below to get a windbreaker, the first time she had to wear one on the trip. As she passed Grant’s cabin she could hear him snore.
***
Since the sorcerers had left, things changed around the mountain. Each century brought on new enc
roachments on its flanks, a sign of the industry of new farmers that succeeded earlier generations. The mountain’s resident spirit was also restive, moving on the night airs toward the people in the valleys, seeking, always seeking, testing the spirits. Where was it going to find a mind susceptible to its proddings?
Over the years it succeeded in having exciting liaisons with inhabitants of the valleys. They came and they went, often leaving decaying ruins behind where once houses had stood. Such a collection of ruins was a place where an entire complement of slaves had lived. The spirit enjoyed himself there and it was a pity when the time had come for these people to go the way of all temporary things.
It was with interest then that it observed the old quarters being rebuilt, no longer for slaves, since slavery had long been abolished, but as accommodation for souls who felt the need for solace in the farm-scapes, away from the bustle of the university town of Stellenbosch and even further away from the commercial hub of Cape Town.
Usually these were people of some artistic bent, a potter here and a painter there. There were little communities of them, dotted all around the farms. Curiously, the valley seemed to have a peculiar attraction for people with French surnames. They wore their berets jauntily while they recreated La Provence amongst the vine leaves, catching the mountains and the vineyards in delicate pencil strokes in remembrance of their forefathers who broke the virgin soil of the area with heavier implements in calloused hands. Others were simply teachers, a lawyer or two, students and university lecturers.
In these quarters, so gladly visited by the spirit of the mountain centuries ago, lived a university lecturer of around thirty. He combined painting and teaching. He was well aware that the little grouping of restored cottages of which he occupied one, was an old slave compound and he was proud of it. He even had his picture taken at the arch that housed the ancient slave bell. The second of the three cottages housed a student in the divinities with his wife and child and the last one two middle-aged spinsters who practiced pottery, which they burnt in their specially built kiln.
The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure Page 17
