The Horns of the Buffalo

by John Wilcox

  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.

  ‘You all right, sir? No nerves or anything?’

  Simon regarded him speechlessly. It had not occurred to him - so active had he been, so completely caught up in the dangers of the situation - that he had experienced no sinking sensation, no feelings of fear at all. His breathlessness came only from the hectic dash from the bridge. The only taste in his mouth was from the salt and the spray. He was elated, not collapsing. He was not afraid!

  He laughed joyously at his staunch, bedraggled servant. ‘Jenkins, look you, bach,’ he cried. ‘I am absolutely fine.’

  Jenkins sucked in his moustache and raised his eyebrows in mock resignation. ‘Oh, well then, everything’s all right, isn’t it? We’re all goin’ to drown, look you, but you feel fine. Things couldn’t be better.’

  The rigging of the sea anchor was completed and the contraption - an awkward triangle of heavy spars and tarpaulin - was paid out over the stern and had the immediate effect of turning the ship’s head into the oncoming sea. There she stayed, stoically taking her punishment. But was she holding her own or was the sea still forcing her towards the rocks and the shore?

  At this point, the cloud of spray and rain to the stern of the ship lifted for a moment and provided the answer. About two hundred yards away, the sea thundered in creaming white lines on to a row of rocks. They were partly submerged but revealed themselves threateningly as each breaker retreated. To the right, however, there was a break in the reef through which a beach could just be discerned in the distance.

  Immediately, a steam whistle sounded from the bridge and seamen began running across the deck. From a companionway amidships grimy, blinking figures emerged and looked about them with white faces. If the engine room men were leaving their stations, reasoned Simon, then the whistle signalled Abandon Ship.

  ‘Jenkins.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Climb into the longboat. Look. See that winch? Be prepared to turn it to lower the boat once it has swung out. You,’ he turned to the soldier standing next to Jenkins, ‘do the same with the winch in the stern. Be sure to lower at the same rate or you will tip everyone out into the sea. But don’t lower until the boat is full and until I give the order.’

  Awkwardly, encumbered by their big coats, the two men climbed into the longboat and began inspecting the mechanism. Simon struggled with the lashing holding the winch handle that would swing the davits out. Eventually, it broke free. He looked about him.

  ‘Fonthill.’ The Major ran up. ‘You must not launch until I give the order and until we have a ship’s officer with us.’

  ‘No, sir. But where is he?’

  In truth, it was difficult to detect much on deck, so steeply was the Devonia pitching in the now shallower sea and so thickly was the spray being thrown aboard. Forward, however, a group of sailors could just be seen, swinging out a lifeboat while a bedraggled muster of soldiers watched them.

  ‘See,’ cried the Major. ‘We must wait our turn.’

  ‘No. No. Look!’ They watched in horror as the seamen suddenly jumped into the boat and began lowering it. Belatedly, the soldiers moved forward and attempted to board the swinging boat. About ten of them succeeded. But another dozen or more tried to jump into the craft as it was being lowered some eight feet below the rail of the ship. Four of them fell into the white water below, their despairing cries hardly heard above the roar of the storm. The others crashed on to the sailors who were already overcrowding the lifeboat, tipping the boat fatally to starboard and precipitating all its occupants into the sea. The boat then hung there forlornly, crashing into the iron plates of the ship’s side.

  ‘Oh my God,’ sighed the Major.

  ‘Never mind them,’ cried a strong Scottish voice clearly above the noise of the gale. ‘They’re the bluidy Laskars. Don’t panic.’ The Third Mate turned to Simon. ‘Can yer remember what I told yer about swingin’ out, launchin’ an’ all that?’

  Simon nodded.

  ‘Then get on wi’ it. I’ll help the others. Major, you’d better get in here. There’s nae goin’ to be too much room in the boats.’ He gave a sad grin to Simon.

  Baxter looked at Simon. ‘You’d better carry on, son,’ he shouted. ‘You’ve got your first command now. Sorry it’s at sea.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Simon called to Jenkins. ‘Unlash the oars and distribute them to the men who man the middle thwarts, once they’re on board. Oh, to hell, man. What’s the matter now?’

  ‘What’s a thwart, then, when it’s at ’ome?’

  ‘The seats, dammit. The seats.’

  ‘Oh, very goo - aye, aye, sir.’

  Simon turned to his men. ‘Climb on board in single file. Slowly, so you don’t start the boat swinging. Fill up from the front. Go on. Move yourselves.’

  He turned to the Major. ‘Would you like to go amidships, sir?’

  Baxter gripped his shoulder and smiled. ‘No thanks, my boy. You’ll do well enough without me. Did you instruct the others on how to handle the launching of these things?’

  ‘As best I could, sir.’

  The Major nodded. ‘Good. Then I’ll make sure everyone that can gets away. I will take the last boat. Off you go, Fonthill, and may God go with you. We will watch what you do.’ He turned and lurched away up the pitching deck to the next boat.

  Simon supervised the loading of the lifeboat and then came to the decision he had dreaded. Nine men, including himself, could find no room in the crowded hull. He turned to the little group left on deck. ‘Any non-swimmers here?’ Whether they had not heard the question or didn’t comprehend it he would never know, but no hand was raised.

  ‘Good. Now we will take off our greatcoats and boots and, once the boat is safely launched, we will jump into the sea.’ He looked towards the shore. ‘The beach is near enough to swim to, but I don’t recommend it in these seas.’ He tried to sound sanguine but his matter-of-fact manner was diluted by the need to shout. ‘Each of you must strike out for the boat and seize those ropes hanging down.’ He pointed to the tarred ropes that were looped along the side of the longboat. ‘But don’t just hang there. Hold on and kick out. It will keep you warm and help to propel the boat.’

  He inserted the handle into the winch and, with an effort, for the mechanism was rusty, wound the longboat out between its davits. ‘Right, 352,’ he shouted. ‘Lower away carefully. Do it together to stop the boat tipping.’

  Jenkins stood up, none too steadily. ‘Come on board then, sir,’ he called.

  ‘No. You are full enough already. We shall jump into the water and swim to you and hold on to the loops. If any man in the water tries to climb on board, knock him back. You will swamp if you add to the people on board.’

  Jenkins shook his head. ‘Don’t be stupid, bach,’ he called. ‘We must take you.’

  ‘Don’t be impertinent. Do as you are told. Once you are in the water, pull away to the right and back water with the oars - oh, for God’s sake, that means rowing backwards to hold the boat steady - till we all swim to you and gain a handhold. Then keep the stern - the back - of the boat to the waves and pull as hard as you can. We can ride the waves on to the beach if we are lucky.’

  He could not help but smile at the look of complete dejection on the face of Jenkins. ‘Now, lower away steadily. Good luck. Think of Colour Sergeant Cole.’

  The boat was bucking between its davits, matching the pitching of the ship, but by some miracle the lowering process went smoothly enough so that the keel kissed the water sweetly. As it did so, Jenkins and the other man at the hoists smartly disconnected the blocks and the boat was a free thing, pitching and rolling. Simon had a momentary impression of Jenkins, standing like some latter-day Bligh in the stern, urging on the rowers, and then t
he little vessel began to pull away from the Devonia.

  ‘Now.’ He turned to his soldiers, standing coatless and bootless on the wet deck, trying to keep their balance as the ship pitched ever more sickeningly in the shallow sea. ‘Over with you. Strike out for the boat but don’t try and board her. It’ll be fifty lashes for anyone who does.’

  One of the infantrymen demurred. ‘But sir,’ he cried, ‘we shall freeze down there.’

  ‘Not so,’ Simon answered as he threw off his coat and unlaced his boots. ‘We are cold now because of this south-west storm that comes from Antarctica. But it is only early autumn in these waters and the sea temperature has not had time to fall by more than a couple of degrees. We shall not freeze. Come on. Let’s go.’

  Not trusting himself to look down, Simon held his nose, climbed over the rail and leaped. The water was cold, green and shocking but not, as he had rationalised, freezing. Down, down, he went, pulled down as much by the weight of his clothing as by the force of his jump. Kicking frantically, he gained the surface, to be hit by the foot of one of the soldiers striking out for the boat. He looked around him. The side of the Devonia loomed above him and he kicked out away from it, filled by the danger of being caught by the big ship’s propeller. In the trough of the giant waves he could see nothing and he had little idea of whether he was striking out for the lifeboat or towards the open sea. Then, as he was lifted by a roller, he caught a glimpse of the boat, desperately low in the water but still afloat, about a hundred yards away.

  He swam as hard as he could, feeling impotent amidst the turmoil of the sea, until an oar materialised in front of his face. He grabbed it and then, realising that he might pull down the rower, released it. Somehow, above the storm, he heard the unmistakable bellow of Jenkins: ‘No, no. Hang on to the bloody thing, man.’ Gratefully he clung to it and was pulled to the side of the boat, close enough to grab a loop. He saw another man hanging in front of him and felt the presence of another, behind.

  Jenkins was standing again in the stern. ‘Now, boyos, pull, damn you all, pull. Pull like your lives depend on it, because, blast you, they do.’

  Simon tried to shout to Jenkins to make sure that each of the swimmers had a handhold and that none were left behind, but he lacked the breath. He hung on to the rope and tried to kick. The boat yawed and pitched but Simon could tell that it was beginning to make progress. Then, as a wave caught it, it surged ahead, so that immense pressure was exerted on Simon’s arm holding the rope and his feet were thrown up behind him, trailing in the wake. The soldier ahead of Simon suddenly lost his hold and disappeared and Simon realised that, unless someone was steering - and he had forgotten to give orders about this - the boat would be swept on to the rocks. He looked aft and saw the reassuring figure of Jenkins, his eyes bulging, water pouring over him, but standing erect, riding the roller-coaster and hanging on to the tiller for dear life.

  He did not know how long the surging ride took but it seemed only seconds before the keel grounded on the shingle with a crash and he was thrown clear into the surf, to be tumbled over and over until, on hands and knees, he was able to crawl on to the beach. He turned his head to see the lifeboat now completely capsized, but with survivors lying about him. He tried to stand but sank back on to the sand.

  The sky was lighter and the wind seemed to have abated a little, although the seas rushing on to the beach through the break in the reef still seemed to be mountainous. Far out, he could discern the black mass of the ship. She now seemed inanimate, no longer moving with the sea but firm and unyielding. He realised that she must have been thrown on to the reef. More importantly, however, the seas were dotted with lifeboats, sadly overloaded but surging towards the shore.

  He looked about him. To his left but crawling towards him was Jenkins, greatcoat still buttoned to his neck, his hair plastered down and his moustache looking like some small black rodent he had caught with his nose. Simon felt a flood of warmth at seeing his servant.

  ‘You all right, sir? Good.’

  Simon held out his hand. ‘Well done, Admiral. Welcome to South Africa.’

  The little Welshman took the hand, shook it and then collapsed on to the sand. ‘Thank you, sir. I enjoyed the pleasure cruise, indeed I did. Is this where the tropical bit starts?’

  The two lay exhausted for a few minutes and then Simon rose to his feet and mustered the survivors to wade into the surf to catch the bows of the longboats that now began to approach the shore. Eight of them were brought in, some with soldiers still clinging to the lifesaving loops, but mostly unencumbered. In the last boat was Major Baxter, with the Third Mate. Of the captain of the SS Devonia there was no sign.

  They had made their landfall only twenty-five miles north of Cape Town, agonisingly close to the harbour there. Of the 250 soldiers, sixty-three had perished, as had thirteen of the crew of twenty-five. The captain of the ship was among them. No one had seen him leave the bridge and it was presumed that he had gone down with his ship. For the Devonia had not lasted long on the reef. She had broken up quite quickly under the pounding of the waves, and once the storm had subsided, all that could be seen of her was the tip of her mainmast showing above the reef and a fragment of her stern.

  Once the muster had been taken, the Major assumed command briskly. He was a different man on terra firma, back in his element and sure of himself. The dismal task of burying the bodies washed ashore was undertaken and wagons and oxen, with drivers, were commandeered from local farms to take the survivors to Cape Town. Two days after the shipwreck, Simon was accommodated in the officers’ mess of the staff of the Commander of the Imperial Forces in South Africa, Sir Arthur Cunnyngham.

  Shortly after his arrival, he was summoned to a small office that had been allocated to Major Baxter. The gunner shook his hand warmly.

  ‘I want you to know, Fonthill,’ he said, ‘that I believe you behaved with gallantry and great presence of mind during this whole disaster. In fact, I would have recommended you for a decoration but, as you know, these can only be awarded for distinguished service in the face of the enemy.’

  He smiled wryly. ‘In fact, I never want to face an enemy which could put the fear of God into me as that sea did. But the fact remains that I cannot commend you in this way. However, I have mentioned you in my dispatches - and I have done so also for your servant, who steered that first boat so admirably and showed the rest of us how to do it.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Major,’ said Simon.

  ‘Oh - there’s one other thing. I would like to write directly to your CO to tell him how well you behaved. Please give me a note of his name and where I might contact him.’

  A slow smile spread across Simon’s face. ‘Thank you, sir, I will do that. He will be so gratified to hear from you.’

  Chapter 4

  Those first four days in Cape Town were happy ones for Simon. The Commander-in-Chief and the whole staff were up-country, so he was left to his own devices and was able to relax and begin to explore the strange and beautiful terrain surrounding the small town. Most of all, however, he warmed at the thought that Baxter would be mentioning him in his dispatches. ‘Behaved with gallantry,’ he had said. Gallantry! The word rolled off his tongue deliciously. What’s more, it would stay on his record at Horse Guards and surely offset whatever calumny Covington would have entered. No cowardice. No more self-doubts. With a light heart, he requisitioned a horse and, with an eye to the future, set himself to regain some familiarity with the saddle. He intervened with the bored staff captain who was in charge of administration in Cape Town and secured the company of Jenkins for his rides of exploration.

  His relationship with his servant had matured into one of easy familiarity-a relationship without embarrassment on either side but one that would have shocked any senior officer who witnessed it. For Simon, Jenkins had become an indispensable, warm part of his life, and although both would have died rather than openly acknowledge it, the association had deepened into one of mutual respect since
the shipwreck. Drinking remained Jenkins’s problem and, during the interminable months in the depot, only Simon’s intervention with the Guard Commander had twice prevented the little Welshman from being put under arrest for drunk and disorderly behaviour. So far in Cape Town, however, Jenkins had remained surprisingly sober. A further surprise came when Simon realised that 352 was a more than competent horseman. The stocky infantryman mounted with the accomplished ease of a dragoon and sat erect, holding the reins with soft hands.

  ‘Where did you learn to ride, Jenkins, for goodness’ sake?’ Simon asked as the two set out early for Table Mountain.

  ‘It was the farm, see, when I was little. When he wasn’t beatin’ me, my da would let me sit on the horse when he was ploughin’. Then, later on, when I used to muck out the stables at the big farmhouse, they would let me ride the ponies sometimes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you join the cavalry, then?’

  ‘I didn’t fancy wearin’ those tin shirts an’ funny ’elmets. An’ anyway,’ he sucked his moustache reflectively, ‘I didn’t really ’ave much choice, see.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was bricklayin’ in Birmingham, look you, and I’d ’ad a drink or two and got into a small discussion with the foreman. He ’it me with a shovel so I ’it him back with my hod. I didn’t get paid off, see . . .’

  Simon gingerly pressed his heels into his horse’s flanks and nodded. ‘That seems reasonable.’

  ‘No. But I only ’ad threepence left.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I ’ad another drink to think about what to do next. The 24th was recruitin’ outside the pub.’ Jenkins grinned at the recollection. ‘You’ll never guess who was standin’ there in ’is red tunic and polished buttons, shoutin’ out the odds.’

  ‘Oh, I think I can. Colour Sergeant Cole?’