It was to find the ringleader, that Archer and I were called up and hauled over the coals.
I always think it was a good thing, that the half deck crowd of the Holt Hill was broken up, and scattered amongst other ships of the Line; I think, as a combination — not forgetting Old Jock who loved a lark as well as any of us — we were just a bit too hot for our own welfare.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SEA FIGHTS AND CYCLONES
I soon got my marching orders, and joined up again, with a happy half deck crowd in the old Primrose Hill, we were particularly cheery, and, for the very good reason, we were bound for the Cape, and not for that monotonous nitrate coast where 50 per cent of sailing ships were now making their way. Steamers were quickly nobbling all the decent trades and ports. Cape Town was one of the few left, and that only till the docks and breakwater were finished.
We got away from England in September, which meant we should dodge the winter in the north and pick up the spring and summer again down south.
It always seems as though a ship on leaving port would never get clear of the accumulated muck and dirt, and we were no exception. Scrubbing decks, washing paintwork, and reeving new running gear till again she was all spick and span.
I was now in my fourth year and was expected to be able to get through any job that came my way, with all the despatch, accuracy, and neatness of a fully — fledged A.B. No longer one of the "skysail yarders." Anything up there was for first and second voyagers; nothing above a Royal for me now. As a matter of fact I was working just below the Royal yard one day, when I saw staged, a fight to a finish between a full grown bull whale, a sword fish, and a thrasher. In point of fact, the latter two do the attacking, and the whale does the running, or tries to, but it's not once in ten times that the poor devil escapes. Sometimes he does by sounding, and going down so deep that the sword fish cannot follow. But if the sword fish once gets in a position under the whale's tail, there's very little chance for that manњuvre, as every time he attempts to sound, the sword fish drives home that vicious 4ft. bone snout, and sends the whale scuttling to the surface.
The thrasher (grampus of old) can only attack from above. He has two enormous fins, anything up to five feet long. One projecting from his back, and one from underneath, a short chopped off body and no tail. When the sword fish attacks and drives the whale to the surface, the thrasher then leaps out of the water, and lands on the whale's back, driving deep, one of those knife-like fins.
We had a ring side seat, and watched the fight from start to finish. It's not enough to say it was thrilling, which does not convey much; it was more than that, it was terrific, and almost unheard of. Even the watch on deck knocked off to (see) the sight.It did not last long, but it was terrible while it did last, to see that fifty ton whale thrashing the water into foam, in a vain endeavour to land one or the other attacker with its flail like flukes. At other times flinging its whole huge bulk right up in the air, and coming down on the water with a report like a 12 inch gun. Again, tearing round in circles, leaving a trail of blood and foam.
Then as suddenly as it started, it was over, and the old bull whale was dead, and then, from every quarter, came the scavengers of the sea, sharks, barracuta (sic) and so forth.
We were lying becalmed on a sea like glass, and nothing would have given some of us greater pleasure than to shove off and go to the assistance of the bull; but there is a trite saying from across the pond, "Don't monkey with a buzz saw."
The trip down the Cape was the same routing as with most any ship bound south. Across the one and only Bay, down past the western Isles, through the Roaring Forties and into the Trades. Then the pulley-hauling of the yards, working her through the Doldrums and across the Line. More Doldrums, plenty of fish, and torrents of rain till we picked up the S.E. Trades, and started to stretch away for the Cape in earnest.
Eventually we lifted the renowned Table Mountain above the horizon and finally came to anchor in Table Bay.
At this time the notorious breakwater was still under construction, and, although representing a cool million, cost the Colony little or nothing, as it was almost wholly built of convict labour.
It was a cheery gang that laboured there. "So many months," or "so many years on the breakwater," was a common saying, and quickly applied to anyone who was apt to sail a bit too close to the wind. Many proved I.D.B.'s — and many that were not proved — subscribed their little quota to that breakwater; in fact, culprits of petty crimes, which in the ordinary way would have been met with a small fine, were joyfully consigned to carry out Cape Town's ambitious scheme, of protecting the bay with that huge rampart of granite and stone. There is no doubt it was needed, for many and many a ship's bones lie rotting on the beach in Table Bay through lack of protection from the dreaded nor'wester.
First comes the "table cloth" on the mountain. Then the notorious south-easter, which literally brings fine stones and gravel skeltering down from the heights above. That is all right for the ships in the harbour; they are sheltered, but the fun commences when the wind swings round and comes screeching out of the nor'-west. Then the sea and the wind drive right straight into the harbour, and in those days it was a common sight to see a dozen or more sailing ships riding stretched out to their anchors.
On the occasion of which I am speaking in the Primrose Hill, when we rode out a black nor'wester, we paid out 120 fathoms on each anchor, and that is the limit of the cable carried. On to each cable we bent the end of a thirteen inch coir hawser (thirteen inches in diameter); this was laid along the decks and made fast to the mooring bits.
These preparations were, necessarily, carried out before the wind shifted round. Once the sea came into the harbour it was impossible to get forward along the decks.
Ships then are to be seen diving into hugh seas, in far worse condition than when out at sea under shortened canvas. Shipping them green over the bows, and everybody hoping against hope that the ground tackle will hold. It sometimes happens that one anchor, or even the coir spring on some ship will carry away. Then the trouble starts. That particular cable parts, the second anchor will not hold her, she then drifts down and fouls another ship. One or other either sink where they lie, or both part their cables and drive on shore. Once they hit the beach there is not a chance in a thousand of a single soul being saved. Shore lifeboats are called away, but with that gigantic sea running, accompanied by a terrific gale, there is barely time to get the shore lifeboat afloat before one, two and sometimes even three ships will go crashing up on the beach in a jumbled mass, to be pounded to matchwood in a very few minutes.
Perhaps if the warning is sufficient, a ship will prefer to get up her anchors, and get under way, and out of the harbour before the dreaded shift to the N.W.comes about. Every sailor prefers deep water and plenty of sea room to monkeying around in conditions like those that used to prevail in Table Bay.
Now, of course, the breakwater is completed, and one can lie in comfort behind it, and watch the seas doing their worst. They still come right over, but their force is broken.
Leaving Cape Town behind, we ran our Easting down before the usual old greybeards. Not an uncommon procedure running before an exceptionally heavy sea, is to erect a canvas screen so that the helmsman simply can't look astern at the sea which every moment threatens to come over the poop.