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Devonia seemed large enough, at least, for such a long voyage. She displaced some 8,000 tons and had been commissioned by the Horse Guards from the Anchor Line in Glasgow to transport a hotch-potch of military replacements to the Cape. She normally plied the North Atlantic route, carrying emigrants from Europe, mainly from Scotland and Ireland, to the New World, and she looked what she was: a workhorse. A succession of white deckhouses broke up and spoiled the clean lines of her iron hull. A surprisingly elegant clipper stern contrasted oddly with the bluff vertical bow and the single black funnel sat incongruously with three tall masts, square-rigged to take sail as both auxiliary power and stabilising influence.
    Jenkins was already at work in the tiny cabin allocated to Simon, unpacking gear from the two trunks, one of which folded back to act as ‘officer’s table and desk on campaign’.
    â€˜Beg pardon, sir, but I’m not sure I’m goin’ to like any of this,’ said the little Welshman gloomily.
    â€˜Why, what’s wrong?’
    â€˜They’ve put me with the men right in the front of this thing, look you, an’ there’s no air an’ very little light down there. I’ve only been on a steamer once. That was round Colwyn Bay and then I was sick. I don’t mind fightin’ the savage Zulu, see, but this is different, isn’t it?’
    Simon sighed. ‘Look. For most of the time, we’re going to be steaming through tropical waters that are bound to be placid. It is not as though this is a paddle steamer. This vessel is fitted with propeller screws at the stern that make it go much more quickly and we should make good time. Your duties on board are bound to be light because I shall need very little. Treat it as a pleasure cruise.’
    â€˜Very good, sir. But it’s so noisy, too. Look.’ He rapped his knuckles on the bulkhead. ‘This iron clangs all the time. An’ it must be so heavy. Why don’t it sink?’
    â€˜A good point. I have often wondered myself. Something to do with displacing water, I think. But you must ask one of the sailors. Don’t worry. We’re safe enough.’
    Simon reported to the artillery major named Baxter who was the senior soldier on board, and learned that his duties during the voyage were to conduct daily arms drill for the motley collection of infantrymen sailing and also to be responsible for one of the emergency muster stations. What exactly he was supposed to do once the men were mustered seemed to be known only to the Horse Guards and the captain of the vessel.
    The ship sailed on the evening tide, slipping away quietly from her berth with the minimum of fuss. Once clear of the Isle of Wight, she began butting into a channel westerly, confirming Jenkins’s worst fears about seafaring and reducing the men’s quarters for’ard and aft into dark holes, where low moans and the sound of retching emerged from the dim recesses of the closely positioned bunks. The Devonia put her head down and pushed into the foam-topped swell, sweeping spray as far aft as the bridge.
    Simon’s attempt at holding deck drill failed and the medical officer on board was of little use. He spent the first three days in his bunk, occasionally staggering on deck to empty his slops and then be sick again.
    The weather worsened as the ship turned south into the Bay of Biscay. This time the swell took the steamer on the starboard beam and she rolled dismally, her sails reefed down and her funnel belching black smoke. Even Simon, who had enjoyed the first few days and had hungrily tackled his meals, now began to feel ill. His attempts to summon up visions of Alice, in her blue gown with her pearls matching her skin, failed to comfort him. Duties on board for the army contingent descended into unhappy anarchy, with few men able to stand on the deck, let alone carry out meaningless tasks for the sake of maintaining