Read Online The Horns of the Buffalo by John Wilcox - Free Book Online Page B

discipline. The artillery major had not left his bunk since the Isle of Wight had dropped astern. It was a bad introduction to the voyage south.
    After the first day, Simon had seen nothing of Jenkins. The little man had disappeared completely into the black hold for’ard. It was not until the seventh day that he reappeared, just as a wan sun attempted to penetrate the clouds off the northern coast of Spain.
    â€˜Dereliction of duty, 352,’ said Simon with relish as Jenkins put a woebegone face round the cabin door.
    â€˜Sorry, sir. I’ve been waitin’ for this tropical stuff you told me about. There doesn’t seem much of it about, does there? An’ I ’aven’t seen too much of this pleasure cruise business either, see. The Glasshouse at Aldershot was better’n this.’ His haggard face looked up at Simon and was racked with another spasm. ‘Ooh God. I gotta go again. Sorry, sir.’ And he disappeared up the companionway as fast as his strong, short legs could take him.
    The belated promise of fine weather was eventually redeemed on the eighth day, when the sky cleared, the swell subsided and the sun shone. Like moles surfacing, white-faced soldiers began to appear on deck, unsteady and uncommunicative, but alive again. Simon immediately called a parade of the infantrymen and some sort of discipline was re-established. Jenkins’s tan also came back and he became oversolicitous of Simon’s comfort, as though to compensate for the previous week’s neglect.
    The army officers messed separately from the ship’s officers and there was no formal opportunity therefore for fraternisation, particularly as the sailors tended to keep to themselves - as though the soldiers were just another cargo of worthless emigrants. However, Simon was able to strike up an acquaintance with the Third Mate, a Scotsman roughly his own age. This gave him the chance of asking about mustering in an emergency. Once the men were gathered together, what happened then?
    The Mate smiled. ‘They should be kept at their mustering station until it becomes necessary to allocate them to a lifeboat,’ he said.
    â€˜But shouldn’t we be allocated to lifeboats now and even have some drill on how to launch them?’
    â€˜Mebbe. But it’s no’ as simple as that.’
    â€˜Why isn’t it?’
    The Third Mate looked forward and then aft, at the blue, now friendly swell that rolled up behind the Devonia before slipping impassively down the length of the hull. ‘Well,’ he began evasively, ‘I’ve not done the sums, but I should say that we don’t have enough lifeboats to go round if we had to abandon the ship.’
    Simon was horrified. ‘Good lord. What a terrible state of affairs. Does the captain know?’
    â€˜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