The early part of the voyage of the Surat Castle was unmarked by any incident worth recording. Stress of weather detained her in the Downs for some few days, but once clear of the Channel she met with favourable winds and (except in the Bay of Biscay) smooth seas, and so made a quick run to the island of Saint Helena, where she anchored off James Town in order to disembark her military passengers and replenish her fresh-water tanks and sea stock. At Saint Helena Tom had the opportunity of enjoying a run ashore and of visiting the empty tomb of the great Napoleon Buonaparte, whose remains had recently been removed from beneath the weeping-willows in Slane’s Valley (whither, nineteen years before, they had been carried by the grenadiers of the 66th Regiment) to their honoured resting-place within the walls of the Invalides.
But the Surat Castle remained at anchor only a short time, for as soon as the soldiers were clear of the ship, and the fresh provisions and water had been taken on board, Captain Ladds put to sea and shaped his course for Table Bay.
On the sixth evening after the barque left Saint Helena there was every indication of a change for the worse in the weather; away to the north-east the clouds were thick and threatening at sundown, and Captain Ladds, judging that a heavy gale lay behind them, ordered sail to be reduced. The breeze stiffening into a gale, everything was made snug for the night; the top-gallant masts and yards sent down, preventer-braces rove, the hatches battened down, and dead-lights shipped—preparations which bespoke no good tidings to the passengers; many of whom retired to their berths at a much earlier hour than usual. Nor did these preparations prove unnecessary, for gradually the wind increased until it blew with almost hurricane force, and before long the Surat Castle was scudding under bare poles, not a stitch of canvas showing, her storm-sails having been blown from their bolt-ropes or split into ribands.
The storm raged throughout the long hours of the night with undiminished fury, the lightning darting forth from the dark clouds illumined the whole firmament, and the thunder rolled continuously; whilst the sea, running mountains high, threatened every instant to engulf the gallant barque.
Tom Flinders had remained on deck, not caring to go to his cabin. This was the first big storm he had experienced, and he stood watching the gigantic and angry billows with mingled interest and awe.
“You had much better go below and turn in, my boy,” said Captain Ladds kindly, as a huge wave “pooped” the barque, and, sweeping along the deck, drenched Tom to the skin. “We have not had the worst of it yet, I can assure you. You might get washed overboard like poor Jennings was just now.”
“What! the bos’un?” exclaimed Tom, who was clinging to the brass handrail of the companion. “I am sorry to hear that! Do you think there’s much danger, Captain Ladds?” he added. “If so, I’d rather stop on deck—that is if you don’t object. I shouldn’t like to be drowned like a rat in a hole!”
Before the captain could reply to his young friend’s question a tremendous squall, with a shift of the wind, struck the barque, and immediately afterwards another heavy sea broke over her weather quarter, causing her to shiver from stem to stern. The half-doors of the companion burst open, and poor Tom, losing his grasp of the handrail, shot down the ladder head foremost, whilst it was only by a supreme effort that Captain Ladds saved himself from a similar mishap.
“The boy must have broken his neck!” was the captain’s anxious exclamation when he recovered himself. “Below there!” he continued, raising his voice and peering down the hatch. “Steward! Jackson, see to Mr Flind— oh, there you are, Tom! Are you much hurt?”
“Made my nose bleed, that’s all,” Tom replied, picking himself up. “I landed on a heap of blankets and was then pitched against the pantry-door. All the same I sha’n’t come on deck again; I think I had better turn in.”