On the next voyage we were loading for home when instruction arrived that the African was to remain on the coast, and do the mail service between the Cape and Natal. Trade on the coast was good, and it was no longer policy to depend upon the services of such vessels as the little Natal. The African was very well suited for the work, which was comparatively easy—at sea for at the outside ten days a month, and the remainder of the time in harbour at the Cape or Natal. Unfortunately we could not cross the bar at the latter port. Looking back at this period of my life it occurs to me that it was good, and that I was not sufficiently appreciative at the time. There was an excellent ship’s company; my chief, named Smythe, was afterwards long years in command and was a first-rate man; the other officers left nothing to be desired; there was a cook who satisfied all the passengers, and the ship was very nicely kept and popular on the coast. I had a sort of rough shelter built on the bridge for me, and when at sea always spent my nights there, for there was ample time to sleep when in port, but when the master of a mail steamer runs her on the principles of a yacht it is apt to prove a little expensive. At that time, however, there seemed to be lots of money about, for people were always wanting some commission carried out that could be done without any infringement of the Company’s regulations. I find by reference to old letter books that in my letters to the home authorities I mention the fact that we seemed exceptionally fortunate so far as weather was concerned, and indeed the luck in this respect seems to run in cycles. I cannot remember that there was anything approaching bad weather during our spell on the coast. But I had one little accident which cost me a wigging. One night coming down the coast I had discharged a considerable quantity of sugar into a large lighter at East London, finishing about 9 p.m. The lighter could not then be taken inside, and the boatmen asked me if I would give them a tow up alongside a steamer that was ahead of us. I thought it well to do so and accordingly steamed up at a fair distance from the vessel ahead, going very slowly, and eventually stopping the engines while the lighter sheered off. The current by this time was setting us towards the Balmuir, the vessel I was taking the lighter to, and some one on board her sung out, “Hard a port, captain, full speed ahead.” A second later and that would have been my order. As it was, wrath at the interference or impertinence surged uppermost, and I ordered: “Steady the helm, full speed.” That also would have put things straight, but the engines had stuck a little on the centre and the two ships rolled towards one another, my starboard quarter-boats catching her on the bow, and suffering severely in the contact.
This was just after the loss of the Teuton, and many people had acquired nerves in consequence when travelling, so in addition to the crashing of the boats, the yells of the women passengers were not nice to listen to. As soon as the engine moved there was no more trouble, and Captain Gibbs, who had been chief of the Essex when I was in her, and now commanded a steamer called the Clifton, very kindly lowered a boat and came alongside to ask if he could do anything for me. There was nothing to be done but proceed, which I did. Of course retribution was bound to follow; it came in the shape of a letter from Captain Dixon, to whom, of course, I had reported the occurrence. In conveying an intimation from the directors as to the future avoidance of what “might be termed somewhat lubberly conduct,” he regretted that my helping other people had obliged him personally to address such a letter to me, but the “lubberly conduct” was underlined viciously by him, and I could picture the expression on his face as he did it, knowing perfectly well that it would create on me its calculated effect, though quite realising that it was all just bad luck. It was not the only time in my experience, however, that ill-timed advice was productive of disaster, for to quote the words of A. L. Gordon: “Take it kindly.” “No—I never could.”
It was about this period (the close of 1881) that the value of the Transvaal goldfields began to be discovered. That meant much, and at the end of the year General Sir Evelyn Wood was leaving Natal with some of his staff. If my recollection is correct he had been acting as Lieutenant Governor of Natal. There are one or two incidents in connection with this matter that I may as well put on record.
The bar at Natal was a very uncertain quantity. The channel at times was fairly good, for harbour works in a small way were going on practically always, but there were occasions when it was very bad and very shallow. When I knew that Sir Evelyn was to go with me as far as Delagoa Bay I determined to make him as welcome as possible, and show all the attention I could, although I had not had the honour of meeting him. There was to be a farewell dance given in Durban at which he would take his leave, he having already taken up his quarters at the Alexandra Hotel at the Point. I reasoned that if, instead of going from the dance to the hotel, he could come straight on board the African, it would be a great saving of time and trouble, for we were to leave at daylight in the morning.
Accordingly I got the skipper of our tug, the Union, who had been boatswain with me previously, to agree to take the passage of the bar in the dark as soon as the party arrived at the Point, and I also gave my chief orders that when the tug was nearing the ship, he was to illuminate mastheads and yardarms with coloured lights. I was reckoning, however, without my host. In the afternoon I went on shore, and as I landed at the Point I met the General with some officer—I think it was Major Lane—who introduced me to him, and he immediately invited me to dine. I replied that I had no evening clothes on shore, to which he replied that I had better find some. At that time there was at the Point an ex-Naval Lieutenant named Woodruffe. I remember that he had been Flag Lieutenant to Sir Harry Keppel in China. We were great friends, and had consumed much midnight oil—and other things—together, for he was one of the nicest fellows I ever met, and was liked by every one. He was commonly called “Chummy,” and as it happened he was about my size. To him I went in my dilemma and borrowed his clothes, he waiving in my favour his intention of going to the dance, so that I duly appeared at dinner time, and in answer to the General’s query I told him how the clothes were procured, which seemed to tickle his fancy. We had a very jolly dinner, and I gathered why they were going home via the East Coast, for they wanted to have a look at Egypt, as they were greatly interested in a certain Major Kitchener whom they all seemed to think a great deal of. The General said he would be very pleased to embark on his return from the ball, from attending which I begged to be excused and went to return borrowed plumes and get on board the Union.
Here Nemesis overtook me. About the last man I should have expected to find there was Captain Baynton. According to all canons of civilisation he ought to have been comfortably spending his evening in his house at the head of the Bay, engaged in that gracious hospitality for which he was famous, but it seems he had by some means got wind of my intention to cross the bar in the dark and had come down determined to stop it. He opened the conversation by saying that as the General was to sail at daylight, he thought he himself would sleep on board the Union, so as to make his farewell easier than coming to the Point so early. Vainly did I explain that the bar was easy and safe; there was the old grim look and stony glare.
“Yes, you go and stick the General on the bar, and a fine d—— fool I shall look. You don’t start before daylight.” And neither did we.
On that particular passage I had with me amongst others as passenger the Rev. E. L. Berthon, the inventor of the boats bearing his name. He was a remarkable man in many ways. For one thing, though he was sixty-nine years of age, he was as active as a cat, and was greatly distressed because on an occasion of boat drill at sea, just to show him the time it would take to pick up a lifebuoy, I would not let him be lowered in the Clifford boat, the ship running a good thirteen before a fresh breeze. I mention this incident, for the evolution was performed on the spur of the moment during a conversation with him, and on referring to a letter to Captain Dixon as to the efficiency on the ship, I find that the boat with the lifebuoy was being hooked on in five and a half minutes.
In his book entitled A Retrospect of Eight Decades, Mr. Berthon mentions the days spent by him on board the African, but was not complimentary concerning the crew. I wrote to him on the subject and received a letter in reply in which he stated that I had myself addressed them collectively as a pack of cab-drivers, but I submit that a man may take liberties with his own which other people have no right to do.
The general and Major Fraser came on board with me at daybreak in the morning, and the next day they were duly landed at Delagoa Bay, where they were to transfer to another mail steamer, and we on Christmas Day, 1881, left again for Natal. That evening we had a very remarkable exhibition of electric phenomena, which I never saw equalled. We had been running down the coast with a nice fair wind and all sail set, but as dusk came on, heavy clouds gathered ahead and as a shift of wind looked imminent, I took in all canvas and hustled the men a bit to get it stowed quickly. (This was the matter to which Berthon had referred.) No sooner was it done than the wind headed us with a rush and the rain came down in torrents, accompanied with a fine display of real South African lightning. At the same time there was a shower of corposants, and mastheads, yards and stays were thickly covered with them. The effect was weird in the extreme, and although the phenomenon is often mentioned as common I cannot recall seeing it to any marked degree more than twice. This squall lasted about an hour, after which the weather cleared.