“Lines like a bread box on a gravy boat,” the deckhand agreed.

The tides were pulling Transkei out to sea. DeRoot pushed his throttles forward to remain on station, then resumed his viewing. Some ships have a grace and elegance you can see from afar. The ship coming into view had all the style of a square dancer with a clubfoot. DeRoot knew the history of Waratah—it was a hobby of his to know the pedigree of the ships he serviced — and this vessel was far from a thoroughbred.

Built by the British firm Barclay, Curle & Company as a sistership to Geelong, she came into being under two dark clouds. The first strike was the most basic, her design. Geelong had proven to suffer stability problems, and the construction specifications for Waratah were drafted to address that problem. To cover themselves, the builders had inserted two words, if possible, into the contract. Apparently, it was not. The ships had a flawed design, and there was little that could be done to correct the problem.

The second strike was her very name. Of the three other ships since 1848 to be named Waratah, all had so far vanished or wrecked. Most men of the sea are superstitious, and DeRoot was no different. A cursed name atop a bad design was an omen he could not ignore.

“Backing down,” DeRoot shouted to the deckhands, as he spun Transkei around and checked the transmissions in reverse.

All was in order, so he stared back to Waratah.

Nearly five hundred feet in length, with a displacement of 9,339 tons, Waratah was a large vessel for her day. Her hull was jet black, now showing some streaks of rust from the year and a half she had been at sea. Her upper decks were a pale yellow. The ship’s single funnel, which vented the smoke from the steam boilers that fed power to the twin screws, was painted a two-color scheme of black at the base, a middle band of white, then black again at the top. Twin masts pierced the air — one on the forward deck, the other aft — but the masts did little to subtract from the vessel’s squat appearance.

In DeRoot’s view, Waratah was an ugly duckling dancing on the sea.

“Slow and signal the pilot boat,” Ilbery ordered Cheatum.

Cheatum turned to the signalman, who semaphored the instructions to a nearby boat.

A few minutes later, the pilot boat came alongside and dropped off the pilot, who climbed a stairway to the main deck, then walked across to the pilothouse stairway. Climbing the stairs, he stopped at the door to the wheelhouse and knocked.

“Durban pilots,” he said loudly.

“Permission to enter,” Ilbery said, motioning for the door to be opened.

The pilot entered the pilothouse and walked over to Ilbery with his hand outstretched. “Peter Vandermeer,” he said. “I’ll be taking you inside.”

“Welcome aboard Waratah, Captain Vandermeer,” Ilbery said.

“Thank you, Captain. Anything I should know,” Vandermeer asked, “before we start inside?”

“She’s a little sluggish,” Ilbery noted.

“Full of cargo, eh,” Vandermeer said pleasantly.

“Not really,” Ilbery said quietly, “just a sluggish gal.”

Vandermeer stared at Ilbery. It was slightly odd for a captain to speak any ill of his command — perhaps Ilbery was just jesting. “So noted,” he said.

“Pilot’s in command,” Ilbery said loudly, handing the command to Vandermeer.

Twenty minutes later, with help from the tug Transkei, Vandermeer steered Waratah up to the dock. By then, he knew exactly what Ilbery had meant.

Vandermeer had piloted canoes with more stability.

Claud Sawyer stood on the deck near the gangplank and willed it to lower. He stepped from one foot to the other as if the deck were on fire. He kept switching the suitcase from hand to hand. Just then, Waratah’s steam whistle pierced the air, signaling that they were secure. Five minutes later, the gangplank was lowered. Sawyer muscled his way to the front of the line. As soon as the chain was withdrawn, he ran down the gangplank to the dock. Moving off to the side, he kneeled down and kissed the wooden dock. Six feet away, a sandy-haired lad on a bicycle sat watching.

“Mister,” he said, “you’re still on the dock and over water. If you want to kiss land — it’s about twenty feet over there,” he said, pointing his finger.

Sawyer looked up and smiled. Then he grabbed his suitcase, walked over to land, and kneeled down again. He stayed on the ground a full ten minutes.

Captain Ilbery stared at the manifest. Wheat from the farms to the north. Tallow and hides from the vast cattle ranches in the interior of South Africa. Lead concentrates on their way to Capetown for processing. And more passengers, some bound for Capetown, others going through to London, 211 in total.

It was the massive shipment of raw lead that bothered Ilbery.

The weight would be concentrated in a small area, and with the shipments already on board from Australia, there would be no way for the porters to secure the load exactly amidship. Any way you sliced it, Waratah had proved unstable. The addition of more weight, to either side, was something of concern. The weather was another.

Ilbery had steamed these waters enough years to know the signs. The Indian Ocean was a deceptive mistress. Days like today, with clear blue sides and an ocean of flat-slabbed waves surging to shore like a screen door flapping in the wind, hid a dark secret. Offshore, some disturbance was creating the surging tides. Ilbery knew that next the waves would begin to fragment and turn choppy. Sometime soon, it might turn ugly.

“Secure the cargo,” Ilbery ordered Cheatum. “I’m going ashore.”

“Very good, sir,” Cheatum said.

The date was July 25, 1909. The time just past 4 P.M. Waratah was scheduled to steam from port at first light in the morning. Ilbery walked along the dock, then climbed the stairs leading to the port office. A hot dry wind was blowing from the Kalahari Desert far to the north, and Ilbery could taste the grit on his teeth. Wiping a few drops of sweat from his brow, he opened the door to the office and entered.

“Afternoon, sir,” the clerk said.

“I’m Captain Ilbery of Waratah. Do you have an updated weather forecast?”

The clerk shuffled some papers on the desk, then removed a single sheet. “There’s not much,” he admitted. “Ministry in Pretoria warns of dust storms and thunderstorms in the interior continuing through the twenty-eighth.”

Ilbery nodded.

“We’ve had two ships make port since your arrival. The clipper Tangerine crossed from Madagascar midday, and she reported rough conditions in the Mozambique Channel. Her mainsail was shredded and her decks raked with hail.”

“Hail?” Ilbery said in surprise.

“I know,” the clerk said. “Most odd.”

“What of the other ship?” Ilbery asked.

The clerk consulted the sheet again.

“The cargo ship Keltic Castle out of Port Elizabeth. She makes a regular run from Cape Town to Durban. The captain noted rough seas between the Xora and Mbashe rivers.” He stared at the sheet again. “Said there were choppy conditions and much debris in the water. That’s about it.”

“Appreciate it,” Ilbery said, touching the brim of his cap. “Do you have the tugs scheduled for seven A.M., as ordered?”

The clerk removed a clipboard from under a pile of papers on the desk and glanced.

“Waratah, seven A.M.”

“Thank you,” Ilbery said, as he turned to leave.

“Captain,” the clerk said, as Ilbery opened the door, “good luck and fair seas.”

Ilbery smiled a grim smile, nodded, then walked out the door.