The Land God Made in Anger. John Davis Gordon

going to be nothing to worry about, boys,’ Elsie said.

      ‘It’s all very well for you!’ Tucker cried.

      Elsie held up his palms for calm. ‘Think positively,’ he said positively. ‘Think about all that money. Think of that lovely passenger ship we’re going to own. Think of your nice smart white uniforms, think of all those lovely girls in their short-shorts shaking their pretty arses at you …’

      ‘Now you’re talking,’ the Kid said. ‘Keep telling us how it’s going to be, Elsie …’

      The sun was going down in a riotous glow of orange and red over the cold Atlantic, and the Skeleton Coast a magnificent desolation of pink and mauve, when the Bonanza began to approach latitude nineteen degrees south.

      McQuade stood at the sat-nav, the word computing flashing, waiting for it to tell him the ship’s latest position. Then it appeared: Lat 19° 18′ 57″ S Long 13° 12′ 32″ E. McQuade gave a tense sigh. ‘Okay, we’ve crossed our latitude. By one minute, nine seconds. Plus twenty minutes at three knots – another mile. So we’ve over-shot by about two point two miles. Turn her around, Pottie. Steer one seven zero.’

      ‘One seven zero, man.’ Potgieter swung the wheel.

      McQuade tripped the knotlog. The Bonanza swung around in the setting sun. ‘Stand by to throw the float over.’

      The Kid and Tucker clattered down the companionway to the fore-deck. The yellow marker-float was attached to a hundred and fifty feet of nylon rope, thirty feet of chain and a thirty-pound Danforth anchor.

      McQuade watched the knotlog. It clicked off the distance run in tenths of a nautical mile. The coast was about a mile to the east, a low brooding mass in the short twilight, the crests of the breakers just visible against the gloom. He looked at the depth-sounder. The needle wriggled its way busily across the sensitized paper, showing a steady eighty to ninety feet here. He looked at the radar. The sweeping line showed the ragged coastline, but it was deceptive: the radar was not rebounding off the actual shore but off the sand dunes beyond. Many a ship had come to grief on this coast because of that.

      The knotlog clicked over. ‘Stand by.’

      The Kid picked up the anchor and lowered it over the side until it hung just above water. Tucker picked up the heap of chain. They waited.

      The knotlog clicked up two point two miles. ‘Let her go!’ McQuade shouted.

      The Kid released the anchor into the sea, and Tucker hurled the heap of chain over. The rope went lashing after it, followed by the yellow float.

      McQuade stood on the bridgewing. The float bobbed on the swells. ‘Now stay there.’

      He turned back to the bridgehouse. On the chart he had drawn a rectangle representing an area of sea three miles long by one mile wide: the parallel of latitude which he had calculated following Jakob’s indications ran through the centre. The marker float which they had just dropped was approximately on this latitude. The eastern end of the rectangle began three hundred yards off the shore, in thirty feet of water. The western end of the rectangle was in a hundred and fifty feet of water, the maximum depth from which a submariner could reach the surface alive. Tucker said anxiously:

      ‘We aren’t going as close in as three hundred yards in the dark, are we?’

      ‘No. We start our search pattern one thousand yards off tonight. In the morning we move in-shore.’ He tripped the knotlog again and said to Potgieter: ‘Steer due east.’

      ‘Oh Lord …’ Tucker said.

      The bows came slowly round. The Bonanza began to churn towards the dark shore, her engines at Slow.

      They stood in front of the radar, the knotlog and the depth-sounder, watching them. The Bonanza chugged slowly towards the shore in the big dark swells. The knotlog clicked up the first two hundred yards. Click went the knotlog: four hundred yards. Click: six hundred yards. Click: eight hundred.

      ‘Oh, Lord …’ Tucker breathed.

      ‘We’re still twelve hundred yards off-shore!’ Elsie snapped.

      The Bonanza ploughed on into the darkness. The Kid suddenly burst out: ‘For Christ’s sake, let’s wait until daylight!’

      ‘Oh Lord yes!’ Tucker cried.

      McQuade turned to him: ‘Waste a whole twelve hours, Hugo? Half a day’s wages?’

      ‘Okay!’ Tucker cried.

      ‘Elsie?’

      ‘You’re the skipper,’ Elsie said.

      ‘Okay. Turn her around, Pottie. Two seven zero.’

      Potgieter turned the wheel hard over. McQuade said:

      ‘We’ll go five hundred yards further out, then drop the anchor for the night. Two-hour anchor-watches. I’ll do the first. We start at sunrise.’ He sighed. ‘And now, I think, we’ll have a drink.’

      ‘And I’ll make a lovely dinner,’ Elsie beamed at them. ‘You’re all being very good brave boys.’

      ‘Then tell us some more about the pretty girls and our nice white uniforms, Elsie,’ the Kid said.

12

      The Skeleton Coast was born again, dark against the pink dawn, the sea running in long heavy swells. As the sun came up there was the rattle of the Bonanza’s anchor coming up. And her propellers churned, and she began to plough back towards the shore.

      McQuade and the boys stood on the bridge, watching the depth-sounder. The needle wriggled across the sensitized paper steadily decreasing. Eighty feet … seventy-eight … seventy-five … seventy-three … McQuade said, ‘Call it out, Elsie.’ He went out onto the bridgewing.

      ‘Seventy-two,’ Elsie called, ‘Sixty-nine …’

      McQuade swept the shoreline with his binoculars. The waves were breaking about a hundred yards out. ‘Sixty-four,’ Elsie called.

      ‘Radar says?’ McQuade called.

      ‘About seven hundred yards off-shore,’ the Kid called.

      ‘We’re closer than that. We’re bouncing the beam off those sand dunes,’ Tucker whispered.

      ‘Sixty feet …’

      When McQuade estimated they were three hundred yards off-shore he called, ‘Steer about three five zero.’ He came back onto the bridge and looked at the compass, then at the shoreline. ‘Keep parallel to the shore.’

      He went to the chart. He tripped the knotlog again. He marked his estimated position on the rectangle drawn on his chart and wrote the time against it. He looked at the depth-sounder. It was registering forty-eight feet, approximately what the chart told him to expect.

      ‘Okay, we’re starting the first leg of our zig-zag pattern. Three miles up on this course, then we turn around again, and return on the reciprocal course, parallel to this tack.’ He traced his pencil up the rectangle, then back again. ‘Three miles on the reciprocal course then tight turn-around and back for three miles. And so on until we’ve covered the whole rectangle. Got that, Pottie?’

      ‘Ja, man,’ Potgieter said.

      ‘Sing out when we’re approaching each turning point. Hugo, you don’t take your eyes off that depth-sounder. You’re looking for any significant decrease in depth. If we pass over the submarine, the depth should suddenly diminish by ten to fifteen feet. Got that?’

      ‘Okay,’ Tucker said unhappily.

      ‘Scream when you see the depth suddenly decrease. It either means we’re millionaires or that we’re