It is no wonder that our Cape is called the Cape of Storms, for the waters of Table Bay are lashed every year by winter gales. For hundreds of years sailing ships have been torn apart here and their wreckage scattered on the waves. So bad is the weather that governors of old forbade ships to anchor in Table Bay from May to August. They were ordered to rather seek the calmer waters of Simonstown.
But captains were not always good at taking orders. They often defied governors when it came to matters of the sea. Such a one was the captain of De Jonge Thomas, who risked casting anchor here. He was convinced that they could ride out the Northwesterly wind. But the wind rose to a gale and soon a terrible storm broke upon them out of the sea. All night, mountains of waves crashed over the ship, and tore the anchor ropes loose, one by one. Just after midnight the desperate captain gave the order to fire the cannons. Only one anchor rope still held. The ship was surely doomed. The burgers of Cape Town, safe in their beds, heard the distant booms of distress above the screaming of the wind. One of those who lay listening was a dairy farmer, Wolraad Woltemade.
In the pitch darkness there was nothing they could do to help the men at sea. Just before dawn the last anchor rope snapped, and De Jonge Thomas was driven by breakers onto a sandbank near the Salt River mouth. It was June 1, 1773. Many lives were lost as the ship started to break up, but a good count of survivors were left hanging on to the hull for dear life. Some sailors attempted to swim ashore, but most of those perished in the icy cold waters. Only the strongest swimmers of those who struck out for the shore made it against the current from the river mouth.
A crowd stood huddled on the beach in the pale dawn. Some came to watch, others to offer help to any sailor who might be washed ashore alive, and then there was some rougher folk intending to loot and pillage any cargo that was thrown up by the waves. Governor van Plettenberg sent thirty guards to maintain order, assist in the salvaging of the cargo, offer help to sailors, and of course to stop the looters from making of with any spoils. Corporal Christian Ludwig Woltemade was one of these soldiers. He was the youngest son of Wolraad.
At the break of the day, Wolraad set out on horseback into the howling wind and lashing rain, to take provisions to his son. Who am I to sit here at home by the fire while others have to endure the fury of this storm? He got up, packed some warm food in a bag, grabbed his coat and hat, and saddled his great horse. He then rode out into the storm. At the shore he saw a pitiful sight, for the ship had her back broken in the tug and thrust of the wild breakers. Even above the crashing surf he could clearly hear the cries of men as they threw themselves from the splintering deck into the sea. Very few were helped alive from the waves. Woltemade only paused at the crest of the dune for a short moment. He raised his hand to his forehead and looked hard from the foaming beach to the sandbank.
Then, saying not a single word, he threw down the bag of food, dug his heels into his horse's sides and cantered down the sand slope into the boiling sea. Bystanders watched on in silence as the great horse plunged into the waves and began to swim towards De Jonge Thomas. Was Woltemade mad? He surely will not return alive. Everyone on the beach watched with bated breath as the 65 year old dairy farmer's figure rose and fell with the waves. There he is, can you see him, in the surges just below the heaving decks! Wolraad turned the horse and called for two men to jump into the sea, and grab onto the horse's mane and tail. They only hesitated a moment, and then made the leap, whereupon Wolraad urged the horse forward and dragged them to shore. As they drew in, men ran into the foam, helping the stumbling sailors ashore. Without a word, Wolraad Woltemade turned his gallant horse back into the sea. Four men he brought ashore this way, then six, eight, ten, twelve… as he staggered shorewards with the thirteenth and fourteenth Woltemade paused for a moment. He laid his head on his horse's neck and felt the quivering exhaustion in its body. The strained breathing of his brave companion told him that it was near the end of its strength. He himself was by now totally done in too. He ran his hand over the long wet nose, felt the soft nostrils and saw how red the eyes were, whipped by salt water for a couple of hours now. Could we go once more? Only once ? he muttered softly.
Then the sound of splitting timbers could be heard across the water. Wolraad turned and saw the deck breaking up. Men screamed as they were sucked into the troth. Without thinking Wolraad turned his horse and spurred it back into the sea. Once more they struggled in the heaving water below the ship. But this time, instead of two, more than ten grabbed onto the horse, onto mane and tail, saddle, girth and stirrups. Wolraad tried to stop them in vain…
Wait. Let go or we shall all go down!
Wait. I'll come back again!
His words were lost in the wind. In their panic they did not hear a word. They clung to each other, to Wolraad and to the horse. A shudder ran through the exhausted horse, it tried to raise it's head above the water, to breathe fresh air, but then went down. Wolraad, his great-hearted horse and the men all disappeared beneath the waves.