The Cruise of the Albatros

by E. C. Williams

  The message from Hell-ville was en clair, but the messages from French Port did offer the first opportunity for a realistic test of their new book code. Lieutenant Dallas had scoured the Institute's holdings for multiple copies of the same edition of dictionaries, French and English. Suitable editions were found, and messages were written in French and encoded using the French dictionary on odd days of the month, and composed in English and encoded with the English dictionary on even days. All radio communications with the Rock, and between the two vessels if they happened to be separated, were now encrypted using this code. Dallas estimated that the odds against the pirates breaking this code solely by analysis of message traffic were in the millions.

  “I think we can set drifters now, Mister Low” Sam said to the watch officer the day after the receipt of those depressing messages.

  “Aye, Commodore,” Low replied, and passed the order to his watch. A signal was made to Joan, and soon the big, oblong expanses of canvas billowed from each vessel's lower foremast, and a slight but definite increase in speed could be sensed.

  The wind remained light, and the squadron carried all sail, including drifters, for the best part of four days, a period which brought them abeam of Cape Bobaomby, the northernmost point of Madagascar, where they turned the corner for the Comoros.

  Sam made good use of the passage by filling every hour not needed for routine maintenance with training. They conducted surprise drills of every sort: fire drills, abandon-ship drills, battle-station drills, all timed by the XO's watch and overseen by the XO's gimlet eye. They exercised towing with the motor sloop and the motor whaleboat, both towing ahead and towing alongside. They exercised towing one another – Albatros towing Joan and vice-versa. They launched improvised floating targets, and improved their marksmanship with the 37mm, the one-inchers, and small arms. They exercised “repel boarders”, with nearly every soul on board each schooner armed with some weapon, from rifles, pistols, and shotguns down to the carpenter's hatchet and Cookie's meat cleaver. The only people not armed for this drill were the medical crew, whose station, as for every exercise, was in sick bay, to care for the wounded and injured, both hypothetical and actual (since some clumsy lompkinder nearly always managed to trip and fall or otherwise hurt himself during any drill).

  In spite of all this activity, Sam still made the time to visit sick bay, a daily practice of his whenever it had patients. Johnson, the snake-bite victim, had recovered completely in a few days, with no apparent ill-effects, to the relief of his mates in the landing force – they had been obsessing about snakes ever since the incident. The gunner with the wrenched knee was soon back on light duties. This left only their “passenger”, Guy Teroux. The young man was only semi-conscious during Sam's first visit, pale and drawn. Sam thought he looked on the verge of death, but Doctor Girard was more optimistic.

  “He'll recover, if we can prevent infection,” she said. “One of the biggest challenges of shipboard surgery is creating a sterile environment. But so far the wound looks as if it's healing normally. Annie” – the senior intern, and Girard's most trusted – “has a marvelously steady hand, so she operated while I assisted. We think we got all the fragments.” Girard hesitated, then added, “Commodore, I'm beginning to suspect that the pirates smear their bullets with some sort of filth to maximize the likelihood of infection.”

  “What?” Sam was shocked and appalled.

  “We're not sure, but we've frequently found traces of what appears to be fecal matter on bullets we've taken from wounded men.”

  “That's barbaric, disgusting! What kind of animals are we fighting?” Girard of course had no answer for this.

  “Is their anything we can do – any countermeasures we can take?”

  “The bullets we've found that appeared to have traces of a contaminant on them were all removed from wounds in naked flesh – areas of the body not covered by clothing, I mean. It seems logical that passage through fabric would remove some – not all, of course, but some – of the fecal coating from a bullet. Perhaps if you ordered that during battle the hands cover up the maximum amount of skin...? A bullet passing through cloth carries some of the fibers into the wound, of course, but that's much less dangerous – we can see and remove the fibers. Clothing offers some protection against fire, as well.”

  This made sense to Sam. And in the tropics the men ordinarily wore a minimum of clothing while in the tropics, many of them having converted old tropical working rig into sleeveless shirts and short trousers. Even those who hadn't done this customarily wore their sleeves rolled up and shirts unbuttoned halfway down their chests, for coolness. An order to minimize exposed skin would not be popular in the heat of Mascarene waters, but Sam hoped they would accept it philosophically once the reasons for it were explained to them.

  Sam passed this on to the XO as soon as he had left sickbay, and Kendall was as sickened by it as Sam had been.

  “Al, when you pass on this order, be sure the men understand why we're doing this – we're trying to save their lives, not just make them uncomfortable for the sake of smart appearance. When not at battle stations, let 'em roll up their sleeves and wear their shirts open – but no more cutoffs.”

  “Aye aye, Commodore.” Al thought for a moment, then said, “I don't doubt the Doctor's observations, not for a moment, but I don't understand why the gases from the burning powder wouldn't scorch away all the merde on the bullet no matter how thickly it was smeared on.”

  “I've been wondering that myself. I can only suppose that it survives on the leading surface of the round, even if it's burned off the part in contact with the charge.”

  “Makes sense, I guess. Anyway, I'll pass the word.”

  The hands were incredulous at first that even the pirates would resort to such a disgusting trick. When informed that it had been discovered by Doctor Girard, however, they instantly accepted it as indubitably true. Girard was highly popular with the crew, not merely for her beauty but for her obvious compassion for them when they were ill, injured, or wounded; this popularity led, not very logically, to a general conviction that in all matters of science and medicine she was infallible. Once the suggestion that the pirates were firing “shit-bullets” was accepted as fact, the conviction that they were fighting a profoundly evil enemy, already produced by the pirates' suicidal fanaticism, was only deepened.

  Sam continued his daily visits to sick bay, and was pleasantly surprised at the rapid recovery of Guy Teroux. One day he found Teroux sitting up in his hanging cot eating a bowl of mashed potatoes with apparent appetite. His color, previously ashen underneath his permanent tan and his cafe au lait complexion, had returned to normal. Sam congratulated him on the speed of his recuperation, and remarked, “We'll be able to send you home as soon as we encounter a Reunion-bound vessel.”

  “I been thinkin' about that, Captain – I mean 'Commodore'”, Teroux replied. “I don't wanna go home. I mean I do wanna go home eventually, o'course, but I've decided I want to join the Navy, if you'll have me.”

  Sam was pleasantly surprised at this. “We'd be pleased to have you, Teroux. What's your seagoing experience?”

  “Been at sea since I was eleven, Commodore, off-shore fishin' and lately crewin' for my Uncle Pete on the old Fillette.”

  “I don't suppose you have your seaman's papers with you.”

  “Don't have no papers a'tall, Commodore. Not required on Reunion craft. You gets hired based on your reputation as a seaman.”

  “Well, I think we're safe in signing you on as an acting AB. I'll send the purser's clerk along to take down the particulars of your seatime, for the ship's books. I'll make the rating permanent after you've trained in Navy ways, and demonstrated your competence. How's that sound?”

  “It sounds merveilleuse, Commodore. I'm ready to turn-to now.”

  “Oh, no, lad – you're not moving from this cot until Doctor Girard certifies you fit for duty. Tell you what, though – I'll backdate your signature on articles to the day you
came aboard. That'll give you a few days seniority, and a little pay on the books. How's that?”

  “Thank you, mille merci, Commodore. I won't let you down.”

  “I know you won't, Teroux. Rest now, and I'll see you on deck soon.”

  Sam, pleased that the Albatros had already recruited her first Reunnionais, left sickbay and passed this word on to the XO for action.

  By the time the squadron had turned the corner to sail westward toward the Comoros, Sam and Mr. Mooney had pored over all the charts they had of those waters, and planned their routes from island to island. Their first destination was the Gloriosos – Iles glorieuses – which lay about 120 sea-miles east-north-east of Cape Bobaomby. The Gloriosos were not, strictly speaking, part of the Comoros, but they had fallen into the imprecise habit of referring to all the islands in the northern Madagascar Channel as “the Comoros”.

  Sam had briefly considered the possibility of splitting his little force in the interests of checking all the islands more expeditiously. But he rejected the notion almost as soon as it was formed; in all their experience so far, pirate vessels had always been encountered cruising in pairs.

  Their chart of the Gloriosos was infuriatingly vague; even in ancient times the islands had been only intermittently inhabited, and there was no indigenous population nor any Kerguelenian settlement. But they appeared to have anchorages with good holding ground for both southwesterly and northeasterly winds, and the Sailing Directions indicated that wild coconut palms were abundant on the big island, there was wholesome fresh water to be had, and fishing was good on the reefs and sand banks of the little archipelago. This information was recent, the result of reports by Nosy Be fishermen. The Gloriosos were suitable, then, as at least a temporary haven for pirates, and worth checking out. With the wind out of the southwest, the viable anchorages lay to the northward of Ile Glorieuse and Ile du Lys, the two islands. The rest of the archipelago consisted of reefs, rocks, and sand banks that uncovered at low tide.

  The squadron approached from an east-south-easterly direction, with lookouts provided with telescopes posted in each foretop. At a distance off that Mister Mooney estimated by dead reckoning to be slightly more than twenty miles, the Albatros's lookout shouted “Land ho”. Since the low islands were nowhere more than 12 meters above sea level, at least according to their chart, Sam concluded that the lookout was seeing the tops of the lofty coconut palms just nicking the horizon.

  “Set Condition Alfa, Mister Christie,” Sam said to the officer of the watch. The pipe was made, and half of the crew scurried to battle stations while the other half carried on with routine duties.

  “Deck, there!” the lookout cried. “Mast, fine on the port bow.” Sam raised his telescope and could indeed make out the thin vertical line of a mast, clearly distinct from the gracefully curved palm trunks. No sails were visible; the craft was apparently anchored.

  “Battle stations, Mister Christie,” said Sam. There was no need to signal to the Joan; the Albatros's general alarm bells carried clearly across the cable's-length of sea that separated them, and Sam could hear Joan's repetition of the pipe.

  Long minutes passed, as the two schooners beat slowly into the gentle southwest breeze, all fore-and-aft sails set, toward the islands and the unidentified vessel, the hands standing quietly at their stations.

  “Deck, there. A second mast,” the lookout called, just as Sam made out the thin vertical line, very close to the first. It appeared to be shorter, and to leeward, so the strange vessel was ketch-rigged, or perhaps a yawl. Sam began to relax. They had never yet encountered a ketch-rigged pirate vessel.

  As they drew nearer, Mr. Mooney approached Sam and said, “She appears to be anchored well inshore of the charted anchorages, Commodore. May not be enough water for us.”

  “Thanks, Pilot. We'll heave to, Mister Christie. Launch the motor sloop with a one-incher and a squad of gunners to go investigate.”

  To avoid unnecessary signaling between the two schooners, Sam had ordered the two-flag hoist signifying “Conform to my movements” kept flying, so the Joan hove to as well when she saw the Albatros do so.

  Christie was now the officer in charge of the motor sloop, so Mooney took over the deck. With practiced skill, the hands soon had the sloop in the water alongside, held only by the sea painter, engine warming. The ketch still swung peacefully at anchor, apparently unperturbed by the sudden appearance of two three-masted schooners.

  There was a short wait while the sloop's engine warmed to operating temperature, then a longer wait while it motored toward the ketch, its wake creating a broad arrow-head on the slight swell. Sam watched through his telescope as the sloop approached, slowed, came alongside the ketch. Finally, he saw Christie swing up over the ketch's low bulwark.

  Soon the midshipman of the watch, his own telescope to his eye as he strained to make out the dim flashes in the bright topic sunlight, said “Signal from sloop, sir. 'Nosy Be fisherman'”. This only confirmed what everyone had already suspected.

  “Reply: 'Invite skipper aboard Albatros,'” Sam said, and the schooner's big searchlight, with a clattering of the shutter, flashed back.

  When the grizzled old fisherman climbed up the Albatros's pilot ladder and gazed about curiously, Sam approached him, introduced himself, and said, “Welcome aboard, Captain. Thanks for coming. Would you care to step down to my mess for some refreshment?”

  “Thankee, Captain. My name's Bessette, and my ketch is the Margaret Ann.”

  An hour later, a jolly Captain Bessette, with several shots of vodka aboard him and an unopened bottle of it as a parting gift, was seen over the rail and into the motor sloop for the short trip back to his Margaret Ann. He also had in his pocket a draft against the Republic of Kerguelen for his catch – the full Hell-ville market price, no haggling – which accounted, along with the vodka, for his happy mood.

  The ketch's live well had been full – Bessette had only been awaiting the return of his skiff from the island with fresh water to depart for home – so both schooners would dine on fresh fish that day.

  Sam's interview of the fisherman had been less productive. Bessette had not seen a pirate, or any other strange craft, this voyage, and he had kept a wary lookout.

  The squadron's next destination was Grand Comore, to the west, the largest island of the Comoros. These islands had been densely inhabited before the Troubles, but like many island communities around the world had been virtually depopulated.

  The tiny remnant population had, like most surviving humans, reverted to a hunter-gatherer economy. It seemed unlikely, given occasional visits by vessels from Nosy Be, that a permanent pirate base or Caliphate settlement could have remained undetected. But it was a possibility, one Sam intended to investigate.

  His plan was to look at Grande Comore first, then, working back to the south-east, Moheli, Anjouan, and finally Mayotte. How many days this would take was uncertain, and dependent on what they found, but by the time these islands had been thoroughly investigated he expected that the squadron would be low on stores and planned to call at Hell-ville to replenish. After that, barring intelligence suggesting an alternative course of action, he intended to cruise northward along the African coast, toward Zanzibar, continuing the search for pirate bases and Caliphate settlements. He yearned to carry the battle to the enemy, to go over to the offensive.

  The winds remained light and variable, mostly out of the south. The leg from the Gloriosos to Grande Comore, about 230 miles, took more than two days, during which no other vessel was sighted. On the morning of the second day, Mount Karthala, the island's highest point, was sighted as a hazy blob on the horizon while the two schooners were still more than forty miles away. The mountain gradually grew out of the sea, changing from an ambiguous, cloud-like shape to a distinct blue-gray outline. When the entire island was in view, stretching across the Albatros's bow from port to starboard, Sam ordered Condition Alfa set.

  The Albatros was down to four watchstanding officers,
counting the XO, now on the watch bill, and Mr. Mooney. Sam had deliberately overmanned the Albatros for her first cruise, looking ahead to the need to man additional vessels of war and wanting to create a cadre of experienced officers and crew. He considered that a one-in-four watch rotation left his officers ample time for their other duties, so long as they didn't waste too much of it in frivolous activities like sleep. And Sam himself was not above taking a watch occasionally, to give them a breather.

  When Condition Alfa was set during the day, half the hands were at battle stations, and half went about their normal duties. Meal times and the liquor ration issue were abbreviated, the watch below eating (or drinking) first, then relieving those at battle stations. Low, now the senior lieutenant – Kendall, on his elevation to XO, had been promoted to the previously-unused rank of lieutenant commander – and Christie alternated the duty of overseeing the watch below and the Condition Alfa station of officer-in-charge amidships. Kendall, whether at battle stations or Condition Alfa, was in general charge of the forward half of the schooner, keeping the length of the vessel between him and the Commodore in order to avoid the danger of the two senior officers of the ship being taken out by one enemy round.

  “Pass the word for Mister Christie,” said Sam to his phone talker. When Christie arrived, slightly out of breath, Sam said, “Well, Mister Intelligence Officer, brief me on this island.”

  During their last visit to French Port, Lieutenant (I) Dallas had been tasked with researching and summarizing all of the information he could find in the Institute about the islands of the Madagascar Channel. A copy of the resulting document was then provided to Lieutenant Christie, who had retained his collateral duty of ship's intelligence officer in addition to the other duties he had assumed on promotion to commissioned rank, with orders to familiarize himself thoroughly with the information it contained. He had apparently taken these orders so much to heart as to memorize the information word for word, judging from the way he took a deep breath and started reciting.