Grantville Gazette Volume 27

by edited by Paula Goodlett

  Before they could even start to secure the boat, the booms swung around and the sails caught the wind, close-hauled on the starboard tack and driving hard. Berry needed no prompting on the quickest way to leave their pursuer behind. Nothing with sails could keep up with a schooner beating to windward. Especially this kind of schooner.

  "Welcome aboard. I am Lieutenant Haro Blaser, of the United States Navy."

  "I thank you, indeed. I am Dermot Cadogan, and this is my cousin Conor. A fine big ship you have here, Captain."

  Ó Houlihan grinned. "A big ship, is it? According to Petty Officer Berry—him with the black boots, there—fifty-three feet is about the smallest anybody's ever built a schooner. And he's fussy about what you call it. He says it's only a ship if the sails go crossways."

  * * *

  Ian Berry had his hands full. The wind had dropped off to a light breeze and wandered around as the sun came up. Even with every scrap of canvas set and drawing, the speed was sedate and the steering was mushy. A wave rolled across the bow, a little bigger one than usual, and nudged it a trifle to one side. It took him a couple of seconds to overcome the sudden yaw and get straightened out again.

  "Quit dreaming about your girl friend, Berry, and watch your course!"

  A round blue cap with a fouled-anchor badge above the bill rose out of the hatch, followed by the rest of Chief Petty Officer Hugo Gellert.

  "Huh? You mean Else? She's not my girl friend. She isn't anybody's girl friend."

  The old walrus grinned at him underneath his gray mustache. "Well, she kissed you, didn't she? That's what you said."

  "Oh, yeah. Last time I was in town on leave she let me walk her home from the radio club picnic. She kissed me, all right, with one hand on the doorknob while she was doing it. Before I even got to the sidewalk, she was upstairs with her desk light on, writing something in one of her engineering notebooks."

  "Ja? You sure it wasn't her diary?"

  "Else Berding? Are you kidding? That's the last thing in the world she'd ever spend time on. She's so scared of what could happen if we can't build radio gear fast enough, I don't think she'll slow down and have a normal life until we get radar. I think she was just trying to get me to come to work at GE."

  The chief left off the joking. "It surprises me that you didn't join your family's business."

  "RCE? You've never spent all day around Pop. Besides, I'm not that deep into electronics; we weren't an all-ham family until after the Ring of Fire. Engines are more my speed."

  "And here you are standing watch in a windjammer! Heh, heh. That's the navy for you. Well, would you hold onto my coffee for a minute? I just want to go aloft and get a look at that thing following us, then I'll relieve you." He stepped up on the rail and swung onto the ratlines. "You're going to enjoy breakfast this morning. It's the best one since we sailed out of Bergen."

  "I smell something good, all right. What have we got?"

  "Well, those Irishmen have the charming custom of repaying a favor with a big helping of fresh fish. I think Goosens is showing off in the galley. He and the corporal fried them up with a little butter. Lemon juice and hash brown potatoes to go with them. And those two always make good coffee."

  Gellert steadied himself and focused the binoculars. "Plague and damnation! Do you know what that thing is? It's a sailing galley. The whole deck is covered with benches. There must be thirty or forty men aboard."

  "Yeah. The skipper got a better look, after it got light, and told me."

  "Not good, not good at all, if they ever get close. They must outnumber us five to one. Not to mention that damn bow gun."

  "We've been drawing away pretty steadily, though."

  "Yes, well and good, if nothing goes wrong. I've got to think about this." He stepped down and took back his coffee cup. "All right, I've got the deck."

  * * *

  Their guests had shown themselves to be true sailors. Conor had come on deck without being asked, to give Dattler a hand with the morning chores. Like the two soldiers, Eugen Dattler wasn't in the navy—the medical service had detailed him for the mission. Dermot was still below, talking with Ó Carroll and the lieutenant. Speaking of fishermen and fish, though . . .

  "Eugen, before you swab down, better stow that catch. I think the cook has just finished off a cask of something or other. You can lash it to the foremast and fill it with sea water to keep them cool."

  "Okay, Chief, but wouldn't it be easier to just take them below?"

  Gellert snorted. "Certainly, if you don't mind a couple of basketfuls draining on the deck, down where we sleep. And if you don't mind stripping out everything down to the bilge to get it cleaned up again."

  "Oh."

  "Ja, oh." He indulged in a chuckle.

  He looked alee at the other vessel. If they didn't get a decent wind soon it could take all day to get out of sight and lose them. Until then, they were headed a little west of north. Haro was right, there was no sense revealing their true destination. Let them think we're going to Bantry, or Galway, or someplace obvious.

  All in all, this would have been a perfect morning for easy sailing, if it weren't for that pack of barbarians dogging their heels. Still, the distance kept growing.

  * * *

  "All right, Hugo, I have the deck."

  "All yours, Captain." Gellert stepped away from the wheel.

  Blaser lowered his voice a little. "What do you think of the way Ian's shaping up?"

  "He learns, and willingly. Something seems to have shaken into place, this trip." Gellert paused. "You know who he reminds me of? You, about ten years ago."

  "Oh? That's an interesting observation. Well, I got through it all without sinking the ship."

  "So you did. I think we even kept her going a couple of years past her time. Well, I'm going to take a good hard look at the sails and rigging. A paranoid look, as Ian would say. This would be a bad time for something to come apart." He went forward and set to inspecting the gear, inch by inch.

  * * *

  In any normal vessel, the commanding officer wouldn't have needed to take a watch. But the Svedberg was not only small, she was fine-lined. She was as close as you could get to a racing yacht and still stand up to the worst weather the Grand Banks could dish out. With so little space for people and stores, everybody had to wear more than one hat. Blaser was profoundly grateful that none of the specialists this trip were acting like prima donnas—he'd had to clamp down on that kind of behavior on a few occasions.

  A gray curtain appeared to windward. About time, for a season of supposedly changeable weather. Haro called Edelstein and Ó Houlihan to come on deck, and bring foul weather gear for the three of them. In a couple of minutes a blast of rain hit, and the wind started coming in bursts, blowing hard and shifting around. Blaser went off the wind a little so the headsails wouldn't bring them about spontaneously, and kept working the wheel to hold course while shouting sail trimming orders. He had them haul down the topsails first thing. Start reefing? No, not yet. Keep up as much speed to windward as possible. Keep writing down course changes and times for the dead-reckoning fix later on. Up-time weekend sailors were supposed to have done this for sport. He shook his head.

  The squall passed. The wind dropped. It kept on dropping. Up to windward the whitecaps were falling away, and the sea was settling down to a smooth swell. The last of the wind blew alee, and the sails went slack.

  Gellert was on deck in seconds, with the binoculars slung around his neck. Berry was right behind him. Gellert looked over the port quarter, then went part way up the main shrouds for a better view. He growled something under his breath.

  "What are they doing, Chief? Do they still have wind?"

  "No, Captain. Their sails are flapping . . . Scheist! A whole lot of men are running out on deck. They're picking up oars!"

  If anything can go wrong . . . Haro spun to the hatch. "Ó Carroll, ask Dermot if this calm is likely to last long."

  "Oh, no, Captain, not this time of year.
A quarter of an hour, maybe. Half an hour at the most."

  "I see. Thank you." Haro's stomach turned to ice. Half an hour. Three, three and a half miles distance. Galleys are built for speed. How fast with forty men rowing that thing, six knots? More? Less, with this leftover swell? If the corsairs weren't actually upon them in that time, it was an even bet they'd be in gun range. No good. All right, what do I do? Think . . .

  "Berry! You're our best engine hand. Get the tender running, quick as you can. Take whoever you want to help."

  "Aye, aye, Captain. Mister Edelstein! With me!"

  * * *

  Over the stern rail and into the boat hanging in the davits. Drive in the drain plug. Edelstein put his foot wrong getting aboard and jostled him. Ian ignored it.

  "Intake and exhaust covers."

  "They're off."

  "Oil, coolant, and fuel levels."

  "Checking . . . All okay."

  Magneto on. Two strokes of the throttle to prime it, and leave it wide open. Choke? Try half, in this weather. Somebody was lowering them away, he didn't look to see who.

  "Crank it."

  Lothar reached down and spun the crank. Nothing. Ian pulled the throttle closed, then gave it another stroke while Edelstein kept cranking. Nothing. He flicked his eyes toward the pursuing galley. The oars rose and fell. Just wonderful.

  "Leave off. Break out the pusher rig and hook us up. I'll keep at this."

  In harbor the tender would have just pushed the schooner's stern directly. At sea, they needed a connection that would let the schooner's stern dip in the swells without driving the boat's bow under. The Lawrence Wild's boatswain had come up with a solution, a simple arrangement of poles and quick-release swivel joints. Edelstein swung the tender into position with a boathook, then started methodically connecting the fittings.

  Full choke. Crank with one hand, work the throttle with the other. Pop. Keep going. A couple of strangled-sounding pops. Flooded? Close the throttle, open the choke, crank it a couple of times. He glanced toward the schooner. The chief was at the stern rail, tense as hell, obviously resisting the urge to shout at him to hurry up.

  Okay, full throttle, start cranking, slowly close the choke. Fired a couple times. All the way closed. Bupbupbupbup . . . Running on its own, but short of breath. Open the choke a little. RPMs coming up. Play the throttle to control the speed. Starting to stall. Pump the throttle a little. Running a little better, keep babying it. He flicked his eyes at the galley again—closer, and the stroke was fast.

  Lothar finished the hookup and secured the boat's rudder amidships, then hoisted himself back over the rail.

  "Full power, as quick as you can."

  "She'll be warm enough to push in another minute, sir."

  Okay. Put it in gear. Let the clutch out 'til it starts to take hold. Engine bogging down, pump the throttle, just a little, just enough. Keep easing the clutch out. Temp gauge coming off the pin, running smoother now. Move the throttle smoothly to full and open the choke all the way, and here we go. Scramble back on board.

  "How'd we do, sir?"

  "They gained a mile on us."

  "Damn."

  The chief was on the wheel, bringing them around to head directly away from the pirate. As the saying went, a stern chase is a long chase.

  Lieutenant Blaser was looking at the pirate vessel. "Can you get any more power out of that engine?"

  "No, sir, and I don't think it would help if I could. The problem is the tender's hull speed. One thing we could do is lower the sails to cut drag."

  "You all heard. Do it. Don't bother furling, we'll want those sails again. Soon, I hope."

  * * *

  The pirates had lowered sail too. They were edging closer, maybe a couple of knots difference. Edelstein was steering at the moment. Chief Gellert was looking over the rail, tension plain in his grip and the set of his jaw.

  "A pfennig for your thoughts, Hugo."

  "The decision to engage is properly the captain's, sir."

  "So formal. You fear we might have to."

  Gellert nodded.

  "I fear the same. And not being a combat ship, our weapons are somewhat limited. Well." He raised his voice. "Dirck! Serve out whatever you have ready and secure the galley. Issue rifles and ammunition to all hands. Berry and I will use our hunting rifles. You may as well take the elephant gun. And keep them out of sight below the bulwarks, everyone. No sense starting lead flying ourselves if we can avoid it."

  "Sir?"

  "Yes, Berry?"

  "It might be smart to hang onto the .30-30 ammunition until they're close enough for me to get mostly hits. That's when the rate of fire would pay off."

  "Sensible. All right, if we have to open fire, you can begin with an SRG."

  Goosens portioned out a couple of loaves of bread with an apple apiece. And that was going to be all, for a while. The soldiers loaded the rifles down below, where they could stand up to deal with the muzzle-loaders without being seen. Berry secured a boom awning across the scuppers to keep the brass cartridge cases from going over the side; that was the least important piece of canvas on board. Then they waited. The galley crept slowly closer.

  * * *

  Haro watched, and frowned. This is a lot more than any half hour. The pirate was only a few hundred yards astern now. Some of the rowers had tired, but others had taken their place. They weren't going to get away by wearing out their pursuers.

  Gellert was watching too. "Well, at least they're not shooting at us yet."

  "No. They don't want to damage the merchandise." But Haro was going to have to make a decision very soon.

  A puff of wind came, just for a second. He looked around. It came again. The yarn telltale on the port main shroud stirred a little. Half a mile off the beam there was a brighter patch in the clouds. A convection current, maybe?

  Whatever, here it came. The masthead generator pivoted; the relative wind was no longer from dead ahead. "All hands, make sail!" With two men to a halyard, the fore and main were up in seconds, the staysail nearly as quick. Berry and Goosens climbed out on the bowsprit netting, shaking out the jibs. Suddenly Dermot called out something over the clatter of lines and spars. Liam Ó Houlihan turned to look, from where he was belaying the mainsheet, and shouted, "Captain! They're manning the bow chaser!"

  Haro swung around and mentally kicked himself. Of course. What other choice would they have, with a good breeze blowing? The only way to catch us now is to wreck our rigging.

  "Commence firing at that gun crew. Take your time and get hits. Chief, you've got the deck. Get the boat shut down and hoisted in as soon as you can, it's a drag on us now, and we can't afford to leave it." He settled into a sitting position on the deck and picked up his caplock-converted hunting SRG. Rifles started going off around him as he squeezed off his first shot. So much for holding back with their one up-time repeating weapon. There was a metallic slam, then a streak of light flew at the enemy vessel. Somebody had dropped the so-called elephant gun—it fired a mitrailleuse cartridge—onto one of the swivel stanchions, and shot off a tracer round to get the range and windage. The smoke blew away. Over his sights he saw the enemy gunners pick up a ball. As he came up to a kneeling position and started to re-load, Ó Carroll passed his rifle down the hatch and took another that was handed up to him.

  "What are you doing, Sergeant?"

  The soldier grinned. "I showed Dermot and Conor how to load an SRG. Just had time enough to do that. They can stand up with some protection, down where they are."

  Haro nodded and rammed home a round.

  An iron ball went howling past. It splashed off the port bow. The bad news was, they were well within cannon range. The good news seemed to be that they weren't within accurate range, for a smoothbore. That only meant it would take more shots, before the pirates hit something vital.

  Dirck Goosens was running one of the hoisting tackles out to the boat's bow, so they could haul it in without stopping. Haro was about to call for zigzags, wh
en Gellert did something else entirely. He locked the wheel and ran forward to help Dattler and Edelstein haul the sails in tight, as close to the wind as she would lie. A simple tactic. Now if the pirates turned to point the bow chaser straight at them, their lateen sails wouldn't draw. They'd have oar power only, and the schooner would open the range in a hurry. The bow chaser crew was moving frantically. Their bow swung, and as the gun bore, they fired again.

  Wham! Haro didn't see it happen, but he felt the lurch. When he snapped his head around to look, the mainboom block was gone. There were just a few bits of wood and iron hanging where it had been, and the mainsheet was a snarl of torn pieces of rope. The boom swung free and the bow fell off the wind. Gellert was lying on the deck, with a ragged chunk of wood sticking out of his thigh, blood spreading down his dungarees.

  "Medic! Take care of the chief!" Haro dove for the wheel, to get the schooner back under control. "Lothar, cast off the outer jib." He needed to balance the sails first thing.

  Gellert was struggling to his knees, reaching to uncleat the mainsheet and make some kind of repair. "I can secure the boom, if you can get us up into the wind for a minute, Haro."

  "For Christ's sake, what are you trying to do, get a courier boat named after you? We'll take care of the sail. You let Dattler take care of that wound." He practically screamed, "Go!"

  Dermot said something as he stuck his head out of the hatch to swap rifles with Ó Houlihan again. "Captain, he says he can jury-rig that mainsheet."

  "How? He's never seen this kind of rig before, and there's nothing left of the block."

  Another quick exchange in Irish. "He says he's sailed in a Dutchie merchant. He doesn't know this rig, but he can see what the sheet does. He has an idea how to cobble it together, enough so we can sail."

  Blaser thought about it for all of a second. Everybody else was busy, trying to manage the vessel, keep that gun crew from getting a disastrous hit on them, or get the tender hoisted in again. All the options were bad. "All right, let him. If it doesn't work, we'll try something else."