Into Uncharted Seas

by E. C. Williams

  “Aside from safety, are there any other advantages to hydrogen over hot air?”

  “Oh, yes. With hydrogen, we can leave the balloon partly inflated overnight, and launching in the morning won't take as long. As it is now, our ground crew has to start burning at oh-dark-thirty to have the aircraft ready to ascend at sunrise. Also, I'm stretched pretty thin with regard to personnel – Regimental HQ regards any man not toting a rifle as wasted. However much I beg, I can't get more men assigned to the AEWS unit. The regimental quartermaster keeps telling me how many more rifles and how much ammo he could buy with my budget. And all my men necessarily have to be full-time militiamen, and so draw pay and allowances, and that makes us look even more costly than a line company.”

  “Well, that attitude'll change the first time you give ten or twelve hours' advance warning of a pirate raid.”

  Villiers chuckled. “You're right about that. That's why I'm hoping for a raid soon – but of course I'll deny that if you quote me!” Dave laughed as well, and thought some more.

  “Couldn't you do that with a hot air balloon, too? Keep it partly inflated at night, I mean,” he finally said.”

  “Yes, but it would involve burning all night, and the aviation spirit is so costly I have to account for every liter to the QM.”

  “But if palm oil was produced on a larger scale … and distilled spirit, too … it would come down in price,” Dave mused, as much to himself as to Villiers.

  “Yes, that's true, of course. And the demand caused by the increased use of powered machinery is stimulating more planting of oil palm groves, both here on Nosy Be and across on the Big Island, as the King gradually makes more land grants there. But it takes several years before a new plantation begins to produce oil in any quantity.”

  Dave mused over all he had learned, while Villiers waited patiently for his next question, sipping his fortified coffee.

  “Can I –may I – go up in the balloon?” Dave asked abruptly.

  Villiers laughed in surprise. “Well, not unless you qualified as an observer. And were willing to stay up from sunrise to sunset. We don't do flights just for the fun of it.”

  “Okay, what does it take to qualify as an observer? I'm certainly experienced in scanning the horizon for strange sails!”

  “That's the least of it, Dave,” Villiers replied, the two being on a first-name basis now after a couple of rum-and-coffees. “Most importantly, you have to become rated as pilot, in case you have to take over for him in mid-flight. But the biggest hurdle is qualifying as a parachutist. The training takes several weeks.”

  “What's a 'parachutist'?”

  “A parachute is a canopy of fabric that retards your fall if you have to jump from the gondola, because of fire or if the tether cable carries away.”

  “Wait a minute – you have to jump out of the balloon from three hundred meters up?”

  “Well, like I said, the parachute slows your fall. If all goes well, and you do everything right, you survive the jump with nothing worse than a broken leg, if that.”

  “How the hell do you train to do that?”

  “The syllabus starts with jumping from a height of three meters, to teach you how to land safely. Then you progress to sliding in a harness suspended from a wheeled trolley that rides down a wire from the top of the training tower, at an angle that approximates the rate of fall. This is to practice, again, landing safely. You also have to learn how to pack your own parachute, so it will open properly.

  “The final test is a jump from the balloon at maximum altitude. If you survive that, you earn your wings.”

  “'Wings'?”

  “The rating badge for a balloonist.” Villiers pointed to his own chest, to a small gold badge that Dave had previously noticed and wondered about. It was a stylized balloon with bird's wings sprouting from the gondola.

  The very idea of jumping from a height of a thousand feet, with only a scrap of fabric to slow his fall, was terrifying to Dave. But he persisted: “I'd still like to do it. Do you suppose I could go through the training? I'd have to get my commodore's permission, of course.”

  “Well, I suppose so. If you could get your commodore to ask the Colonel. I doubt if he'd refuse a request from the Navy. But why in the world would you want to?”

  “I've been thinking about the possible role of aircraft in naval operations since I first sighted your balloon and learned what it was. Somebody has to be an advocate for aviation to make it happen, and it might as well be me.”

  “You didn't sound all that enthusiastic about the parachute jump.”

  “Anybody ever get killed doing it?”

  “Not so far.”

  “Then I guess the odds are on my side.”

  “Or we're overdue for a death in training.”

  Dave laughed. “You're really encouraging, you know that, Pete?”

  “Just want you to be clear on what you're letting yourself in for.”

  The two men talked about how to go about convincing their respective brass to give permission for this unusual assignment. Peter Villiers agreed to approach his colonel with a tentative request, representing it as valuable inter-service cooperation and liaison. Dave would see Commodore Ennis, and try to persuade him to allow the process to begin without waiting for Commodore Bowditch's return. Villiers said he would devise an accelerated, intensive training schedule for Dave that could be accomplished within a week. It was truncated by omitting the usual two or three training flights done prior to the qualifying parachute jump. During these flights, the trainee carried out the functions, successively, of both the pilot and the observer, as a third crew member, under the supervision of the regular crew. In Dave's case, he would have to qualify as both pilot and observer, and then do the training jump, all in one flight. Pete warned him that if he didn't satisfy the crew as to his competence in these skills, he wouldn't be allowed to make the jump and would have to start all over again with “ground school” in order to qualify.

  Or they could decide that he was hopeless, and wash him out of flight training there and then.

  After lunch with Villiers and his adjutant, a young lieutenant named Stanley, Dave began the journey back to Hell-ville. He wanted to relieve Landry and Cameron in plenty of time for them to go for a run ashore, since they had been confined to the dhow since arrival back at Nosy Be.

  On the ride back, he had much to think about.

  - 7 -

  Early that morning, as dawn broke with the usual tropical suddenness, Sam Bowditch stared astern through his telescope. One pirate dhow gradually emerged from the gloom. The other was nowhere in sight. Sam wondered what had become of it.

  He turned and focused in the other direction, toward Reunion Island. The twin peaks of the volcanoes, Piton de la Fournaise and Piton des Neiges, were well above the horizon.

  His phone talker said, in a tired monotone, “Comms reports enemy radio chatter, sir.” He, like everyone else on the Albatros, was exhausted from standing-to all through the night, except on the couple of occasions when half the crew at a time had been allowed to lie down on the deck at their stations and grab a half-hour nap.

  “Very well,” Sam acknowledged.

  This was the first enemy radio communications they had intercepted since shortly after dusk the day before. Sam guessed that it was the senior dhow, which he assumed was the one visible in his wake, summoning her consort. He theorized that the pirate commodore had sent his mate on a divergent course to the north, to spread his net wider in case Albatros had tried to fool them under cover of darkness by falling off and running down wind. If that were the case, he could hope that the second dhow would be unable to rejoin her sister before battle was joined.

  Mr. Mooney came out of the chartroom, where he had just been plotting a round of morning stars. “We're a couple of hours off St.-Denis, Commodore, depending on the wind. Should we resume towing?”

  The wind had died away toward dawn, to the morning near-calm usual in these latitudes in the ab
sence of a weather system. The schooner had bare steerage-way, the sea a mere whisper along her hull. The chasing dhow was making no better way.

  After midnight, in order to save fuel – he didn't dare exhaust his supply when he might need it for an engagement, the motor sloop being a major asset in any battle with the unpowered pirate vessels – and to allow the sloop's crew to rest, he had ordered the sloop to be towed alongside, her engineer warming the engine periodically to be ready for immediate use. He considered the navigator's suggestion, then rejected it.

  “No, Pilot. I think we'll save her for a while longer. Of course, if the dhow comes up within range of her own guns, we'll resume towing.”

  Sam had a motive other than saving fuel, as well. He wanted to lure the dhow – or dhows, if the other one appeared – well within range of Le Port's harbor battery. If he gained too great a lead by towing in these light airs, the enemy might become discouraged and abandon the chase. He hoped General Chasseur would have the patience to wait until the dhows were well within range, and not unmask his guns until sure of solid hits.

  “Pass the word for the XO,” Sam said.

  “XO, your presence is requested on the quarterdeck,” Sam's phone talker intoned into the mike he wore round his neck.

  Ordinarily, Sam and Commander Kendall made a point of remaining well-separated when the schooner was at battle stations, to avoid the possibility of a single hit taking out the vessel's senior leadership at one blow. But there was no likelihood of action within the next thirty minutes or so. The dhow was, for the moment, well out of range of both her own guns and that of the Albatros.

  Sam had nothing in particular he wanted to say to Kendall. It was just that sometimes the burden of command felt especially heavy on his shoulders, and a chat with a man who was not only his right hand but his friend helped relieve that feeling. Not that he would ever – could ever – confess to that motive.

  Kendall appeared promptly, and said, “Good morning, Commodore.” Then he waited expectantly for orders.

  “'Morning, Al. I've got no urgent instructions for you – just wanted to take this opportunity to compare notes before we're in action. Coffee?”

  “Of course, Skipper. I'll take Ritchie's brew over the galley tar any time!” Sam chuckled and passed the word for Ritchie to bring coffee for two to the quarterdeck.

  The Commodore's steward appeared promptly with a tray loaded with a coffee pot, two mugs, and an assortment of the rice snacks Ritchie knew Sam liked, and had kept coming all through the long night. Al made appreciative noises as he selected a ball of rice and shredded coconut.

  “So, Skipper … how do you see this unfolding?”

  “Well, we don't know the number or range of the Reunionnais guns, so I'll just lead them straight on toward the entrance channel to Le Port until the fireworks start … ah, the other shoe drops!” This said as the maintop lookout called out “Sail ho! Sail on the port quarter. A dhow.” The two turned and looked aft and to port.

  “There's bad boy number two,” Sam said. “I was tempted to turn suddenly and engage the lead dhow, hoping to take her out before the second one could come up. Just as well I didn't. I don't think there would have been enough time.”

  “Not to mention how disappointed our friend Le Chasseur would have been if you had deprived him of his prey!”

  The second dhow was on a course to intercept the Albatros. Sam walked aft to the taffrail log, noted the distance on the meter, pulled out his watch, and did a six-minute speed check. He then drew a rough relative-motion plot in his head, and decided that the dhows would be within range of the Albatros's 37 mm gun when all three vessels were a bit less than half a mile off the harbor entrance moles. That is, if he proceeded under sail alone, and didn't use the motor sloop. In these light airs, the graceful dhows were gaining quickly on the tubby, bluff-bowed schooner.

  He walked forward and took his telescope from its fair-weather rack on the after bulkhead of the chartroom, and focused on the harbor entrance. He could just make out structures on the seaward ends of the moles that might have been batteries. He could also now see a tall, slim tower a short distance inland that he supposed was the harbor signal station. As he focused on it, he realized that it was repeatedly flashing the letter “T” in Morse code, obviously trying to raise the Albatros. In the morning light no one had noticed it.

  “Is everybody asleep on this tub!” Sam roared in rage. “Somebody answer the verdomde harbor station!” Spurred into action as if by an electric shock, the duty signalman trained his light on the signal station and acknowledged.

  “Commodore to XO: forward and maintop lookouts to be dried out for ten days!” Sam snapped to his phone talker. To be “dried out” was to have one's liquor ration suspended, the most feared punishment in the XO's repertoire of ways to make a seaman's life miserable. And ten days was a draconian sentence by the Albatros's standards.

  Sam swore again, this time to himself. It was natural that everyone's attention was focused on the pursuing enemy vessels, and of course everyone was tired from a long night at action stations – but by God it was the lookouts' duty to maintain a lookout throughout their assigned sectors, the draadtrekkers!

  Everyone on the quarterdeck stared straight ahead in shock. Usually, the Old Man assumed a lofty, above-it-all attitude, leaving discipline to the XO and the Boatswain. This unusual outburst showed just how angry he was.

  The signalman approached him, cleared his throat, and said, reading from his visual signaling log to be sure he got it right: “Harbor control sends: 'Recommend you approach within 750 yards of breakwater then turn sharp left.'”

  “Acknowledge.” Obviously, the turn was to clear the field of fire for the batteries. A left turn would unmask the batteries quicker than a right turn. It meant jibing the Albatros – bringing her stern through the wind – a tricky maneuver for a three-masted schooner.

  The lead dhow was 700 yards or so astern of the Albatros; this implied an effective range of the Reunionnais guns of at least 1500 yards. Likely it was more – the gunners would want to be quite sure of hits before unmasking, since the dhows would probably turn and sail out of range rather than get into a duel with shore batteries.

  Sam saw some movement within the harbor, just inside the moles. He raised his telescope and took a look. Two small craft, apparently powered, were proceeding out the channel. He wondered what this was all about – surely they weren't sending him a pilot and tow with a battle about to take place!

  He noticed that Mooney, without waiting to be told, was taking bearings with a hand bearing compass. He had apparently noted a couple of charted objects, and the cross-bearings that would indicate the schooner was 700 yards or so off the moles. He would give the order for the change of course at the appropriate time. Not for the first time, Sam felt gratitude for a supremely competent navigator.

  Sam looked astern, and was surprised at how much the enemy had gained on the Albatros. The lead dhow, in fact, appeared to be within range of the 37 mil. His bird-with-a-broken-wing strategy required him to pretend that the motor sloop was out of fuel or disabled, but it would be overdoing it to hold his fire as well.

  “Gunner: fire on lead dhow when within range. Use HE.” His phone talker was murmuring into his headset before he finished speaking, then said, “Gunner acknowledges, sir.”

  Within less than a minute, the 37 mm rifle barked, and a splash appeared just off the lead dhow's port bow. The gun's crew quickly re-loaded, corrected their aim, and fired again. The next shell splash was even closer, and may have even been a glancing hit on the dhow's port bow.

  Stung, the dhow returned fire, although the Albatros was not yet quite within the range of the pirates' guns. The splash was safely astern, but squarely in the schooner's wake. Good shooting, Sam thought with reluctant admiration.

  Mooney took one last round of bearings, and barked “Prepare to jibe!” Bringing the stern of a large three-masted schooner through the wind in any kind of a breeze was fraugh
t with the danger of shrouds or stays parting or booms carried away. But it was one the Albatros's crew had practiced many times, and the wind was light.

  “Jibe!”, Mooney barked, and the helmsman put the wheel hard over. “Helm's a-lee, sir,” he said to the watch officer.

  From above, the jibe would have looked like a smooth curve drawn on the surface of the sea, as the schooner brought her stern to the wind and the booms of the big courses and the sheets of the staysails were eased across from starboard tack to port in precise simultaneity. But on deck, all was organized chaos as the sail-handlers scrambled to control the sheets and the 37 mm gun's crew heaved their weapon across from port to starboard, the main-mast men trying to avoid colliding with them. The gunners secured the mount to the deck, reloaded, and fired another round almost as soon as the vessel had completed the maneuver. Smartly done, Sam thought. Especially with the motor sloop still made fast alongside.

  Sam didn't see where this shot fell, because, almost at the same time, two deep-throated booms roared out from shoreward so close together that they sounded like one rolling noise, and two towering waterspouts bracketed the leading dhow. My God, Sam thought. How big ARE those guns?”

  That wasn't the only surprise in store. At the same time, the two small craft Sam had noted earlier abruptly increased speed and raced out of the channel, throwing up tall rooster tails of spray in their wake. Their bows rose, and Sam realized that they must have had planing hulls, a design feature he had only read about in old books. He estimated with awe that they must be exceeding thirty knots. A strange feature on the stern of each could only be a gun, but in each case it was mounted all the way aft, so much so that the breech, oddly bell-shaped, actually protruded outboard. As he watched, the leading boat fired on the dhow, and Sam noted that a spout of flame and smoke almost equal in volume to that vomited from the muzzle also jetted from the breech. At first, he thought the gun must have burst, but it soon spoke again, accompanied now by its mate on the other boat.