Into Uncharted Seas

by E. C. Williams

  Mooney, and the officer of the watch were crowded into the tiny chartroom working out and plotting their star sights, the watch had just been called, and the sun was just emerging above the eastern horizon almost dead astern when the morning routine was suddenly interrupted by a shout from the lookout: “Sail ho! Sail four points on the port bow.”

  “Battle stations!” snapped Sam instantly, as the officers piled out of the chartroom. The deck came alive with a flurry of activity. The main battery and the motor sloop were quickly manned, and the canvas covers whipped off the sloop's 75 mm rifle as well as the 37 mm gun. The latter was run out all the way to the port gun balcony, and trained on the strange sail. The one-inchers and small arms came up from the armory in a rush and issued to the hands.

  “Set a course to intercept,” Sam ordered, and Mr. Mooney, whose battle station was aft, in charge of the navigational watch, adjusted the schooner's heading until there was no bearing drift on the target sail. Sam glanced aloft, and decided to set the drifter. He gave the order, and almost immediately the huge sail and its long yard soared up to the top of the lower foremast and filled, Even in the gentle breeze, Sam could feel through his feet the slight surge in speed as it was trimmed in. The other sails were re-trimmed as the relative wind came ahead slightly because of the increased speed. Mooney re-adjusted the heading to maintain a course to intercept. Sam raised his telescope, but could make out nothing but a faint white blob on the horizon.

  “Deck, there,” the lookout called. “Chase is a two-masted schooner.” Damn good eyes, to make that out without a telescope Sam thought, and wondered if his own vision was deteriorating with age.

  The fact that the strange vessel was schooner-rigged reassured Sam not at all. The pirates had before now used captured Kerguelenian vessels as a ruse to lure their prey into range. Sam wondered if the dhow they were pursuing was lurking just over the horizon, having rendezvoused with the schooner.

  “Hoist the number one ensign to the maintop,” ordered Sam, and the 'Rattlesnake-and-Tricolor' raced up its halyard. It measured six feet by ten, and the wind direction made it fly at an angle that should make it perfectly visible to the strange schooner.

  Long moments passed as the two vessels closed on one another. Finally, Sam could make out the vessel hull-up, her two courses now distinct rather than one white blob. He watched as a flag rose up the strange schooner's foremast. He couldn't quite make it out.

  “Deck, there. Chase has hoisted Kerg colors,” the lookout called down just then. A few minutes went by, and the stranger hoisted another flag, this time to the mainmast top. After studying it carefully through his telescope, Sam finally recognized the distinctive checkerboard pattern of code flag “November”, the correct merchant marine recognition signal for the month. When the lookout confirmed this, Sam was inordinately pleased that he had recognized it first. Maybe his eyes weren't going after all.

  It wasn't time to relax just yet, however. The schooner could have been recently taken by the pirates, along with her code book, even though masters of merchant vessels were under strict orders to throw the book overboard if threatened with capture. The book had lead sheets incorporated into its covers to make it sink immediately. But in the heat of a chase this could easily be overlooked.

  “Acknowledge,” Sam ordered, and flag “Sierra” raced up the Albatros's foremast halyard. The chase then hauled down “November”, the final step in the prescribed recognition procedure. Although Sam was now fairly certain the strange schooner was what she purported to be, he kept the crew closed up at action stations. It wouldn't do to be too trusting.

  When they were within hailing distance of one another, Sam bellowed through his megaphone, “Heave to!”. The strange schooner promptly jibed without shifting her sheets, resulting in her lying almost dead in the water. Albatros approached to within fifty yards and did the same. Both schooners then lay alongside with almost no way on them, sails slatting and banging.

  “What ship? Where bound?” Sam bawled.

  “Chaton Doux, bound for Nosy Be,” came the reply.

  “Master come aboard with vessel's papers. I'll send my boat for you.” This last represented a sort of apology for putting the Chaton Doux's skipper to so much bother, since Sam was now certain of her innocence.

  Sam ordered the motor sloop launched, rather than one of the whaleboats, which would have been easier. This meant putting his own crew to extra trouble, but it was good training, and never failed to impress merchant masters on their first contact with the Albatros.

  As always, the XO stood with watch in hand, mutely challenging the hands to beat their best previous time in rigging the steelyards, bull chains, and hoisting tackles, swaying the heavy sloop up and over the side, and lowering her into the water. At the same time, the sloop's engineer busied himself with starting and warming up her engine. The crew completed the complex process with amazing ease and quickness, and the motor sloop was soon surging across the short stretch of water between the two schooners. Sam remembered the frustrating, tentative, time-consuming way this evolution had been carried out at first, back in Morbihan Bay, when the Albatros was first being worked up as a naval combatant, and felt a deep satisfaction at how far his crew had progressed.

  Like so many Kerg merchant skippers in this time of rapid promotion, Chaton's master was quite young, apparently not yet thirty. He climbed the pilot ladder and came over the bulwark with youthful agility, and gazed around curiously at the 37 mm rifle and the Albatros's numerous crew.

  Sam approached him, hand extended, and said, “Welcome aboard the RKS Albatros, Captain. I'm Sam Bowditch, her commander. I'm sorry to put you to this trouble, but there's a pirate dhow on the loose in these waters, and we're trying to catch her. Will you come down to my day cabin for a cup of coffee and a chat?”

  The young man shook Sam's hand, and replied, “It's no trouble, Captain – breaks up the monotony. My name is Bowman. And, yes, coffee would be mighty welcome. We don't have none on the old Chaton, and won't 'til we can buy some in Nosy Be”

  Sam showed Bowman below, passing the word for the XO to join them as he left the quarterdeck. Kendall soon appeared, and Sam introduced the two as Ritchie, ahead of the curve as always, appeared with three mugs of fresh coffee. He also brought, without being asked, the bottle of aged rum from Sam's private stores.

  “Not too early for a little 'sweetener' in your coffee, is it, Captain?” Sam said, opening the bottle and holding it in readiness over Bowman's mug.

  “Never too early for that, Captain,” Bowman replied with a chuckle. Sam added a healthy shot to each mug and re-corked the bottle.

  Bowman passed a canvas folder to Sam, who quickly looked through the papers it contained. All were in order: Bowman's KBS license as “Master of Sail and Auxiliary Vessels, Any Tonnage, Oceans”and the Chaton's registration, tonnage declaration, cargo manifest, crew list, and KBS certificate of seaworthiness.

  “You don't have a radio, Captain?” asked Sam, noting the absence of the usual radio station certificate, showing transmitting power and call sign.

  “No, sir,” replied Bowman, with a touch of bitterness in his voice. “My owners won't spring for it – say it's too expensive.”

  “But surely, in these times … ?”

  “I know, Captain, I know – and I've told 'em a hundred times that a radio could save the schooner. But they keep saying that the KBS will require them any day now, and they want to wait and see what the Bureau specifies in the way of gear.”

  “Existing rigs will certainly be grandfathered.”

  “Of course. They're just being cheap – saving centimes at the risk of losing a vessel worth many thousands of francs.”

  Sam changed the subject – obviously a sore point with Captain Bowman – and asked, “Have you sighted any strange vessels?”

  “No vessels a'tall, Captain. Yours is the first sail I've seen since we sank the Rock astern 18 days ago.”

  “Keep a good lookout from here on, Ca
ptain Bowman. There's a pirate dhow cruising the east coast of Madagascar, a big two-master, well armed. How are you fixed for firearms – can you defend yourself?”

  “I've got a few shotguns, and one seal rifle. That's all.”

  “Is your rifleman a good shot?”

  “My rifleman is me, Captain. I've been practicing every day on floating targets since we got into the southern trades, and I've got a bruise on my right shoulder to show for it. But I ain't what you'd call a marksman yet, nor does it look like I'll likely ever be.”

  There was a brief silence as Sam thought, drumming his fingers idly on the table-top. Then he said, “Tell you what, Captain Bowman – we'll escort you as far north as Cap Est. We'll be hovering at a distance – you may not even see us sometimes – but we'll be there, keeping an eye on you.”

  “Gonna use me for bait, are you, Captain?” Bowman said with a sardonic grin.

  “Something like that,” Sam was forced to acknowledge.

  “Well, that's okay, long as I don't get swallowed with the hook!”

  “That's settled, then. And now, have you had breakfast? Because I haven't. Why don't you join me and Commander Kendall for a bite?”

  “That's mighty kind of you, Captain. I will.”

  Sam yelled for Ritchie, and asked for breakfast for three, right away. A lesser man might have resented the suddenness of this demand, but Ritchie, imperturbable as always, was used to his Commodore's spur-of-the-moment invitations, and merely said, “Aye aye, Commodore”. And vanished into his pantry.

  Bowman looked at Sam and said, “'Commodore'? Have I been using the wrong title, sir?”

  “Not at all, not at all, Mister Bowman. 'Captain' is fine. 'Commodore' is merely a courtesy title my crew uses.”

  Bowman took Sam at his word, and for the balance of his visit continued to address him as 'captain', to the visible discomfort of any of the Albatroses within hearing. But it didn't bother Sam at all. As a former merchant marine officer, he could imagine no higher or more honorable title than 'captain' and regarded the 'commodore' tag Bill Ennis had stuck on him when the Navy had grown to two vessels as frivolous, even faintly comic.

  Ritchie worked his usual magic, and a steaming hot breakfast of rice, spiced cabbage, and zebu sausage appeared on Sam's mess table far sooner than anyone could have had a right to expect. He re-appeared almost immediately with a fresh pot of coffee. The three officers, all of whom had been up and active for hours, ate with a good appetite.

  Bowman complimented Sam on his cook.

  “Yes, I'm very lucky to have Ritchie. Before he joined the Navy, he was the chef at one of the best restaurants in French Port.”

  “What in the world made him throw that up and go to sea?”

  Sam lowered his voice. “A very bitter divorce, I've heard. I don't know all the sordid details – just that Ritchie vowed to stay at sea until his ex-wife dies or re-marries.”

  Bowman gave a low whistle. “The Rock not big enough for both of 'em, eh? Sounds nasty.”

  Sam changed the subject from his steward's marital woes to the weather, a staple topic among seamen. “How was your passage through the Forties, Captain?”

  “Not bad, sir. I played it safe, since I'm so short-handed – stayed on a broad reach under storm canvas until I had worked my way into the southern trades. Then altered course easterly until I made a landfall off Taolagnaro. Then I headed north, and met you.”

  Sam nodded. Beating into the westerlies, or even keeping a close reach, was a strategy only for a fully-manned vessel and an experienced crew. Bowman's way meant sailing more miles but it was definitely the more prudent one.

  When they had finished eating, and Bowman had declined yet another mug of coffee, Sam said, “Well, Captain, I know time is money for a merchantman, so I won't keep you any longer.” They rose from the table, and Sam said to his steward, “Ritchie, put up a couple of pounds of coffee beans in a sack for Captain Bowman.”

  “Why, that's awful generous of you, Captain Bowditch...”

  “Not at all. We have it to spare, and now you won't have to wait until you reach Nosy Be to have your morning cup.”

  They went on deck, and Sam and Al said goodbye to Bowman at the pilot ladder. Bowman dropped down into the waiting boat with the same agility he had shown coming aboard, in spite of the several cups of “sweetened” coffee he had enjoyed before and during breakfast. Sam himself, while not tipsy, could definitely feel the rum he had drunk.

  When her master had returned aboard the Chaton Doux, she immediately jibed and fell off onto a northerly course, resuming her passage to Nosy Be, as the crew of the Albatros recovered the motor sloop.

  “Let's keep her in sight, Mister Mooney, but stand off five miles or so,” Sam said to his navigator, who was then on watch. “Double the lookouts.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The Albatros tailed the Chaton Doux all the rest of that day, keeping her sails just in sight on the northern horizon, and adjusting her speed to conform to that of the slower and smaller two-master. Sam spent the day pacing the quarterdeck and tensely awaiting the lookout's cry. But the morning and then the afternoon wore on without another sail in sight, and as sunset approached, Sam said to Lieutenant Low, who then had the watch, “Tom, close up to about a cable's length of the Chaton, and keep her there.” He didn't want to lose his convoy during the night.

  “Aye, aye sir.” Low ordered the drifter set, and the Albatros quickly surged closer to the Chaton Doux. The midshipman of the watch checked the distance off by vertical angle with his sextant, and the drifter came down smartly just as he called out an even two hundred yards.

  The short tropical twilight quickly gave way to night, and the Chaton was visible only by the shape of her sails silhouetted against a star-filled sky. Sam knew that moonrise was a few hours away, and even then it would only be a thin crescent, so vigilance would be necessary to keep the other vessel in sight until sunrise.

  The Chaton Doux was slow, like nearly all Kerguelenian merchant schooners, designed for seaworthiness and cargo capacity, in that order, with speed a distant third on the designers' list of priorities. So the Albatros had no difficulty keeping station on her, so long as she was visible. The Chaton showed no lights, of course – no Kerg vessel did, in these waters – so keeping her in sight was the only challenge.

  Sam considered, then rejected, keeping the Albatros at Condition Alfa all night, with half the crew at battle stations and the other half on deck. He had only ever fought one night action with the pirates, and that was to frustrate an attempted landing on the north shore of Nosy Be. Caliphate vessels, in his experience, whether war-dhows or merchantmen, were in the habit of reducing sail at night regardless of the weather. He also rejected the notion of spending the night himself on the quarterdeck, dozing in an armchair; he had found that this merely made him stiff, sore, and sluggish when roused. Instead, he turned in “all standing”, leaving orders to be called at the first hint of trouble, and in any case with the morning watch.

  Below in his cabin, he kicked off his shoes and stretched out on his bunk. He turned on his reading light – a luxury that came with a constant supply of electricity provided by the schooner's motor-generator set – first being sure his porthole was thoroughly curtained. He then took up a book to read himself to sleep, a volume he had borrowed from the Kerguelenian High Commissioner on Nosy Be, Mr. Ravenel.

  It was a scholarly work of history, its topic the early settlement of Kerguelen by refugees from the Troubles. Sam read of the arrival of people from South Africa, Europe, the Americas, and even Australia and New Zealand on sailing yachts, carrying one or two families each. There were also fisherman, mostly Asian, stranded at sea with their home ports destroyed. There was even a small cruise ship, arriving packed with seasick South Africans from Capetown and Durban – Sam's “Cape Colored” ancestor had been on this ship, while the first Bowditch on Kerguelen had arrived on a yacht from North America. All of these people were added to the severa
l hundred mostly French scientists and technicians on the Rock, their numbers swollen by the reluctance of many to return to France given the desperate situation in Europe. The story of the survival of these first Kerguelenians on a barren sub-Antarctic island, with no hope of assistance from an outside world collapsing into chaos, came to form the foundation myth of a new culture. It was a tale with which Sam was, of course, long familiar in broad outline, but the book was full of details he hadn't known before.

  Unfortunately, it also bristled with footnotes, and was written in a turgid, academic style that was difficult to follow. It didn't help that it was written in classical English, liberally sprinkled with long quotations in ancient French from other works. As Sam's eyelids descended past half-mast, his last conscious thought was of how much more interesting it would have been if written in the patois, and without the footnotes.

  When the lee helmsman of the midwatch came to call him at 0345, he found that he had tossed the volume aside and turned off his reading light at some point. And, unusually for him, he was still sound asleep when called rather than already on the edge of wakefulness, alerted by his internal clock. He decided that he should recommend Ravenel's book to the Doctor as a substitute for sleeping pills for her insomniac patients.

  He stepped into his shoes, splashed some water in his face, and went on deck, where he stood in the pre-dawn darkness waiting for his vision to adjust. Ritchie appeared right after him with his morning coffee.

  Munro, the watch officer, approached and said, “Good morning, Commodore. Still shadowing the Chaton, steering various northerly courses on a broad reach. Light airs occasionally freshening to a gentle breeze out of the south-east. No other traffic.”