Into Uncharted Seas

by E. C. Williams

  “I see,” replied Villiers, who, no seaman, obviously didn't.

  “Of course, if the boffins back in French Port ever come up with a practical, working shipborne radar it would make the use of balloons at sea unnecessary – for keeping a long-distance look-out, anyway.”

  “Radar?” Villiers had obviously never heard the term before.

  “It's an acronym for 'Radio Detection and Ranging'. Radio waves bounce off hard objects, and are reflected back toward the sender. By this means you can determine the range and direction of the object.”

  “Interesting theory.”

  “Oh, it's fact, not theory. The ancients had radar. And there's a working set now, in a lab in French Port. Trouble is, it's so big and fragile it's not seaworthy. But that's just engineering – it'll be available to ships in a few years. We hope.”

  “That's a naval project, I assume … ?”

  Mike laughed. “No. The Navy's shore establishment on the Rock consists of just three officers, and anyway we don't have a centime to spare for such an expensive project. No, this is a KBS initiative, and it started before the war, as a way of providing vessels with a means of inshore navigation and collision avoidance in thick weather. Providential for us, given its military potential.”

  “'KBS' stands for 'Kerguelenian …' ?”

  “ … 'Bureau of Shipping'”, Mike finished for him.

  “A government agency, I presume.”

  “Oh, no. It's a private not-for-profit organization for the promotion of marine safety. It classifies vessels, assigns load lines, issues certificates of safe manning, licenses ship's officers, and so forth.”

  “If it's a private organization, I'd guess it has no powers to compel cooperation. Why do ship owners comply with its rules?”

  “Because if they don't, their insurance will cost them double or triple the market rate, if they can get it at all. And most traders won't ship their goods on their vessels. And most seamen won't sail with them.”

  “Oh.”

  They finished their drinks, and Villiers asked, “Want another?”

  “No, thanks, I need to get back to the Scorpion. My officers have been standing watch and watch for more than a week while I've been playing junior birdman. They need a break.”

  “Okay. I'll rustle up a driver to take you back.”

  “Thanks for your hospitality, Pete. Next time you're in Hell-ville, if the Scorpion's in port, I hope you'll give me a chance to repay it.”

  “Absolutely. I'd love a tour of a war-ship.”

  It didn't take Dave long to pack – he had only a change of clothes in a small sea-bag. The flight suit, boots, helmet, and so forth were all unit gear, to be turned back in to the quartermaster. So he was soon under way on the bumpy, dusty drive back to Hell-ville. He had much to think about on the way.

  As he fell into a reverie, a sort of half-doze, under the influence of the heat and the motion of the truck, Dave's mind wandered to his conversation with Villiers, remembering what he had said about the progress toward manned lighter-then-air craft on Reunion. What if … ? He envisioned a round-the-world catamaran freighter converted into a warship; a specialized sort of warship, with her masts removed, a continuous smooth deck installed surmounting her twin hulls, powered by powerful Stirling cycle engines. He saw her turning into the wind, creating or increasing a breeze that would greatly enhance the lift of a fixed-wing aircraft. He saw manned aircraft taking off from and alighting on her deck, each airship armed with explosive charges to drop onto the enemy.

  Excited by this vision, Dave came fully awake, and resolved to write all this down once he was back aboard the Scorpion. He knew that the Reunionnais were not yet at the point of producing a heavier-than-air craft capable of carrying a man, much less weaponry, and that the ship he envisioned to carry these airships would be enormously, obscenely expensive, beyond the means of Kerguelen alone. But he knew it was possible, because the ancients had done it.

  - 11 -

  The next morning, Sam paced the quarterdeck worriedly. The Albatros had sailed all night, and the hour since sunup, in the direction they had last seen the Chaton Doux, without sighting her. Had she sunk? Had the Albatros passed her during the night, unnoticed? One thing was sure: the present course looked to be unproductive now, for the Madagascar coast loomed immediately ahead, uncomfortably close, and no other vessel was in sight in any direction.

  “We'll jibe her, Bobby,” Sam said to Munro, the watch officer. “When you're ready.”

  “Aye aye, sir. Prepare to jibe!” The latter phrase in a shout to the deck watch, who ran to stand by the sheets.

  “Ready?”

  “Ready, aye, ready, sir”

  “Jibe ho!”

  The helmsman fell off, bringing the stern through the wind as seamen tailed on to the sheets, heaving them taut as the wind came dead aft, then easing the booms over to the opposite side as the wind came onto the starboard.

  “We'll beat back on the reciprocal course for, say, two watches, in case we passed her in the night.”

  “Aye aye, Commodore. Helmsman, bring her up to a close reach.”

  “Close reach, aye.”

  “Steer east-south-east.”

  “East-south-east, aye.”

  In spite of his worry, a part of Sam's mind took pride in how smoothly the maneuver was accomplished. Jibing a three-masted schooner was always a chancy business, but the crew of the Albatros had treated it as all part of the day's work.

  Sailing close to a very gentle breeze was a slow, finicky and tedious business for a vessel like the Albatros, requiring a deft touch with the sheets to keep the sails full and drawing. “Headers” – slight temporary changes of direction of the breeze, putting it right on her nose – were hard to predict by the watch, since the wind barely ruffled the sea, and the schooner would be sailing slowly along when, without warning, she would find herself in irons, stalled, having lost all way. Lifts to windward were equally difficult to detect in time to bear up or sheet in so as to take advantage of them before the breeze changed back. A landsman fresh from Kerguelen would have found this weather sheer perfection – a gentle breeze, sunshine, blue skies. But the navigational watch of the Albatros just found it exasperating.

  It deeply concerned Sam that they had not yet encountered the Chaton. She simply couldn't have been driven much farther than the Albatros during the squall, and when it had hit the two vessels had been no more than five or so miles apart. So where was she? Sunk was the answer that kept coming to mind, but he refused to give up the search until he was sure.

  The morning wore on, and the horizon remained empty. The noon position found the Albatros nearly back to the point at which the squall had overtaken them. The last remaining possibility – other than the one Sam was not yet ready to accept – was that the Chaton had been driven dead down wind, rather than managing to continue on the course she was last seen steering.

  “Let's try a downwind track for a while,” Sam instructed the watch. The drifter and the square topsail were set, and the fore, main and mizzen courses, with their gaff topsails, which with the wind dead astern only masked the square sails without adding much thrust – were lowered. The Albatros sailed slowly down wind under square and stay-sails alone.

  With the slight breeze aft, there was virtually no relative wind, and the schooner soon became stiflingly hot, especially below decks. Bosuns' mates rigged wind-sails to direct any stray breath down scuttles and ladder-ways, but there was no breeze across the deck for them to catch. Electric fans in compartments below hummed at top speed, but only moved around the hot air. Idlers, dripping with sweat, periodically appeared on deck for a breath of air. Since action seemed unlikely, the XO relaxed the ship's rule to the extent of allowing the crew to doff their shirts. This gave a little relief to the men, but of course did nothing for the schooner's half-dozen women, who obviously couldn't – certainly wouldn't – take advantage of that dispensation, and all of whom were idlers whose work kept them below.<
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  Sam saw Dr. Girard come on deck forward, and confer briefly with Al Kendall. The XO shook his head in negation and pointed aft. The Medical Officer then strode back aft, to the quarterdeck, and Sam heard her ask the watch officer for permission to approach the Commodore. He interrupted the little ritual this would usually have prompted, of the watch officer sending a midshipman to relay her request, by calling, “Come on aft, Doctor.”

  Marie was obviously suffering from the tropical heat like everyone else: her dark hair was plastered damply to her head, her cheeks were flushed a bright pink, and there were large dark crescents under her arms.

  “Commodore, I've already had one patient suffering from heat prostration and dehydration. I'd like your permission to have drinking water made available on deck. And would you give orders to the seamen to drink deeply and frequently? Otherwise I'm afraid I'll have many more victims.”

  “Who was your patient?”

  “Cookie – Mrs. Wilson. The heat in the galley is intolerable, with the ranges burning to prepare dinner. That brings up another request: could we eat a cold dinner just this once? Her mates are bravely carrying on cooking, so they'll likely be my next patients.”

  “Of course. Pass the word for Mr. Weeks!” Sam raised his voice to address that last phrase to the watch officer.

  “And the water? Commander Kendall said that you had given strict orders to keep the weather deck uncluttered.”

  This was true, for the very cogent reason that the schooner, when at sea, could find herself in action at any time – and when in action her deck was very crowded indeed, and even busier than usual, with gunners coming and going between the armory and the guns, and the fire engine rigged. Normally, when a seaman wanted a drink, he had to go below to a scuttlebutt – a drinking fountain. And of course he couldn't leave his post when the ship was at action stations. But battle appeared unlikely in the near future.

  “Of course. I'll give the orders. I think I'll also tell Al to knock off all routine work below, and let the idlers come on deck, where it's a little cooler, so long as they keep out of the way. And Marie … “

  “Yes, Commodore?”

  “From the look of you, you'd better stay topside yourself – or you're likely to become your next patient!”

  That won Sam a wan smile. The MO then excused herself to return to sick bay, characteristically ignoring the Commodore's suggestion. The Purser appeared, and Sam ordered the galley ranges doused and a cold light lunch prepared for the crew, in place of the usual hot dinner, the main meal of the day at sea being always at noontime. He doubted if anyone would complain – it was hardly the weather for a hearty, steaming plate of rice, greens, and zebu sausage or salt pork.

  Eleven hundred hours came, and the bosuns' mates piped “up spirits”. The crew lined up for their daily tot with a bit less than their usual enthusiasm, drained by the heat. And afterwards the alcohol appeared to have made everyone even more lethargic. No one had much appetite for the cold lunch of rice balls with cabbage.

  The Albatros sailed slowly on to the north, her speed through the water just offsetting the gentle southerly wind, all hands sweating and gasping in the tropical heat. Then, blessedly, toward the end of the afternoon watch, the breeze veered back to the south-south-east and strengthened slightly, producing a welcome movement of air across the deck. The schooner set courses, gaff-topsails, and staysails in addition to drifter and square topsail, on the starboard tack, and sped up perceptibly, causing the relative wind to come yet further forward. Everyone not actually engaged in ship's work lined the windward rail, enjoying the cooling breeze.

  The afternoon wore on. Mr. Mooney came on deck with his sextant to take an afternoon sun-line, the schooner having finally sunk the Madagascar coast below the western horizon. The sun sank lower, and Mooney reappeared with his hand-bearing compass to take a solar amplitude, to check the error of the schooner's compasses. Still no sign of the Chaton Doux.

  Finally, right before sunset, with the sun's lower limb actually just below the horizon, the forward lookout cried, “Sail ho! Sail dead ahead.” Sam could see nothing. He took up his telescope, and with its aid could just make out a smudge of white.

  Sam adjusted their course slightly to starboard put the chase dead ahead in actuality – it was difficult for the lookout to judge relative direction very precisely from his vantage point, and the vessel sighted had actually been a point or so on the starboard bow.

  The lookout cried, “Deck, there! Chase is single-masted.”

  Sam looked again through his telescope, and verified that the strange vessel had only one sail. Whether sloop, catboat, or dhow he could not yet tell. But she wasn't a schooner, so not the Chaton.

  Or could the Chaton have lost a mast in the squall, and be sailing under a jury rig? Only one way to tell. But the light was going as the sun sank below the horizon. Once it was fully set, the tropical twilight would be short. He glanced up, and saw that, as often happened to the frustration of would-be takers of evening star-sights, clouds were blowing up from windward. They usually cleared after it was full dark – but the Albatros could have lost the chase by then.

  Sam stared with great concentration through his telescope, and thought he could make out something of the shape of the strange vessel's sail. It appeared to be quadrilateral, and thus a lugsail. A single-masted lugger in these waters was practically unheard-of. The hull was fully visible now, and it was considerably longer than the single mast would suggest. She lay low in the sea, and a thin stream of water pulsated away to leeward: the vessel was pumping out her hold. He decided that the chase was the Chaton Doux proceeding under a jury rig, and made a quick decision.

  “Turn on the running lights. Including the masthead lights,” he ordered. The watch officer, Tom Low, looked surprised at that – no Kerg vessel ever showed lights in these waters, not since the war with the Caliphate began. But he obediently reached into the wheel house and threw the switches. From where Sam stood, the sidelights and stern light were shielded, so as to show only through the legal range of visibility, but he could make out the red, green, and white glows that escaped their respective shields. He looked up and saw that the red-over-green lights in a vertical line atop the foremast, arranged so as to be visible all around the horizon, were also lit. This combination of lights identified, to the mariner, a large sailing vessel making way under sail alone.

  If the chase was an enemy vessel under jury rig– perhaps the dhow whose attack on the Chaton the Albatros had interrupted – he had just sacrificed any chance of surprise.

  But if she were the Chaton under jury rig, he hoped the sight of Albatros's running lights would prompt her to show a light herself, enabling Sam to find her in the early evening darkness.

  Sam watched anxiously. Finally, he was rewarded by a single, dim white light from the chase, just visible in the rapidly deepening gloom, and the chase lowered her single sail. Soon afterward, a red flare soared skyward: a distress signal. She was definitely the Chaton.

  “Launch the motor sloop,” ordered Sam. The order was relayed, and the usual burst of activity ensued on deck: the steelyards, bull chains, and other tackle roused up from below, the sloop uncovered and the gripes thrown off.

  “Pass the word for the XO.”

  Kendall soon appeared. “Al, send the Boatswain and a few of his mates over in the sloop to see what we can do to help. Tell the sloop's coxwain to bring back the master, if he feels he can be spared – I'd like a full report from his own lips on what happened.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” the XO replied in his raspy near-whisper, and hurried forward.

  The motor sloop was launched, and towed alongside by her sea painter for the usual short wait to allow her Stirling cycle engine to work up to operating temperature. The craft then dropped the painter and surged forward toward the dim and flickering white light shown by the Chaton. It was now full dark. The Albatros continued to close the Chaton. Just as the Albatros began reducing sail to come alongside her, the
motor sloop returned, this time bearing, in addition to the coxwain and engineer, just one passenger, who proved to be Captain Bowman, the Chaton's master.

  Bowman came up the Albatros's side with none of the youthful agility he had displayed the first time he had done so. He moved, rather, with the slow, bone-weariness of a man who had been frantically busy for more than thirty-six hours trying to save his ship.

  “Come down to my cabin for a drink and a bite, Captain – you look like you could use a break.”

  “Thanks, Cap'n Bowditch. I believe I will. And thanks for the loan of your Boatswain and some seamen; my crew is worn out.”

  When Sam had gotten Bowman settled at his dining table, in front of a drink and a plate of cold food, he said, “What happened? I mean, I can guess most of it, but why are you so low in the water? Did that second round from the pirate hole you below the waterline?”

  “No, the bastard missed completely with his second shot, after busting my main gaff spar. We were running to the west on a beam reach while trying to jury-rig something to make the main-course draw when the squall hit us square on the port beam. We were knocked down flat, and lost our mainmast completely and our fore topmast. Lost a man over the side, too – a good man. Don't know how I'll tell his widow.

  “Anyway, the knock-down must have caused us to spring a seam, or maybe a panel of sheathing was smashed in. All I know is that we're leaking badly from somewhere on the starboard side. We've been pumping like madmen to try and lower the water in the hold to the point where we can find and patch the leak. O'course, my owners were too cheap to give us a motor-generator set – it's the story of the radio all over again – so all our pumps are Norwegian-steamers. Every one of us has blisters on our blisters from pumping, and we're worn out.” He turned his hands over and displayed them to Sam, who cried out in horror at the bloody mess displayed.

  Sam strode to the foot of the gangway to the quarterdeck and shouted up to the watch, “Pass the word to sick bay to send one of the doctor's mates with a first-aid kit to the Commodore's cabin.” He paused for a moment's thought, then added, “Ask the XO to join me in my cabin, too.”