Into Uncharted Seas

by E. C. Williams

  The question on everyone's mind now was: would it hold? They stared intently at the patch through several gentle rolls of the schooner. The acid test of the patch occurred when the vessel rolled to starboard, putting the patch under more pressure. The patch held. There was not a spurt, not a dribble, of seawater from around it.

  “Well, that oughta get her to Nosy Be,” Foy said with deep satisfaction. Sam congratulated Terreblanche, Foy, and their mates. The four officers returned on deck, leaving the hands to resume pumping and start stowing the cargo back in the hold. When they were topside, Sam noted with some surprise that morning twilight had come, and sunrise wasn't far off. He saw Mr. Mooney on the quarterdeck of the Albatros with his sextant, taking a round of morning stars. Sam's standing orders were that, whatever else was going on, the schooner's position was to be fixed whenever possible.

  The Boatswain looked reflectively aft at the point where the mainmast had been, pressing one hand into the small of his back and visibly suppressing a moan. “Time now to get started on that jury rig,” he said.

  “No, Boats, it ain't,” Sam said firmly. “Not before you and your mates have had a bite and a nap.”

  Terreblanche was so tired he made only a token protest at this, then passed that word to his mates and climbed over the rail to return to the Albatros. Sam turned to Captain Bowman, who like Sam had been watching the process of making a cement patch with avid interest, and said, “Well, Skipper, we're not quite there yet, but we're making progress.”

  “Yes, indeed, Commodore,” Bowman replied. Sam noticed his promotion from “Captain”; apparently Bowman had started consciously or unconsciously aping Sam's own officers and crew. “And now I think I'll give my boys a break, too,” he went on.

  “Good idea. Everybody looks ready to drop. Including you.”

  “Oh, I'm fine, Commodore. That nap in your sick bay did me a world of good.”

  Sam climbed back onto the Albatros, now ravenous for his breakfast. He was well satisfied with the night's work. With luck, now, both schooners would be under way for Hell-ville before “up spirits” was piped.

  Ritchie, as always exquisitely sensitive to Sam's needs and wants, met him with a steaming mug of fresh coffee, and said, “Breakfast, sir? I can have it on the table in a quarter of an hour.”

  “By all means, Ritchie – I'm famished. Make a lot, because I'm going to ask Captain Bowman and Commander Kendall to join me.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Sam sent the midshipman of the watch to find Al and Captain Bowman with his invitation to breakfast, then savored his coffee while watching the sun break the horizon in the direction of Australia, far to the east. There was still a great deal of work to be done on the Chaton. First priority was to get the weight of all that steel back down into the hold before the wind and sea made up. Sam had noticed, and worried about, the extreme slowness of the merchantman's roll, her apparent reluctance at the end of each one to come back upright, a sure sign that she was very tender. Only after that was accomplished should they worry about a better jury rig for her.

  Kendall and Bowman soon appeared, and Sam led the way down to his tiny mess, all three of them following with their noses the delicious aromas wafting up from Ritchie's pantry, where he worked his culinary wonders with no more than a hanging stove and a few pots and pans.

  Their food appeared immediately, and all three set to, famished after the long night. After the first pangs were satisfied, Bowman murmured as if to himself, “Sure glad that hole appeared to be above the copper. Still, wouldn't hurt to have it checked by a diver in Hell-ville. Wouldn't do to get ship-worms into the hull sheathing.”

  This smacked strongly of “shop”, forbidden at table in the Navy, so Kendall cleared his throat significantly and changed the subject. “Reckon the Chatons will be glad to get ashore in Nosy Be, after all this,” he said.

  “Oh, yes, Commander, without a doubt. The girls'll be glad to see 'em coming – they all got lots of pay on the books from the passage north.”

  Sam chuckled. “They'll be happy to see the Albatrosses, too.”

  “So we're going to be in port long enough to grant liberty, Skipper?” Kendall asked.

  “At least overnight. Mister Weeks isn't happy with the state of our fresh-water supply.” It was the duty of a carpenter's mate to sound the fresh water tanks daily, but the Purser's responsibility to be sure the crew was properly fed and watered, and therefore he had to keep track of supplies.

  The conversation was once again wandering into the realm of work, so Kendall strove mightily once again to change the subject, all the while pondering to himself the question of which liberty section's turn it was for liberty, since only one section could be away from the vessel at any given time.

  “Do you have a family back home on the Rock, Captain Bowman?” This turned out to be an inspired ploy on Kendall's part. Bowman, apparently the proud member of a large and happy family in Port-Douzieme on the Ronarch Peninsula, prattled on about his wife, children, nieces, and nephews. while Sam and Al, relieved of the conversational burden, ate in contented silence broken only by an occasional question to keep up the flow.

  There meal was suddenly interrupted by a banging on the door,, followed by the midshipman of the watch, entering without waiting for an invitation – a sure sign of an emergency.

  “Sir, lookout reports a strange sail in sight to the east,” he blurted.

  Sam and Al rose immediately and raced up the ladder to the quarterdeck followed closely by Bowman. Sam grabbed his telescope and focused it to the east. There he saw, silhouetted against the rising sun, a two-masted sailing vessel heading straight for them. She was shockingly close. By approaching right out of the sunrise, whether by accident or design, the strange vessel had escaped the lookout's notice until quite near.

  “Deck, there,” the foremast lookout shouted. “Strange sail is a two-masted dhow.”

  “Battle stations,” shouted Sam. “Cast off from the Chaton. Recover the fenders.”

  Bowman, at Sam's elbow, turned and raced for the side, leaping back onto his own vessel just in time, as the Albatrosses took in the lines that held the two schooners together and fended off.

  “Set all fore-and-aft sail. Fall off onto the starboard tack. Man and start up the motor sloop,” Sam barked.

  The Chaton's hatch open, half her cargo cluttering up her deck, all hands on both vessels exhausted from working all night,and a pirate dhow catching us with our pants down, Sam thought. Could things get any worse?

  As it turned out, they could.

  “Deck, there,” the lookout shouted again. “Second dhow coming up astern of the first.”

  Sam swore to himself. One of the dhows was almost certainly the cruiser they knew about, but where the hell had the second one come from? Apparently the first one had whistled up support by radio from Zanzibar. No, there had been no time for a dhow, however swift, to have sailed from Zanzibar – she must have already been at sea.

  No time to ponder this question. Sam yelled, “Motor sloop, pull her head around in the direction of the threat.” The phone talkers were at their stations, with phones rigged, and Sam no longer had to shout. He raised his telescope and took another look. The threat axis was just about due east, and the sun was low enough still to dazzle, but he could make out the lead dhow, shockingly close, and her consort coming up fast astern of her.

  Albatros was now headed toward the enemy vessels and gathering way, the sail-handlers trimming for a close reach under the loud and profane direction of the Boatswain.

  Sam spared a glance aft at the Chaton, and saw her crew frantically manhandling cargo over the side, while a couple of men raced to get the hatch boards on the open hold. The single jury-rigged lug sail they had intended to replace or supplement was now up and drawing. Captain Bowman apparently intended to take her dead down wind, which, given his rig, was just about the only option open to him.

  Sam turned his attention back to the threat, and wondered if th
e senior dhow skipper intended to have one pirate distract the Albatros while the other sank or captured the helpless Chaton Doux. Or if they would take advantage of this opportunity to fight together to destroy the Albatros. The latter would be quite a coup for the dhow skippers, since it would take out at a blow half the force protecting Kerguelenian shipping in the Mascarenes.

  And, although he hoped they didn't know it, also frustrate a planned major strike against the pirates.

  The motor sloop was still towing the Albatros in the direction of the enemy, the recoilless rifle on her stern now uncovered and manned, the sloop's crew wearing for the first time the canvas overalls and odd-looking thick canvas helmets intended to protect them when the 75 mm rifle fired directly over their heads.

  Sam said to his phone talker, “Motor sloop, 'vast towing and come alongside aft for orders.” As he did so he thought, not for the first time, how convenient it would be if he could communicate directly with the motor sloop by voice radio. Someday soon, perhaps.

  The word was passed to the schooner's bow from which it was semaphored to the motor sloop, which immediately dropped the towline, spun in its own length, and sped back to turn again and match Albatros's speed alongside to starboard aft. Sam shouted down to the sloop's officer in charge, Lieutenant Munro, who had replaced Lieutenant Low in that billet in a recent re-arrangement of the watch, quarter and station bill. “Bobby, engage the leading dhow, but don't – repeat don't – get within her range. Try to slow her down, distract her. Got that?”

  Munro, his boyish face alive with excitement, repeated back, “Engage dhow outside her range, aye. Slow her down and distract her, aye. Got it, sir!”

  “Then good hunting, son!” Munro responded with a gesture that was halfway between a wave and a salute, and the motor sloop spun to starboard in a tight turn, crossed the Albatros's wake, and headed toward the lead dhow.

  Sam said to Mooney, now in charge of the watch, “Come up a bit, Pilot. I want to pass her at extreme range.”

  “Come up, aye aye, sir,” Mooney replied, and passed the necessary orders via his own phone talker.

  “Main battery, Conn,” Sam said to his own phone talker. “Take a few shots at her in passing. We'll be at extreme range, but see if you can disable her.” The order was acknowledged, and the 37 mm rifle was run out onto the port gun balcony.

  The aspect of the lead dhow altered slightly; she was edging up, presumably to close the range on the Albatros.

  “Come up some more, Pilot. Don't let her pass too close.”

  “Come up, aye, sir.”

  The two vessels, on reciprocal courses, were closing fast. “Main battery, Conn. Fire whenever you think you have a shot, Guns,” Sam said to his phone talker. The Gunner must have been waiting for this order, because the 37 mm barked a second later. A shell splash bloomed just off the pirate's bow, close enough to wet the men on her forecastle. Apparently stung by this, the dhow replied with two quick rounds – she clearly was armed with a pair of those wicked mobile three-inchers. But the shots went wide and fell short, respectively, the range being just too great for them.

  By now, the motor sloop had come within range of her own 75 millimeter recoilless rifle, and opened fire. The sloop was now just on the edge of the envelope of fire of the dhow's three-inchers, perilously close to disobeying Sam's order to stay out of her range, and Sam watched it chase shell-splashes with his heart in this throat. If that kid lost his precious motor sloop, Sam would personally slice him up for bait.

  But Munro seemed to know precisely how fine he could cut it. He stayed just out of the effective range of the dhow's guns, where only a lucky – or unlucky, from Sam's viewpoint – stray round could hit him, and poured one 75 mm HE shell after another into the dhow. Watching the bursts through his telescope, Sam guessed that Munro was trying to sweep her deck with shrapnel, to inhibit return fire. Then the sloop swept around the dhow's stern, slowed, and hung there, firing at her rudder post. Munro could stay close there, at a range at which he could not miss, until the pirates managed to manhandle a gun aft to engage him.

  Munro would clearly be able to keep the lead dhow fully occupied while the Albatros took care of the second one. Sam just prayed he had the sense to remain beyond the effective range of the guns of his opponent.

  The Albatros was approaching the second dhow quickly. The breeze had freshened a bit at sunrise, as it often did, and the Albatros was moving along at what, for her, was a brisk pace. It was a beautiful sunny tropical morning, and Sam had a fleeting thought that it was a good day to die. He shook off this morbid idea and returned his attention to the coming battle.

  “Main battery, Conn: my intention is to close within range of the one-inch rifles and conduct the battle at that distance. But you can open fire with the main battery as soon as it's in range.”

  “Gunner acknowledges, sir,” replied Sam's phone talker a moment after relaying the message.

  Almost immediately, the 37 mm barked, and Sam saw the shell burst on the second pirate's bow. A hit with the first shot – a good omen. The dhow replied with what was obviously a range-finding shot that splashed well ahead of the Albatros

  The two vessels closed quickly, and were soon inside of the range of the dhow's three-inch smooth-bores and the Albatros's one-inch rifles, as well as the 37 mm. Fire became general. Sam could see 37 mm shell bursts up and down the deck of the pirate dhow, and the occasional neat round 37 millimeter hole punched in one of her sails. He fervently wished they had been able to solve the problem of fusing fragmentation rounds so that they would shred the enemy's sails without being too dangerous to handle.

  The Albatros fell off the wind to try to cross the dhow's stern and get a clear shot at her steering gear. In response, the dhow edged up, turning her stern away from the schooner and trying to gain the same position on the Albatros. The result was that the two vessels sailed in a graceful circle hundreds of yards in diameter. This caused the Albatros to have to jibe, and the dhow to tack. Sam noted that the dhow tacked with much greater ease and facility than he expected. It appeared that the pirates had modified their rig somewhat on the principle of the dipping lug, to make tacking quicker, and to avoid having to sail on the “bad tack”, with the spar to windward of the mast, which reduced the speed and maneuverability of the lateen rig. All the while the two vessels exchanged fire at a furious rate, as fast as their respective gun crews could load and fire. Clouds of smoke drifted away to leeward from the black powder the pirates used. The noise was deafening

  The Albatros was beginning to be hurt. Sam winced in psychic pain every time he saw one of his sailors fall, or felt the reverberation throughout the schooner of a solid hit to the hull.

  But she was nevertheless getting the best of the exchange. The 37 mm swept the dhow's deck with shrapnel while the one-inchers, now fitted with two-power scopes, a recent improvement, threatened everyone who showed his head. The dhow's guns periodically fell silent for minutes at a time as this fire killed and wounded her gunners, or forced them to take cover behind the bulwarks or huddle behind the splinter shields of their guns. The one-inch gunners took advantage of these intervals to pour fire into the dhow's hull at the waterline. They could not hope to sink the dhow, not with any number of one-inch holes, so long as the pirate's damage-control men could stop each one by the simple expedient of banging a tapered wooden plug into it, the work of a second or two. But by firing repeatedly in the same general area, the gunners hoped to endanger the DC gang with flying splinters and the occasional lucky blind hit. The 37 mm rifle, too, spared the occasional HE round for the dhow's hull, making a significantly larger hole – and, significantly, a more jagged one, complicating the enemy's damage control problem.

  The two antagonists soon gave up their fruitless chasing of one another's tail, and as if by mutual agreement sailed along on a starboard tack, exchanging fire. The Albatros had gained the weather gage, and was north of the dhow. Every time the pirate craft tried to edge closer, the Albatros fell of
f to keep her distance, to maintain her advantage in range and prevent the dhow from attempting to board.

  Sam began to feel that the Albatros was getting the best of it. True, even at the extreme range of her guns, the dhow was hitting home too frequently for comfort. Balls thudded into the schooner's side and swept over her decks, carrying away rigging and striking down unlucky Albatrosses. But the Carpenter and his mates, who constituted the Albatros's damage-control gang, were frantically patching and pumping down below, and staying ahead of the flooding so far. The bosun's mates, those most adept at marlinspike seamanship, deftly spliced and knotted severed rigging.

  But Sam felt a wrenching in his gut every time one of his crew went down; all that could be done for the fallen was to hurry them below and hope the Doctor and her mates could save them.

  Still, the dhow's rate of fire was clearly and significantly reduced, and she appeared to Sam to be distinctly lower in the water. He could begin to hope for victory.

  At that moment, a hand violently grabbed his shoulder, and a voice shouted in his ear: “Other pirate's coming up fast astern, sir!” It was the stern lookout. In the crashing and roaring of the guns, it was the only way he could get the Commodore's attention.

  Sam looked aft, and felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach: the other dhow was indeed coming up fast. The Albatros now had both of them to fight, and the odds had changed drastically in favor of the pirates.

  - 12 -

  Both the Albatros and the first pirate dhow were sailing in a generally north-easterly direction, each on the starboard tack, the light breeze having backed around a bit to the south-east. They exchanged fire at a furious rate as they went. The second dhow, also on a starboard tack, was overhauling them briskly, tall lateen sails full and drawing.

  “Main battery shift fire to the enemy vessel astern!” Sam bawled into his phone talker's ear, moving aside the man's left-hand earphone to do so.