The carpenter's mate who was to do the work outboard, an able seaman named Graves, looked apprehensive, but he stepped readily enough into the bosun's chair, and for added security slipped on a French bowline, loops under his armpits and bottom. He was then helped over the side as he held the wooden seat of the bosun's chair with both hands, a pair of burly bosun's mates tending the bosun's chair line and another the French bowline's bitter end.
Graves was then lowered to the level of the forward shot hole, which, at this angle of heel, was right at the water line. He was soon up to his waist in the water, which foamed along the side. Even at the slow speed the schooner was making, he tended to be swept aft, and had to be held in place by a second line to the chair, led forward. Graves was ducked occasionally by a roll, and came up sputtering, but nevertheless everything went according to plan until an unforeseen problem arose: the bottom half of the plywood was under water, and therefore Graves couldn't nail it in place.
They were stymied for a moment, but the XO was ready with a solution: “Run the 37 mm all the way out to the starboard gun balcony. Muster all hands along the starboard rail, including the idlers. Maybe that'll heel her enough for Graves to reach the bottom edge.”
This did the trick, but just barely. Graves was splashing sea water into his face with every blow of his hammer as he nailed the bottom edge of the plywood sheet in place. The second patch one went quicker, and soon Graves was back on deck, dripping wet and shivering.
“Fetch a blanket for this man. Boats, a double liquor ration for AB Graves when “up spirits” is piped,” Sam said, to the mute but obvious joy of the carpenter's mate.
Then the entire carpenter's gang trooped below to attend to the interior patches, followed by the Carpenter and the XO to supervise, and Sam to watch. The carpenter's mates tackled the first patch with crowbars and sledges, and soon had it in fragments on the deck. The leak increased in volume then, but not as much as they had feared, the wadding on the inside face of the exterior plywood patches having done as intended and been pushed into the opening by the pressure of the water.
The men quickly mixed a batch of hydraulic cement and dipped lengths of canvas into it. These were then wadded and stuffed into the gap between the plywood and the steel frame, into the space created by the dent caused by a pirate ball. The leak subsided from a gush into a steady gentle stream down the interior face of the hull. The carpenter's mates, now sweating profusely in the stuffy hold, quickly built a new patch. By the time the final brace was banged into place, the leak had become a barely perceptible weeping.
Without a pause, the entire group moved on to the second patch, where the process was repeated, with the same result. Sam and Al walked back to the first patch, to see if it had loosened in the meantime. It was still producing barely any water, the same bare seepage as before. Sam congratulated Foy and his mates for their skill.
Back on the quarterdeck, Sam said to Al, “That should hold until we reach Hell-ville.”
“If we don't have to go into action. I'm afraid the vibration set up by firing the 37 mm – not to mention the shock of more enemy hits to our hull – will jar the patches loose.”
“You're a ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, Al,” Sam replied crossly, then felt somewhat ashamed of himself for his petulance, not least because he had already considered that eventuality, and added, “But I'm afraid you're right. No gunnery practice for the rest of this trip, then. And if we have another encounter with pirates we'll just have to hope the bilge pumps can handle it.”
“Well, Commodore, I've had an idea that's actually a bit more cheerful. 'Course not being a gunsmith I don't know if it'll work.”
“What is it?”
“It occurred to me while I looked at our damaged 75 mm recoilless rifle that it's actually a pretty simple piece of ordinance, certainly compared to the 37 mm, or even a bolt-action rifle. D'you suppose that Mister Kwek, with ours as an example, could duplicate it in his shop? At least he can probably repair ours if Guns can't.”
Kwek was the master gunsmith in Hell-ville who had figured out how to mass-produce a rifle for the Nosy Be militia as well as Albatros's landing force, and in order to do so had transformed his small job shop into practically an industrial operation.
“Brilliant, Al! I didn't think of Kwek! If he can do that – if he can copy the weapon – we could arm Joan's motor whaleboat with one. And maybe we can figure out a way to safely mount one on the stern of the Scorpion! If she just maintained the right angle on the bow … and we'd have to relocate her steering station ...”.
“Well, we don't know for sure he can do it, Skipper. Nor if he can, how long it'll take him.”
“If the Reunnionais gunsmiths can do it, Kwek certainly can. And as for time – once the Nosy Be militia colonel sees it he'll want a bunch of 'em for his boys, and Kwek'll then be authorized to go at it full speed.. We just have to be sure we get to Kwek – and the Governor – first, with our order.” Sam was sure he could persuade the governor to give them top priority on the project, because he intended to draw shamelessly on the store of goodwill the Navy had built up on Nosy Be with its victory in the Moonlight Battle, which had saved an important north coast town from a pirate raid.
Sam, usually determined when on a cruise to prolong it to the limit of his stores, was now anxious to reach Hell-ville as soon as possible.
- 13 -
As the Albatros approached her mooring in Navy Anchorage, Sam saw that, in addition to the RKN Joan of Arc, the Scorpion and the Roland were present. Navy Anchorage was full, and it was the rare occasion when he had his entire little command before his eyes.
We're at war, and the whole damn Navy's in harbor, he thought ruefully. But every vessel was present at his orders.
He glanced over at the Joan in time to see the signal “Sierra Oscar” – denoting the senior officer present – come down smartly from her foremast flag halyards. He then looked forward to see the same signal rise to the Albatros's foremast top.
This practice,which left no ambiguity about the locus of authority when more than one RKN vessel was in port, was authored by Bill Ennis, as were most of the customs, ceremonies, and traditions of the RKN. It made Sam think of him, and decide to visit the Joan right away to check on his recovery.
But first, the business of giving the pilot a drink or two before seeing him off – an iron law of maritime hospitality – had to be gotten through. By now, Sam and every watch-keeping officer on all four RKN vessels had been in and out of Hell-ville so many times that they hardly needed a pilot – could qualify as pilots for Hell-ville harbor and its approaches themselves, in fact. But the pilot's association offered its services free to the Navy, out of patriotic gratitude, and it wouldn't do to risk offending them.
So as soon as he had seen off the pilot, who was in an elevated – and talkative – mood after a couple of glasses of ten year old rum, Sam hurried below to shift out of his at-sea slops into something more presentable.
He then passed over the narrow stretch of water between the two warships in the motor-sloop, still in the water after towing the Albatros into harbor. (The local towing company, not to be outdone in patriotism by the pilots, also offered its services for free to the Navy. But Sam had noted that lately, more often than not, all the harbor tugs were engaged when the Albatros arrived – a higher priority naturally being given to paying customers.)
“Port side,” he instructed the coxwain, as he nearly always did. If he boarded on the starboard, by the ancient naval custom resurrected by Bill Ennis he would put the Joans, short-handed as they were, to the trouble of mustering sideboys and landing party gunners under arms, all in their shore-going best plus white gloves, to welcome the august Commodore aboard with whistles and salutes. He knew that his refusal to allow this ceremony (except when there were politicians around to impress) disappointed Bill – but he could also easily guess that the Joan's XO, not to mention her Boatswain and Gunner, were deeply grateful.
Sam climbe
d the pilot ladder – which he had seen being frantically rigged as the motor-sloop swept around the Joan's stern – to be met by both Captain Ennis and Lieutenant Commander (acting) Mike Christie, Joan's XO. Also present, hovering in the background, was Lieutenant Dave Schofield of the Scorpion.
“Welcome aboard, Commodore,” Ennis said. “You shouldn't have put yourself to this trouble. I was just having a boat swung out so I could come over to the Albatros to report when I saw your motor sloop approaching.”
“It's no trouble, Bill. I wanted to see for myself right away how you're doing. I'm happy to find you looking much better than when we last met.”
And indeed, Ennis did look somewhat improved. He had some color in his face, he appeared to have gained a couple of pounds, and he seemed much steadier on his feet. Too, Sam noted the absence of the formerly-ubiquitous SBA who had been detailed by Dr. Cheah to follow Ennis around. So Cheah, too, must have thought he was better.
And yet … he still wasn't the old Bill Ennis. He was missing more than an arm, missing some small but essential part of his personality, something Sam couldn't quite identify. But its absence was palpable.
“Will you join me in my mess for coffee, Commodore?”
“With pleasure, Bill.”
“Mike, Dave, you come too,” Sam said. “With your permission, of course, Captain Ennis.”
“Of course, Commodore”
The four went below to the tiny captain's mess. The porthole was open, as was the porthole in Ennis's sleeping cabin, with the door on the hook to allow a cross breeze. Ennis immediately switched on the bulkhead-mounted electric fan, but it was still stuffy and airless below compared to the open deck, which was shaded for most of its length by canvas awnings and benefited from the onshore breeze.
When the captain's steward had served them coffee – straight from the galley, and obviously simmered on the range since breakfast, tarry black and too sweet, the polar opposite of Ritchie's fragrant brew – Ennis said, “In case you're wondering why Dave is here, he came across to report on his recent cross-training with the militia. Since I'm no longer SOPA, he'll make that report to you.
“I suppose you were as delighted as we were with the Dame's cargo, Commodore – shaking all that loose from the Council was quite a coup. I congratulate you.”
“Well, I'm sure the credit goes mostly to Commander Foch and Mother Moreau. The additional firepower will certainly be useful. If we can find you enough hands, you'll be battle-worthy again.”
“And the water-jets, Commodore! Think of it! Now, in battle, we can maneuver independently of the wind, and out-run any dhow in the Indian Ocean. Our only problem will be getting enough fuel.”
“Water-jets?” Sam stared at Ennis, puzzled. What were water-jets?
“Yes, sir: the four water-jets, complete with all necessary installation materials, that Lieutenant Yeo sent us, along with the guns.”
Sam recalled the category of “machinery” listed in the Dame des îles's cargo manifest. He also had a vague memory of a lengthy and technical message from Yeo, received months ago, about progress on a “new, advanced high-speed pump” that would be “of great advantage”.
“Bill, you'll have to enlighten me. I remember something about pumps in a message from Yeo, but it was too technical for me. And I don't remember any mention of something called 'water-jets'”.
“Well, Yeo was deliberately a bit vague in case his message was intercepted. You had to read between the lines – we were copied on that message, since two of them were earmarked for the Joan. Actually I have to confess that it was my engineer who was able to get some idea of what Yeo was talking about, and he explained it to me.”
“Well, what the hell are they, then?” Sam asked crossly, angry at himself for missing something obviously important.
“A propulsion system that can be added to our vessels, Sam. High-speed pumps driven by sealed, water-tight electric motors in stream-lined cladding Yeo calls “pods”. They are to be mounted on each side, aft, parallel to the fore-and-aft axis and just forward of the curve of the stern. Each motor is rated at just under fifty horsepower, and drives a pump that sucks in seawater forward and shoots it out aft with great force, propelling the vessel at a speed Yeo estimates to be at least five to seven knots in calm water – twice as fast as we can achieve by towing.”
Sam felt a rising excitement. He had never heard of such a thing as water-jets. He had often considered the advantages of self-propelled warships, independent of the wind, but he had thought in terms of conventional, propeller-driven vessels. It would be such an expensive effort to convert the Albatros and the Joan to screw propulsion that one might as well build new ships – and there was very little likelihood of the Council finding that kind of money anytime soon.
“That's fantastic, Bill! But can the local yards handle a job like this?”
“Huygens et freres say they can, and fairly quickly, too. The issue, of course, is money – it won't be a cheap job.”
“Surely the Council wouldn't have invested in developing these things without realizing that it would cost a significant amount to install them. I don't think that'll be a problem. In any event, I'm going to assume that's the case and go ahead and authorize the expenditure on the Republic's credit.
“But just think of it, Bill! In action, we can run rings around an enemy dhow, regardless of the wind!”
“And I've thought of another advantage, Commodore: from the specs, it looks like these things will go astern or ahead with equal force. You could steer your vessel with them, and turn a hundred and eighty degrees in practically your own length!”
“Fantasties!” Wouldn't that astonish the pirates! “But one drawback is fuel. At the current high price, we'll have to be very conservative in our use of the jets.”
“It's getting better, as the trees on newer plantations mature and come into production, both here on the island and on Madagascar proper. In fact, the supply has increased to the point that one shipowner here has decided to take more advantage of the very much higher price of palm oil on Kerguelen by shipping it in bulk instead of in barrels. He's filling the number two lower hold of a 'tween-decker with a steel tank, to carry palm oil south and bring back fish oil.
“But a more immediate cost is going to be the necessity of beefing up our MG sets – our present rigs won't produce enough juice to get the full design horsepower from the jets. And of course we're going to have to add more fuel capacity.”
“Again, those are costs the Council had to have anticipated,” Sam said. “But I've thought of another drawback: those 'pods', as Yeo calls them – they're going to produce a helluva drag. Speed under sail will be greatly reduced.”
"No way around that, Skipper. We'll have to take the bad with the good.”
“Guess so. And we won't fight under sail any more, not so long as the water-jets are operative.”
They fell silent, as both thought about some of the vast implications of this new development. Sam glanced idly at Schofield, who had remained politely mute while his seniors conversed.
“What's that pin you're wearing, Dave?”
“It's the qualification badge of a Nosy Be Regiment balloon pilot, sir.”
“Why are you wearing it?”
“I earned it, sir. That's what I came over to report to Commodore – Captain – Ennis about.” Schofield then went on to describe his experiences in becoming an airman, prompted by questions from Sam, who was particularly impressed by Schofield's account of jumping from the balloon at altitude.
“That's incredible, Dave,” Sam said. “I don't think I would have had the stones to do that. But why did you do it? What was the point?”
“To learn more about aviation. Because I think aviation has an important role to play in Naval operations, sir.” Schofield said. “For one thing, until – or if – we ever get a practical, reliable shipboard radar, aircraft can extend our range of vision for hundreds of miles, instead of dozens, as now. For another, it's conceivabl
e that we could attack the enemy from the air.”
“I know our ancestors had that capability. But do you really think we could accomplish that? During our lifetimes, I mean?”
“I don't see why not, sir. In fact, we could do it in time to influence the course of the present war. Not with balloons – I don't see balloons being practical at sea. But with heavier-than-air craft, capable of being carried on, and launched from, ships.”
“Airplanes?” Sam asked incredulously, using a word he had only seen in books.
“Yes, sir. The Reunionnais have already flown an experimental version of one.”
“Yes, I saw that, but it was only a little unmanned model.”
“Since then – very recently – they've flown a full-scale, manned aircraft, Commodore, a “flying boat”, for flights of up to thirty minutes' duration.”
Sam was amazed that the Reunionnais had made so much progress during the relatively short time since he had been given the demonstration of the scale model.
“But how in the world could we carry such a machine on a ship?”
“I've been thinking of that, sir. If the wings came off, or could be folded, it could be launched like a boat, from a crane or a pair of radial davits. Then, once the wings are assembled, it could take off from, and alight on, the surface of the water – a flying boat.”
“Not with any kind of sea running, surely.”
“Well, no sir,” Schofield admitted. “But consider the usual weather in the south Indian Ocean: in the absence of squalls, it's almost always fairly mild. And we can see a squall line approaching from a long distance.”
They sat silently again for a moment while Sam considered this, trying to visualize how it would all work. “I'll get off a message to Foch, and ask him to have the boffins look into this. Maybe it is feasible, after all.
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