Assault on Zanzibar

by E. C. Williams

  “But one of the wounded is permanently disabled – to save his life, Martin had to amputate his right arm in the field. As a result, I’m afraid I may have set a precedent the higher-ups won’t like.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He and his mates were upset at the thought that he would no longer be able to support his family. I promised him that his in-kind pay would continue, as a sort of medical pension.”

  “I’m okay with that – the guy deserves it,” Landry replied. “But the brass won’t like it. They’re already complaining that food for militia-men’s families is crowding out needed military stores on the resupply schooner.”

  “I’ve got an idea about that I’d like to share with you: suppose instead of food stuffs, we substituted small objects of value to the Mafians that they can trade with their neighbors for food?”

  “What sort of objects?”

  “Hoe heads, axe heads, knives, machetes – stuff like that. You see, now they depend for tools on traditional smiths on the mainland, who forge them from the spongy wrought iron that is the highest quality metal they can achieve given their technology. They’re inferior and costly. The villagers greatly prefer tools made from what they call “Kergi Iron” – steel. If we substituted those we’d save space, and encourage the villagers to grow more food and catch more fish. I estimate that one steel tool a quarter could feed a family of four, at current barter-prices.”

  “Not a bad idea. I’ll take it up with the Commodore. Now, what about the villages? Were they hit at all?”

  “A few were, but not on anything like the scale of the attack on Camp Van. The village militia fought them off in each case.”

  “Formidable!” Landry exclaimed. “Sounds like the islanders are close to a capability for self-defense.”

  Richburg was less enthusiastic. “Well, yes, they’ve proven to be strong allies. But they still need well-trained officers and NCOs. And they’ll have to rely on us for effective weapons and ammo for them. If they ever fall back on pangas and spears, they’ll be toast, however well-trained and motivated they are.

  “But that’s a good thing for us – by ‘us’ I mean the Regiment and Nosy Be. It will force our small arms industry to grow, and give the Regiment combat experience – experience we’ll need if there’s another Pirate invasion attempt. As much as we appreciate Kerguelen’s help, we need to feel that we can defend ourselves when necessary.”

  The two warrant officers sat in reflection, unspeaking, for a few minutes, sipping their rum. Richburg broke the silence by asking quietly, “Frank, do you think this war will ever end?” Landry sighed.

  “God weet, Rich. I know the Commodore’s strategy is one of protecting our shipping, and sinking enough Pirate vessels to make the Sultanate decide the cost exceeds the benefits, for them.

  “But I’ve been chatting with that weedy Intel midshipman, Konyn – you know, the one who was a slave of the Pirates for a while – and he says that Zanzibar is much more populous than Kerguelen, and richer, although the wealth is concentrated at the top. He’s pessimistic that we can win a war of attrition with them. And he also says that Zanzibar is just the southernmost outpost of a vast empire above the Equator, one spanning both shores of the Indian Ocean. If Zanzibar can persuade the Caliphate to intervene, they’ll drive us out of the Indian Ocean – or so he thinks. He moderates this pessimism when briefing the top brass, because he knows from experience that they’ll reject out of hand any notion of giving up. And, of course, as a mere gadget it’s hardly his place to take part in setting grand strategy.”

  More reflective silence, then Richburg said, “Well, Nosy Be won’t give in. They can cut off our trade, but we’ll fight for our island and our freedom, even if we have to go back to subsistence farming and fishing to live.”

  “That’s the spirit, Rich! And you can count on the Réunionnais, too.”

  “Those fire-eaters! Ja, Frank, they won’t give up either!” On that defiant note, they decided it was time they got back to work.

  Ten

  As the Amour neared the rendezvous point, Sam Bowditch had taken to spending more time on deck, peering through his telescope for any sign of Wasp. After a day or two, during which he worried that either Wasp or Amour was somehow mistaken in her navigation, a puff of smoke on the horizon caught his eye. As he focused on that point, he saw another puff, farther to the east. Repetitions of these, at regular intervals and roughly the same angular distance apart, suggested to Sam that two vessels were firing on one another, one chasing and the other the chased. As the distance between Amour and this little battle dwindled slowly, masts and sails became visible above the horizon. He soon saw that the chase was a two-masted topsail schooner – almost certainly Wasp – and that there were two, not one, chasing vessels, both three-masted and lateen-rigged, and thus definitely Pirates.

  While Sam was trying to make out more detail, the situation was becoming clearer in his mind. Wasp, at or nearing the rendezvous point, met these two Pirate dhows, which had apparently slipped down the west coast of Madagascar to intercept trade near the southern tip of the big island. Wasp was clearly trying to lure the dhows off to the eastward, so that Amour could slip by astern of the three, unnoticed. Not a bad tactic – it was what Sam would have probably done at first, if he were in Bernie Low’s shoes.

  Unfortunately, the wind wasn’t ideal for a schooner trying to out-run a dhow. It was south-westerly, which put Wasp, pursuing an easterly course, on a broad reach. Even with her drifter set, the tubby Wasp, formerly a freighter, could not outrun a speedy dhow, for which a broad reach was her fastest point of sailing.

  Wasp was trying the ruse of fast-tacking, waiting for the dhows to tack, and then tacking back, counting on the laborious and slow traditional method of tacking a dhow to allow Wasp to gain a bit on every tack.

  But, as the scene became clearer, Sam could see that this wasn’t working as well as formerly; the Pirates had made a small but meaningful change in their sail plan. They had moved the center of suspension of the long lateen boom lower down on the mast, so that the triangle of sail forward of the boom was much reduced. Formerly, that triangle was big enough that the tack in which the sail was to windward of the boom was the “bad tack” – distorting the shape of the sail enough to make her un-weatherly and less efficient on a reach or a beat. Now, with the triangle forward of the mast so reduced the “bad tack” was hardly “bad” at all; tacking these vessels now simply meant putting the helm down.

  Of course, this had a negative effect – there were always trade-offs – and for a given height of mast and length of boom, the result would be a smaller sail area. This answered the question that had been in Sam’s mind: why did a dhow which would have normally been a two-master now have three? It was clear now that this was an attempt to keep enough sail area to keep the same speed. A tacking duel would no longer work.

  As he watched, however, Wasp got lucky, hitting the bow of the nearest pursuing dhow with an explosive shell. The dhow flew up into the wind as her foresail luffed violently: the shot had severed the tack. And, with any luck, had dismounted her bow chaser. This answered in the affirmative another question in Sam’s mind: he couldn’t remember whether Wasp was fitted with the 37mm gun, as intended, before her present cruise. Clearly, she had been.

  Then, the entire tactical picture changed, as the trailing dhow, apparently now having spotted fatter and easier prey, changed course, coming up into the wind in a beat on the port tack, headed straight for the Amour.

  Sam was in an agony of frustration. Every fiber of his being longed to take charge, issue orders, prepare the schooner to receive the Pirate’s attach – but legally, and by the custom of the sea, he was a mere passenger, and dared not presume even to offer advice to the Amour’s master unless asked.

  To Sam’s infinite relief, Captain Woodham gave the order his interior self was screaming: “Fall off, Mister Marin, and head north”, he said to the appropriately-named Second Mate, who was on watch. M
arin gave the order, and hands sprang to ease the sheets as the helmsman brought her off the wind onto a broad reach.

  “We can’t outrun her, o’course, but we can at least win a little time to get ready,” Woodham said, repeating what had been in Sam’s mind.

  “Rouse out the Lyle gun, Mister Misseldine, and get it set up,” the captain said to the mate. “And Gadget: Get the key to the gun locker from the Mate and pass out arms to the crew.” The Mate mustered his Lyle gun’s crew, and the cadet raced below to hand out weapons. Sam went below himself, to fetch his own sidearm and shotgun.

  When Maddie, who had been sewing, saw what he was doing, she cried out in alarm, “Sam, whatever is all this ruckus about? Are we under attack?”

  “Well, dearest, we may be, presently. Would you take your sewing and wait below? I mean deeper below. The foc’sle will be empty of seamen, so you will be comfortable there.”

  “Sam Bowditch, what nonsense you talk! My place is on deck, beside you. Now give me that pistol – you have your shotgun, and I can shoot a hand-gun – you taught me yourself!”

  Sam’s heart swelled at the sight of her indignant, beautiful face, flushed with defiance. He considered that having her hide below would only prolong the inevitable, if the Pirates captured Amour. And he wasn’t certain he could make her stay below.

  “Very well, darling. But you are to do as I say, and save one round for yourself …”

  “More nonsense, Sam. I’ll use the last round to shoot you if you don’t hush up and hand me that pistol! But first, a kiss.”

  They shared a quick kiss and embrace, Sam wondering if it would be their last, then hurried topside. Maddie stayed behind for just long enough, she said, to change her clothes. Women and clothes, he thought. What ensemble was proper for a tropical encounter with Pirates?

  On deck, Sam found the schooner running well, still on the starboard tack but sailing now on a broad reach. But, like nearly all merchantmen, she carried no drifter, nor did she have the hands to manage one in this breeze. Astern, the chasing dhow was visibly closer, racing along at a speed visibly greater than that of the Amour. In the distance, well aft, he could see the Wasp fiercely engaged with the other dhow, firing rapidly, trying to disrupt the Pirates’ efforts to re-secure her foresail. A part of his mind saw that it was a beautiful day, with the vessel just north of the Tropic of Capricorn and nearing the region of near-constant fair weather in the thirties. The fresh breeze was blowing steadily out of the south-west, and seemed set to stay there. It was the sort of day that made life seem rich and full of joyful prospects – and the thought of losing it especially poignant.

  Sam’s mind sorted through the possibilities: they might survive this encounter if – if – they could hold off the chasing dhow long enough for the Wasp to finish off her adversary and come up to the Amour’s aide in time: a very long shot, indeed, given the speed of the Wasp and the nearness of Amour’s would-be captor.

  Maddie came on deck then, and Sam realized that he had done her an injustice in his mind: she had dressed very practically for a sea-battle, in slacks, pockets bulging with extra rounds for the pistol, and one of Sam’s shirts, sleeves rolled up and the excess gathered and tied at the waist. A kerchief around her head held her blonde hair out of her eyes, the rest streaming becomingly in the breeze. In Sam’s eyes, she couldn’t have been more beautiful were she dressed for a ball. Every man on deck agreed, glancing up momentarily in appreciation. Sam was not jealous: no normal human male could have resisted admiring her.

  The Mate and his crew had quickly set up the Lyle gun just forward of the mainmast, amidships so it could be shifted quickly to the threatened side of the schooner. The second mate and the cadet had armed themselves with shotguns and each wore canvas bandoliers of shells across their shoulders. The Captain had his pistol in his belt. All hands were on deck, each wearing a sheathed machete at their waist, except for one AB, armed with a seal rifle.

  Sam noticed that the Lyle gun was provided with spherical iron shot. The Lyle gun used in defense was most commonly just a big shotgun, loaded with nails, screws, nuts, metal scraps and crockery pieces as projectiles. The iron shot, four inches in caliber, would extend the gun’s range significantly, and could do some damage to the hull of a Pirate dhow. However, it was still out-ranged considerably by the common Pirate ordinance, a long three- or four-inch bronze smooth- bore.

  Sam knew from experience that the Pirate three-incher was accurate out to about half a sea-mile. At a cable’s length greater than that, they would usually try ranging shots. Navy sharpshooters, with their scoped seal rifles, could make things uncomfortable for Pirate gunners at seven or eight cables. The need to stay ducked down behind the too-small iron shield on their gun would hamper their speed and accuracy.

  But the Amour’s single rifleman was a seaman who had probably never fired a shot at another human being, and his rifle had no scope, only adjustable sights.

  “Captain Woodham, would it be proper for me to offer your rifleman some advice?”

  “Certainly, Commodore; please give us the benefit of your greater experience at this game.” Greater experience, indeed! Sam thought, but didn’t say.

  “What’s the man’s name?”

  “Allard,” Captain Woodham replied. Sam approached the rifleman, who was standing stoically at the taffrail, abaft the helmsman, waiting for his opportunity.

  “Allard, may I ask at what range you feel sure of your target?”

  “Why, Commodore, I can fairly expect to hit anything out to about a cable’s length.” About 200 yards

  “Do you know how to use the adjustable sights?”

  “Well, no sir, to tell the truth. I just leave ‘em be and aim with the plain iron sights. Nobody never taught me how to use that thing that folds upright.” Sam gave him a quick lesson in the use of the adjustable sights, hoping they were still true and not bent by careless handling. He also mentioned making allowance for the wind.

  “Now, Allard, Captain Woodham says you’ve got a good eye – a natural marksman. With your sights set at maximum range, I don’t doubt you can make things unpleasant for the foredeck of that dhow at five cables or even more!” Sam went on to describe what the Pirate’s three-incher would look like seen head-on.

  “And remember: you don’t have to actually hit one to be effective; rounds zinging by their ears have a remarkably discouraging effect on their aim.”

  “I’ll do my best, Commodore. A bit of sport, like.”

  “That’s the spirit, Allard! Give ‘em hell.”

  The Pirate gunners were just becoming visible as distinct figures now, and Allard set his sights and tried a ranging shot. It must have gone wide or short, because there was no visible reaction on the part of the enemy gunners.

  “I’ll spot for you, Allard, Sam said, raising his telescope. Doing something, anything, useful was a way to allay his rising frustration at being on a vessel engaged with the enemy – but not himself in command. Allard took aim. At that moment, the enemy gunners chanced a ranging shot that was both short and wide. This startled Allard, who fired at the same time, and his shot was also a miss well wide of the mark.

  “Well done, Allard – your shot probably threw off their aim.” An encouraging lie.

  “Not really, sir – I think it were mostly t’other way round.” Honest Allard was not moved by flattery, Sam thought ruefully.

  “Well, anyway, it’s good practice,” Sam said, raising his telescope. “Try again.”

  Allard reloaded, aimed carefully, and squeezed off another round. This time, Sam was certain he saw a tiny puff of dust or splinters low on the bow of the target, resulting in a very slightly lighter spot on the hull, exposing un-weathered wood.

  “A hit! You hit the dhow, Allard – a few feet low. Raise your aim a bit.” The next round was dead-on: Sam saw a puff of rust on the gun’s shield, and the gunners reacted visibly, ducking below the rail or behind the shield.

  “Dead on, Allard. You hit the gun and made ‘
em duck. Keep firing.” He did, loading and firing with careful regularity, and Sam could see that he was now dialed in, with two of every three rounds having a visible effect.

  “I think you just winged a gunner, Allard. Bravo Zulu!”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “That’s Navy for ‘well done’. Keep up the excellent work.” Sam meant this praise sincerely. Allard’s shooting hampered the Pirates’ gun crew both in speed and accuracy of fire: All their rounds had thus far been wide or short or both.

  Sam turned his telescope to the engagement between the Wasp and the second dhow. Bernie Low’s Wasps had apparently succeeded, by rapid and accurate fire, in silencing the Pirate’s gun and disabling her rig, at least temporarily. At any rate, Low clearly felt confident enough to leave her and fall off the wind to catch up with Amour. She had her drifter set, but the wind had freshened enough to make conditions marginal for carrying it. It was a perfect breeze, in force and direction, for motor-sailing – if only she had a motor! Sam decided that his highest priority would be fitting the Stingers with engines, at whatever cost.

  Now the battle would turn on whether Wasp could come up in time to save Amour from her Pirate. They had won some of that time by changing course, and Allard, tyro rifleman, had won them a few minutes more with his harassing fire on the dhow’s gun crew.

  But now the Pirate’s bow gun had found the range, and shot splashes were coming ominously closer. An almost-spent ball ricocheted off the sea surface, hitting the Amour’s stern with a resounding bang and a motion felt throughout the schooner. She veered momentarily off course, and for one sickening second Sam was afraid the shot had disabled her rudder. But she quickly came back on her track, and he realized with relief that the impact had merely startled the helmsman.

  “D’you think it would be helpful to shift the Lyle gun to the stern, Commodore?” Unnoticed, Woodham had approached and was speaking over Sam’s shoulder.

  “If it can be quickly done. And as quickly moved back to the waist, because the Pirate will surely range up alongside when she catches us?”