Squadron

by John Broich

  Forte had a middle position in the trap. Dryad was north of her, near the western turn toward the Persian Gulf, Daphne was south of her, closer to the Red Sea, while Nymphe stalked still further south. The south-west monsoon was now tirelessly carrying the Indian Ocean trade north on its back.

  On this morning, still before dawn, coal smoke was coming from Forte’s funnel. It was nearly 90 degrees even without the sun. Bows pointed into the south-west wind and current, with very little sail abroad, she hugged the coast as close as she dared, trying to stay between the land and dhows coming from the south. Trying to prevent the horror of a dhow running on land, smashing and drowning, she crept.

  Then there was a sail on the lightening horizon, dead ahead. Forte stayed quiet, with no boat lowered, no change in course. The flagship was nearly bare of sail, and the hands had even lowered the royal yards from the tops of each mast so that she had very little silhouette from the perspective of the sea. Now Forte needed to get between the sail and land; she needed to close the distance before announcing herself, so she waited and an hour passed.

  It was a dhow. Now, a guncrew loaded blank cartridge into one of the guns. And then fire and thunder. A second gun five minutes later. Except for the heaviest sleepers, the sleep of the foregone middle watch was exploded.

  In that dhow were eighty men, women and children squeezed in a space forty feet long and not twenty-five wide. They were in the dark, under a bamboo deck, in airless heat – bent, crouched, huddled. The meagre hull moved north along the coast. Above it was dawn. But dark, always, under the deck. In that dark were Kiada, Aminha, Bakaat, Mabluk, Masumamhe, Masuk. Then a noise like thunder, but not thunder. As loud as thunder, but sudden, then gone. Popping. Something was happening.

  On the Forte there remained the question whether the sail would heave to. Two rockets followed the guns. The dhow to the south had three choices, try to skirt Forte to seaward, dodge her and dash for shore, or heave to. And the choice had to be made now.

  She hove to, the great triangular sail lowering. Forte disengaged her engines and lowered her cutter, manned and armed. It crossed the short distance. It was only a forty-foot dhow, with just a crew of five to work her, but eighty human beings were found jammed under her deck. The cutter crew brought the dhow up to the ship, and the hands began the work of helping the East African men, women and children up the side and under the open sky again.

  And so Leopold Heath saw them. Ten young men, two women, forty boys, twenty-eight girls. One was an infant. Naked all – many were only something like human forms, but attenuated, pared down beyond human likeness. Many of the figures could not be straightened from the positions they had been folded into under the dhow’s deck. The slavers came up too, and were placed on a dhow that passed a few hours later.

  Heath and the crew began the work of trying to revive the East Africans on board with some food, some warm water to wash impliable, brittle bodies, and some extemporised clothes. No one could say whose was the infant as none of the women were capable of nursing her. Charles Peters, the bosun, soon had a cradle rigged for the baby, and not long after fitted out a mechanism for the baby girl to suck food. She lived on.

  The interpreter went to work questioning those who could respond. Most of the people were taken from around Lake Nyasa. War had come to their land and they had been abducted and marched to the sea; others were kidnapped more recently from Kilwa or Zanzibar.

  As darkness approached, the slave dhow was cast off. The watch reported to quarters for gunnery practice. Solid shot, case shot, exploding shells – a barrage of over twenty concussions aimed at the dhow.1

  HMS Dryad, north-east Arabian coast, May 1869

  The climax of Dryad’s work in the web meant defeat, disaster and death, though Philip Colomb did not know it when his eyes opened earlier than usual in the last minutes before dawn one May morning. He lay in the sleeping space adjoining his large cabin on a naked plank – for him it was too hot to be cocooned in a canvas hammock. He rose and laid his hand on his telescope, then went out of the cabin – it was windy out here – past the marine sentry on the quarterdeck, then up the steps to the poop where the watch’s signalman stood. By then the eastern horizon was just lightening, though this first light was filtered through mist and squalls in the direction of India. He swept his telescope up. With the coming of daylight the signalmen ought to be at their place atop the peak, but they were not there. He waited with the impatience of a hunter who felt there must be a game afoot but that he was too late or in the wrong position.

  To his mind he was a hunter. Not a philanthropist, nor an abolitionist crusader. He admitted to himself that his primary impulse was the challenge, the excitement that accompanied sport hunting. He knew that it would be a better thing in him if he were stirred by the righteous ghost of Wilberforce; but he looked within and found no ghost, nor better angels. In him there was sympathy for the enslaved, yes; hatred of the slaver, certainly; duty, at the foremost. But the days and nights were hot and long and brutally sapping. He had been exhausted, he gauged, since his third week on the station. So to power the unceasing inspections of the unceasing train of dhows – so very often in vain – he drew upon the exhilaration of the hunt. It was, he imagined, this sense that caused him to wake early that very morning.

  And it was this sense that made him fume at the tardy signal party that should now be on the peak above him. The signalman next to him became uneasy at his commander’s conspicuous impatience and shifted his attention elsewhere. Then Colomb barked and the signalman jumped back to attention. Flags from the peak had appeared in his telescope: one large dhow, S.S.E. Then, four dhows S.W.

  To the signalman: ‘Signal the boats!’

  The flag signal made, Colomb spied the men on the island off the point hurrying to get underway in the cutters, then turned his telescope to the narrow gap between the little island and the mainland. He soon saw the first sail, moving fast from right to left, while his officers appeared on the poop deck, the sense among them that the boats should be able to cut the dhow off.

  A few minutes later Philip Colomb saw movement again through the gap, something that he had not seen in over a week stationed here: a sail moving from left to right – the same sail. Quickly, he guessed the terrible meaning of the left-to-right sail.

  ‘Tell the chief engineer to have steam as fast as he can. Let the carpenter rig the capstan. Ask the first lieutenant to shorten-in cable at once.’

  He was sure that the dhow meant to wreck. It carried treasures of some kind, or its owner would suffer politically if she were seized, or the slavers hoped the wreck’s survivors would cut his losses having been marched overland to some slave market. More orders as the men finished turning the capstan: anchor up; set main- and topsails.

  Dryad moved from her lair and, as she cleared the cliff and island, the strong wind washed over her. She turned closer to the south-west monsoon. More orders, new sails to bend. The jib was run out on its stay, the yard of the gaff mainsail hauled up, the spanker hauled out, aided by the wind, to serve like a rudder in the oncoming breeze. This was the suit of sails for pointing closer to the wind. That breeze, now carrying mist, was soon blowing a growing cloud of coal smoke aft of Dryad.

  It took some time for the ship to build speed, and now on the open sea the dhow could not be seen from the iron bridge or mast. Still, Colomb believed that he could catch the dhow before it committed murder. The shore towards which it ran was rocky; if the dhow ran onto it she would implode and her captain and crew possibly shatter with their victims. It would be too mad, he thought.

  There was, though, a sandy beach some distance south beyond the rocky stretch, a place where the crew could escape and hope for a good number of surviving captives to round up. But the dhow was fighting wind and current and Colomb could not believe that she could make it. And even on the slim chance she did, the interior of this country was sun-blasted rock, with few springs – those salty, and with fierce local people. She would heave
to and surrender before risking it.

  Steam building in three boilers, barque sails being drawn on by the strengthening monsoon as she sailed close hauled to the wind, and speed increasing, still they did not see the dhow from Dryad’s quarterdeck. There were many indentations on the coast and the dhow could have ducked into one, dropped her great lateen sail, and now be hiding out, perhaps hoping that the British cruiser would miss her. Philip Colomb had a choice to sail either close in or far from shore. Staying away meant a better view of the coast’s narrow coves and bays, but it increased the risk that Dryad would come upon the slaver with the dhow between him and the shore, ready to dash for it. Staying close to shore lessened this risk, but increased that of scraping on rock, or even total disaster.

  Then the nearby signalman reported to his captain. Signal station back on the peak communicating, Dhow gone on shore. The signalmen on the red peak could be seen from here? After all this time, over two weeks, only now did Philip Colomb learn that their signalmen were visible from the sea to the south. It was a wonder that they had surprised as many dhows as they had, and a lucky thing that the signalmen had been late in climbing to their post this morning. Only in finally doing their duty – late – had they alerted the slaver. Colomb had placed unjustified faith in his plan and he knew it in this instant.

  And now this. Gone on shore? How could they not see her, though the station could? The crew scanned and focused. Philip Colomb was sure that he saw the dhow, was disappointed; was sure that he saw her again, was disappointed. He ordered one of the giant 64-pounders loaded and swung on its tracks to point more closely ahead and at the shore. He wanted to be ready to fire across her bow when they found the dhow. Filled with enough powder, it could reach three miles. And, in case they came upon a wreck and survivors, he ordered two boats armed and equipped with plenty of line and other life-saving gear. It had been an hour since the sail had first appeared. Warm mist turned to rain.

  ‘There she is!’ called many voices.

  The Dryad had just passed a projecting rock behind which the dhow had hidden. The slave ship was anchored, not ruined. It had reached the end of the rocky coast and found the spot at which it became sandy. The slaver seemed to be hedging his bets: hide, hope the British missed him, but stand ready to run for the beach – only two hundred yards to run. The crew would weather the landing, and a good many of their African victims might, too.

  The dhow had seen Dryad almost the moment that Dryad had seen her, and the dhow’s crew cut its anchor, ran up its sail and immediately started moving for the beach through a heavy surf.

  ‘Give her a shot, now. Right over her,’ ordered Colomb.

  An explosive clap, and the ball flew only yards over the dhow’s mast. It burrowed into the sand of the beach beyond. If he could have sent it through the dhow’s captain, Colomb decided, he would have, rather than let the dhow reach the beach. But he had not the power. The dhow sprinted and Dryad chased.

  Then the dhow heeled unnaturally, like a wounded animal: it had struck. At this distance, Philip Colomb could not make out details, but what he saw brought to mind a stream, a dark stream of bodies, struggling limbs, the living and the dying. He felt it as much as he saw it.

  Colomb took pride in his coolness, congratulated himself on a lack of sentimentality, was sure that black and white were different in essence, that he must not imagine the African suffering from captivity the way a free-born Englishman would. He drew motivation from the hunt, from duty, disgust at the slaver, rather than drawing a human link between the slavers’ victims and himself. But at this instant, just for those moments, Philip Colomb was losing himself in the tumbling, pouring dark limbs; lost to indignation and bitterness. That horrible outpouring, he thought, is formed of men, women, and children like ourselves. In this moment, at least, it was not about hunting, duty, or bounties.

  The Dryad hurried toward land until the last safe moment and beyond, then dropped anchor. Colomb wanted to save those he could from the wreck and the beach. A quick word then with his first lieutenant: yes, it was worth the risk of heavy surf and desperate slavers. Then the bosun, gunner and a junior lieutenant were summoned and a plan quickly worked out. The two gigs would land while the cutter would hang off the land and provide covering fire as necessary while receiving Africans ferried off the beach by the gigs. The order given, the boats dropped, and men hurried down to take the oars. Saleh bin Moosa joined, a party of Kroomen joined, and they pulled hard and fast as the cutter sailed.

  Colomb watched: on the beach he could see groups of survivors forming into clumps. The slavers appeared to be about to force them into the scorched hinterland and a desperate march towards some far-off slave market. The captain ordered the great gun loaded with the maximum charge of powder and pointed over the heads of the slavers and captives on the beach. He meant to show that fleeing promised death. It fired, and rocks shattered not far inland. Then an explosive shell was loaded and fired, and there was a burst perhaps half a mile off. Another shot, and there was a distant burst of yellow dust.

  Now the Dryad’s landing party had reached shore and through the eyepiece of his telescope Colomb could see one of the gigs pulled up close to the heeled-over dhow, using it as a kind of breakwater from the large waves. Four sailors leapt out, Saleh bin Moosa among them, splashing out of the water toward the survivors on the beach.

  Colomb searched for the second gig, but did not see it at first. Then there it was, swinging in the surf, low – far too low – in the water. It had swamped. Now he saw a few men – boys, really – leaping from the cutter in the direction of the swamped boat. Their speed conveyed desperation. Reaching the wallowing gig they thrashed and searched and finally drew something out of the water: a body. It was a pale body in white canvas slops, one of the crew. As they carried him to the beach the desperation was gone from them. Even from the ship, Philip Colomb could tell the spirit was gone from the body they lifted. Still, for some reason he willed the boys to lay the body on the sand gently.

  Work on the beach continued as three, four children were lifted from the broken dhow and laid in the gig. Colomb could see clearly the strong bosun pulling from the beach by himself with the children in the bottom of the gig, aiming the boat for the awaiting cutter. He succeeded in passing them over, then returned to the beach for more survivors. Meanwhile, William Henn was moving up the beach away from the sea with six others to try to find survivors who had fled for the rocks.

  But now came a report of several more dhows being sighted on the horizon. Colomb changed focus and saw that the sails were moving in Dryad’s direction. As he scrutinised them his mind was working on the likelihood of the boats still left at the island station intercepting them. While he was doing this one of the new sails turned for the shore.

  Quick orders, followed by raising the anchor, and Dryad began her turn. The boats on shore were on their own, for now. Colomb ordered the signal made to the shore party insisting that they not go too far inland in pursuit of the slavers and their victims. It was far too dangerous. Two of the three furnaces in the belly of the ship were now blazing and in minutes the Dryad was speeding to intercept. At that moment, Philip Colomb felt he had the advantage and could place himself between the slaver and the shore. The dhow was in range and he ordered a gun loaded. Dryad had to yaw a bit to aim – though it could be swivelled, the gun could not be pointed perfectly straight ahead – and then the gun crew had a good target. The shot flew over the slaver. Dryad then had to straighten her course to intercept.

  ‘Put a shot under her bows. That may stop her,’ the captain soon ordered.

  Guns sponged to douse any embers in the barrel, in went a cartridge of gunpowder, then ball or shell pushed down the muzzle, a wad rammed in to make sure the ball did not roll out. Then men pulled hard on the tackles to run the heavy gun and elm truck out until it rested on the bulwark. A long pin thrust down the touchhole to pierce the gunpowder cartridge, and fine priming powder poured in. A friction tube inserted in the
touchhole, a kind of match, a lanyard connected to this. Gun sited and gun crew warned to stand back. The lanyard pulled, friction tube sparked, a titanic hammering and leaping gun.

  When the smoke cleared Colomb could see that the ball had landed so close to the dhow that the splash almost reached it. But she fled on, and now as he angled toward the shore Colomb had to worry about where the ground was beneath his ship. A bump at this speed could crack his keel, bend his propeller, or worse. The chase stretched on, and before long Colomb was far less certain of his ability to cut off the slaver.

  He considered, and considered something desperate. The shore toward which the dhow ran was rocky, and these parts of Arabia extremely harsh. The captives on the dhow faced either drowning in a wreck or a forced overland march that meant death to most. Things cannot be worse than they are for them, he concluded.

  ‘Try and hit her. A shot through her sail may stop them.’

  Fired. Missed.

  And now, as the captain feared, the dhow crossed Dryad’s path until it cut through the surf. Then it cracked on the rocks and Colomb and his officers saw the dark bodies falling out. It looked to Colomb like oozing blood, and though he wanted to stop the wound he had no boat left, and he had insufficient men to do the work if there had been a boat. The officers watched the scene as if it were their duty while the dhow rolled and broke. Deck, mast, spar, tumbled and fell in on itself, fell apart. They saw it transform into an inchoate thing of ruin as they kept vigil. Unseen, the slavers on the deck presumably leapt for the beach and headed inland with what survivors they could gather.

  Colomb and his crew saw it done, then turned and set the fore and aft square sails to run roughly before the wind. They returned to their shipmates up the shore where Colomb expected to find the cutter full of rescuees outside the breakers awaiting their return; expected to see one of the gigs ferrying more out towards her; expected to see the swamped gig bailed out and at work too. But he found only trouble when they reached the spot. The cutter was labouring towards them, creeping heavily under greater wind and growing waves. He saw the beached dhow rolled almost to nothing. He saw the swamped gig an irremediable ruin; of the other gig he saw nothing. At a distance beyond all this he saw twenty of his crew stranded on the beach.