Harry Heron: No Quarter

by Patrick G Cox

The watching crowd were treated to a vintage performance as he sailed the sloop, the hybrid displacement hull with hydro foils she could deploy in the right conditions whimsically named Sparrow, off her berth under sails reefed to the merest scraps. On deck his crew worked like a well-oiled machine as they prepared their boat for the start of the race.

  Harry hid his nervousness well, adopting the stance he had seen his officers adopt in the past: feet placed well apart, hands clasped loosely behind him as he stood on the windward side of the helm with his face neutral as he gave his orders. It worked well because the discipline required to maintain firm footing in this pose meant he had to concentrate on what was happening around him.

  The boat idled to Harry’s chosen starting position. He let the feel of the wind and the motion of the boat transmit itself to his senses through his feet until he became one with the boat. He needed to win this race, not just for the Class but for himself and Ferghal. His chest tightened with tension and determination as they waited for the start.

  COMMODORE HERON WATCHED AS EVERY BOAT BUT HARRY’S set off under power and were well clear of the moorings before they set their sails.

  He trusted Harry’s judgment, but the Sparrow seemed to be at a disadvantage as she idled into position for the start while her opponents stormed back and forth jockeying for a prime starting position. When the starting gun sounded the five-minute alert, Sparrow set more sail and moved steadily between the other boats until she was in a perfect position when the start gun went. Like magic, more and more sail expanded on her genoa and mainsail, and the yacht heeled steeply, leaping forward, building a bone in her teeth and sporting a growing wake astern as she did so.

  Several boats had misjudged the start and had to make rapid returns to restart, while Sparrow engaged in a tussle for the lead with the Kestrel, a boat manned by a very able crew from the Rodney class, and with the Guillemot manned by a crew from the Dreadnought class. Initially it seemed that their modern rig was more efficient than the Sparrow’s, and they drew slightly ahead, closing Harry out on the long beat toward the first marker buoy. But, as the boats drew out into the open lake and felt the full strength of the wind, their automatic systems reduced sail — and Sparrow stormed past, her mast bowed spectacularly as she did so.

  “How is the helm?” Harry called to Ferghal.

  “Very light, and I can feel the tremor in the rudder as she moves,” Ferghal called back against the wind.

  “Then she is overpowering,” exclaimed Harry, instantly alert to the need to reduce the strain. Calling to Franz manning the reefing gear and Senzile on the mainsail sheets, he ordered, “Take another three turns on the roller reefing. Reduce the mainsail to the next reef mark.” To Ferghal he said, “Tell me when the tremor eases.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Ferghal grinned, and as the boat responded to the reduced sail, he called out, “Steady as she is. That’s a good mark.”

  Harry grinned and glanced at the speedometer. Satisfied that he hadn’t sacrificed any speed with his easing of the sail forces, his face creased in a satisfied grin when he saw that the other boats were well behind him. Turning his attention to the approaching buoy, he gave a rapid series of orders in preparation for the change of course. “We will round the mark and take a long tack close hauled. Then we’ll tack again to bring us to the position to approach the next mark.” Hesitating, he timed his order to perfection. “Ready all! Put the helm down. Headsails and sheets!”

  The short tack put him in the ideal position for his next tack to the mark.

  Shaving the marker buoy, he gave Ferghal the order to bear up, and soon the ship canted over at a steep angle as she drove to windward as close hauled as they could. In their wake the Guillemot and the Kestrel followed suit and crept up on them. Seeing this, Harry mentally kicked himself as he realised the reason. These modern hulls gripped the water better if they lay more upright.

  To his crew he called, “Take in some of the genoa and another six inches of reefing on the main! Elize, deploy the starboard foils — just give us ten percent, please.” He watched the result, feeling the tremor. “Now the port foils, the same mark.” They all felt the boat lift and the speed change.

  Sparrow responded rapidly, opening the gap between them and their pursuers.

  Harry studied the wind and wave patterns to determine his next tack. Judging the moment with a practiced eye, he ordered the foils retracted and the helm put up. Sparrow rounded on herself, the sails snapping as they filled from the opposite side with barely a check in their speed. They stormed to windward, making another tack close to the windward marker, and then a short leg placed them on the mark with a quarter mile between them and the nearest boat, the Kestrel. This put them on a very broad reach, and Harry ordered the reefs taken out of the genoa.

  “Elize, deploy the foils, please, fifteen percent forward and ten aft.”

  “Fifteen and ten, aye, aye, sir.”

  Once again the hull lifted, staying close to the surface, and the speed increased.

  “How does she steer?”

  “Light but well,” Ferghal responded. “The log shows twenty-eight knots.”

  “Would the crew of Spartan could see this!” called Harry exuberantly to Ferghal, his whoop of pleasure drawing grins from the entire crew as the Sparrow stormed past the cheering spectators.

  “Would that we had our ensign on show,” called Ferghal, his muscles standing out as he strained to hold the boat steady on her course.

  Harry checked his position indicators and verified their course for the buoy, then noticed that the fleet of yachts seemed to have been reduced. He called to Frederik Dornier, who was monitoring the comlink for the boat. “Frederik, were there not eight boats at the start?”

  “Ja, but some have withdrawn.”

  There wasn’t time for further questions as the third marker buoy was looming — and this, Harry knew, would be a dangerous turn at this speed, since it meant a gybe with the wind across their stern. Misjudged, it could spell disaster. He made several checks then had the genoa reduced again and took some more turns on the mainsail.

  “Retract the foils.”

  Their speed dropped until he was almost on top of the buoy and then, in a flurry of orders and activity, they were round it without mishap and sail was again increased until the boat stormed across the start line to mark the beginning of her second circuit of the triangular course. His nerves forgotten, Harry saluted the guard boat as they crossed the start line on the new lap, the Sparrow rising to the foils as she tore through the water. He wanted to dance for the sheer joy of the thrill.

  They had barely turned for the next leg when Elize called out, “Wreckage ahead! Fine on the starboard bow.”

  “I see it,” called Ferghal. “It extends to leeward.”

  “We’ll come about,” yelled Harry, instantly conscious of the danger. “Stand by.” His crew leaped to readiness, and he called, “Now! Helm a-lee.”

  The boat spun, her crew fighting to control the thundering sails as she swung through the wind. Then she was steady again, rising on the foils, and racing away from the wreckage, which Harry now saw was the partly submerged hull of one of the other sloops. He glimpsed a figure clinging to the wreck and felt a moment of doubt. He was torn between the instinctive feeling that he should turn back for the rescue and the desire to finish the race and win at all costs.

  He yelled to Frederik, “Use the comlink and make a signal — survivors in the water at Mark B.” To Ferghal he said, “We’ll need to tack again.” Looking over the transom at the receding wreckage, he added quietly, “It goes against every instinct to leave him there.”

  Frederik emerged from the cuddy below deck. “Harry,” he called. “The course is shortened. This is the final circuit. The rescue craft are busy at the other end of the course. They ask how many we could see in the water.”

  Harry looked aft then at the pursuing sloops. He looked at his crew. “We’re going back,” he told
them. “Reduce the mainsail please, Franz. Elize, retract the foils. Prepare to come about.”

  “We’ll lose the race,” said Senzile, and Elize nodded. “We will,” she confirmed.

  “Our fellows need help,” said Harry. “We cannot leave them to drown. And there is no skimmer at hand. Stand by to come about. Ready? Helm a-lee.”

  The watching crowd saw the Sparrow reduce her sail area yet again, then turn and reverse her course. A gasp went up from the assembled Yotties. Then the public address system burst into life to inform them that the Sparrow had spotted someone in the water and was returning to pick up survivors. The crowd watched as the remaining four boats in the race slowly closed on her as the Sparrow approached the spot she had so violently avoided. The four boats avoided her as she manoeuvred, recovered several items and resumed her sailing, but now in a stern chase, albeit close behind the former tail ender.

  FREDERIK FOUND HIMSELF BELOW DECK WITH THREE extremely cold and very wet members of the crew of the sloop Bittern. All of them were shocked that their sloop had been overwhelmed in a moment of poor handling that had resulted in the boat’s catastrophic broach and dismasting. All her crew had survived, but some had swum clear of the boat and could not be seen.

  On deck Harry and Ferghal worked with the rest of his crew to close the distance between themselves and the new leader, the Guillemot. Well before the next mark, they had succeeded in overtaking the Peregrine, whose crew sportingly cheered as they did so, then caught the Kestrel at the mark itself, managing, having achieved the right under the rules to do so, to force their way between the rival boat and the mark. Ferghal and Harry displayed nerves of steel as the other boat shied away from the threat of collision and allowed them to pass. That left the Guillemot to catch.

  Harry called to his crew, “We will have to take a chance.” He hesitated. “Elize, we depend on you to control the foils.” He watched the waves, the wind whipping the crests into long white streamers, but, ironically, flattening them as well.

  “Keiron, stand by to hoist the smallest spinnaker. And we will have to cut it loose when we have done.”

  He made sure Keiron understood his order before he joined Ferghal at the wheel. The strain increased, and the boat almost became airborne, its hull vibrating violently, under the additional power from the sail. He dared not allow the spinnaker to be fully sheeted home, but it lifted them clear of the water on the partially deployed foils.

  In the cockpit, Elize strained on the manual adjustment controls to keep the hull just above the surface.

  The spectators held their breath as they witnessed the titanic struggle to control the now heavily overpowered boat as it overhauled their rival. Harry’s crew were aghast as they passed the leader.

  They’re trying to copy us,” Franz exclaimed. “I hope they’ve practiced manual control on the foils and sails!”

  Harry, straining at the helm with Ferghal, smiled grimly. “I hope they know the risk they take.”

  “Do we?” gasped Ferghal sweating under the strain.

  They tore past the Guillemot yawing badly as her helmsman struggled to control his boat and Senzile fought to control their own spinnaker.

  Harry judged the moment as the final mark loomed ahead. “Let go the sheets,” he yelled. “Let them fly free completely!”

  The sail streamed upward, tearing the released sheets from their fairleads to whip ahead of it.

  “Franz — cut the halyard — let it go with the wind.” He watched the sail blow free and clear. “Elize, retract the foils! Ready all for the gybe!”

  They heard a shout from behind followed by a series of terrifying cracks and crashes as they began the gybe.

  Harry dared not break his concentration, and when his crew turned to look aft, he bellowed, “Eyes in the boat. Concentrate — or we go the same way!”

  Ferghal brought them through the gybe with a grunt of strain as the sails slammed across and the Sparrow leapt away from the mark to lunge toward the finish. When they were across it, Harry glanced back at what had happened behind them, but he leapt into action again. “Stand by to come about. Ready? Helm a-lee.” As soon as they were on their new course, he drove all hands to reduce sail to the minimum until he could back the genoa and heave to in the spreading pool of wreckage that was the Guillemot.

  Leaving Ferghal to hold the boat in position, Harry and Franz worked the sails to keep her hove to while the rest of the crew assisted the swimming Dreadnoughts aboard. A rescue skimmer retrieved four more, two clearly in need of medical treatment.

  “Everyone is recovered, Harry.”

  “Very well, see to their comfort, please, Elize, Franz. Stand by. We’re getting under way.”

  HARRY SAILED THE BOAT STRAIGHT ONTO HER BERTH without using the engine. It was not something he even considered unusual, as he had never had to use an engine for this manoeuvre, and it simply did not occur to him to do so now.

  “Damn, now I see why you fellows beat us,” remarked Jorgen Dinsen, skipper of the sunken Guillemot. He said it with a trace of envy. No mean yachtsman himself, he had never attempted such a manoeuvre.

  “Everyone from the Bittern is accounted for and safe,” Franz told them as they approached the berth. “But two of your crew, Jorgen, have been taken to the medical centre.” As the adrenalin wore off, the crew realised how exhausted they were, and the full weight of the risks they’d taken sank home. A very subdued group returned to the pontoon.

  Harry stepped ashore to find Commodore Heron waiting to congratulate him.

  “I’m proud of you, Harry. Well done on your win, and your two rescues. That is the stuff that makes the Fleet the best there is. We never leave our own. We always come back for them, wherever they are and whatever the circumstances.” He looked at the rest of Harry’s crew. “Well? Are you all satisfied with his command? You’ve won the race — the first time the Yotties have done so, I believe. Are you going to let him get away with his having driven you all so hard?” He grinned, and they knew what he was prompting them to do.

  “No, sir!” exclaimed Franz and Frederik in unison.

  Before Harry could react, Ferghal, Keiron, Franz and Frederik had lifted him off the ground and carried him along the length of the pontoon to deposit him, without ceremony, off its end. Harry surfaced spluttering with laughter, just in time to see Elize and Senzile join the others in pushing Ferghal off the pontoon as well.

  They swam ashore grinning from ear to ear and feeling the thrill of their achievement for the first time.

  “THE YOTTIES HAVE DONE IT! WE’VE TAKEN THE CUP by two points!” Howie’s shout of excitement stunned everyone in the class lounge until the news sank in.

  “Finally, we showed ’em all!” said Senzile.

  “Yeah! That’s what I’m talking about!” Elize did a little victory dance over to Harry and hugged him, enjoying his startled look of surprise and embarrassment.

  “Give us the details!” said Franz.

  “The tally was for a dead heat between the Rodneys and the Britannias. It’s up on the results board. The C-in-C decided the Yotties should have a bonus for the sailing event. Told the Commandant he’d never seen anything like it, and we should be awarded a bonus.”

  Another whoop of triumph shook the room, and everyone laughed so hard it hurt when Ferghal grabbed Keiron and did an Irish jig around and over the furniture to the melody of a bawdy old sea shanty.

  Chapter 22 – Time to Move On

  The perfect weather continued for the Passing Out Parade. The entire College paraded, every class and officer in full parade dress. Occupying an entire side of the parade ground was the tiered seating for the families, friends and visitors. At the centre were the saluting dais and the seating for the Fleet Board, the Fleet Command and other VIPs.

  It was a proud moment for Harry and Ferghal as they marched out with the rest of their classmates, this being the first time they wore the dress uniforms of their service and their rank. Smarte
r than the normal working uniform, or the Number Fives normally worn, the dress uniform comprised a jacket of very dark blue-black that matched trousers of the same hue. Gold piping ran up the outer seam of the trouser leg. The cuffs of the jacket bore a thin gold braid looped into an intricate star pattern, and the collar was adorned with the familiar white patches enhanced by a double gold cord and button stud.

  The raised saluting dais was crowded with senior officers in their full dress, the various ranks of seniority now evident in the braiding of sleeves and collars. Harry managed an aside out of the corner of his mouth to Ferghal and Elize, causing them to snort with stifled laughter. “With all that heavy gold brain on show, let us hope they do not topple to the ground when they stand.” Just when they had regained control, he added, “Senior officers scrambling all over the parade grounds — imagine the sight!” He got an elbow from Elize for that one, but not without a cheeky grin.

  Master Warrant Officer Winkworth, marching beside them, managed to glower at him from the corner of his eye, and Harry adjusted his face to a mask of innocence, his eyes fixed on Keiron’s collar ahead of him as they marched into position. Ferghal almost missed his step as he struggled to regain control, his broad back still shaking from suppressed laughter.

  “Watch it, Mr O’Connor, no slacking on my class parade!” said Winkworth. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that humourous!”

  This almost sent Ferghal and Elize into paroxysms of laughter all over again.

  Finally taking deep breaths and settling down, they listened to the Commander-in-Chief’s address, Harry thinking to himself that perhaps the most remarkable difference between this speech and those he had heard on shipboards in his past was that he could actually hear this one clearly, thanks to the public address system.

  Ferghal couldn’t resist commenting on this. “Inspiring stuff, eh, Harry? I wonder if Captain Blackwood or our Admiral would have sounded as rousing had we been able to hear more than one word in ten, but then again, maybe it was better not to hear them! They sure could go on and on.”