Into Uncharted Seas (Westerly Gales)

by E. C. Williams

  “Might help, sir. Won't hurt.”

  “Set the square topsail, Mister Low.” While the watch officer was relaying this order, Sam said to his phone talker, “The Gunner's presence is requested on the quarterdeck.”

  Du Lesseps, the Gunnery Officer, hurried aft immediately.

  “Guns, is there a difference in range with different types of ammo? Does one carry a bit farther?”

  Du Lesseps scratched his head and replied, “Well, Commodore, solid shot seems to go some longer.”

  “Think you can hit the trailing dhow at this range, with solid shot?”

  “Dunno, sir. Worth a try, I guess.”

  “Then make it so, Guns – quick as you can, before she draws any further ahead.”

  Du Lesseps hurried back to his gun, and it soon barked again, the barrel at extreme elevation. Sam saw no splash – it was either lost in the dhow's wake or went wide.

  “Bow, have foremast lookout report fall of shot,” he snapped to his phone talker.

  A response came back quickly: “Azimuth correct, range short; it fell in her wake.” The last few words of the phone talker were drowned out by the bark of the second round. Sam saw the splash this time: in the dhow's wake but well short. The lookout immediately confirmed this.

  The dhow was clearly out of range of the 37 mm gun, and drawing ahead slowly but surely. He had no hope now of a disabling shot. Nevertheless, he determined to chase them out of sight. They were on a course more or less directly for Mauritius, and had only to fall off a point to make Reunion instead. Mauritius had already been the target of a massive raid which had disrupted its economy and displaced most of its population. It was only now recovering. Although it had an active and willing militia, its resources for defense were meager. Sam had to consider his responsibility to aid in the island's defense, if necessary.

  Reunion, on the other hand, was well-prepared, and if this was the pirates' target they were in for a rude surprise. During a brief visit to the island, Sam had been briefed on the defensive arrangements of the Réunionnais, which were prompted by the disaster that befall their Mauritian neighbors. They were impressive: an arms industry improvised nearly overnight; every able-bodied man between sixteen and sixty mustered into the Reunion Defense Force and trained with the locally-produced smooth-bore breech loader; a small but elite, highly mobile force ready on short notice to rush to any part of the island that was threatened; even a patrol of small craft, equipped with radios, to give early warning of an approaching pirate raid. This level of preparedness was both costly and disruptive of everyday life, but the Reunnionais were determined to avoid the fate of the Mauriciens.

  “Where's the duty radioman? Oh, there you are, Ebert. Take a message: 'Flash: to all ships and stations. Two war dhows sighted off Cap d'Ambre heading southeasterly this date. Take all necessary precautions. Reunion and Mauritius please acknowledge receipt.' Send it en claire, and keep repeating until acknowledged.”

  Ebert scribbled rapidly on his clipboard, then presented the result to Sam for review and signature. Sam scanned the draft, initialed in the appropriate block, and Ebert retrieved it and dashed below to the radio room.

  Sam paced the quarterdeck for a few moments, alternately studying the set of the schooner's sails and the enemy dhows in the distance, weighing his options. He came to a decision.

  “Launch the motor sloop. Rig for towing and motor-sailing,” he said to Low.

  This order, too, was not unexpected, and commands were immediately passed to the foredeck,which became a hive of activity.

  This was a calculated risk on Sam's part. Setting the steelyards and hoisting the heavy motor sloop free of its cradle would inevitably slow the schooner while the evolution was being carried out, due to the extra weight and windage aloft. But he hoped that the knot or so of extra speed would more than compensate for this.

  With the smooth speed of long practice, the sloop's crew threw off her cover and straps, boarded her while still on her cradle and began the process of warming the Stirling cycle engine up to operating temperature while the process of launching proceeded. Soon, she was hoisted, heaved outboard, and lowered to the water with a sea painter rigged. She was towed alongside for a few minutes as the engine completed its warm-up cycle, then surged ahead to the bow to take a towline.

  As the sloop took the strain on the line, the relative wind drew ahead slowly until the schooner was on a close reach. “Mind your sheets, Tom,” Sam warned, but Low was ahead of him there; he had already begun to pass the word to trim in.

  Low assigned the midshipman of the watch to stand by the taffrail log, noting distance run every six minutes, multiplying by ten, and announcing the resulting speed through the water. Sam noted that he did this without needing to be reminded; Low was proving a competent officer.

  The first speed estimate was actually lower than their previous speed; they had not yet regained the way lost during the launching of the sloop. But subsequent estimates crept up, a tenth of a knot at the time.

  “Gunner: estimate distance off nearest dhow with range finder,” Sam said to his phone talker, who passed that word.

  The answer came back almost immediately; Mr. Du Lesseps had anticipated his Commodore's wishes and was making continuous range checks. The optical range finder operated on the same principles as that of distance off by vertical angle with sextant and table 15 in Bowditch, but it was both quicker and more precise.

  The dhows had drawn ahead slightly since the last check.

  For a tense couple of hours, the motor sloop towed at full speed, the schooner's crew tended their sails with minute precision, and her speed was checked every six minutes, as was the range to the closest dhow. For a while it seemed as if the schooner was at least holding her own, perhaps even gaining minutely. Then it became clear that she was very slowly falling behind. The dhows gradually became hull down, then just triangles nicking the now-darkening eastern horizon, then they vanished.

  Sam stubbornly resisted this conclusion for as long as he could. But the range finder didn't lie; the Albatros just wasn't quite as fast as the slim, graceful dhows, racing along on their best point of sailing, even with the extra knot and a half or two knots added by towing.

  Sam sighed, and reluctantly said, “'Vast towing. Recover the motor sloop.” This order, too, was long anticipated – the hands could estimate ranges well enough without instruments – and the subdued and disappointed seamen went about the tasks associated with hoisting up the sloop and securing her in her cradle forward.

  He thought a moment. Roland's last position report had put her in port, in St. Pierre, Reunion, on her recruiting mission. He called Ebert over.

  “Take a message: Flash: to Roland, encoded. 'Get under way soonest and patrol waters between Reunion and Mauritius. Shadow and report any enemy vessels encountered. Do not repeat do not attempt to engage superior force. Report when underway. Acknowledge.' Ask Mister Robert to transmit that immediately and report when acknowledged.”

  “Aye aye sir.”

  “Set Condition Alfa,” Sam said to the watch officer, and the word was passed. There was a general relaxation of tension as half the crew left battle stations but stayed on deck. Sam saw Kendall conferring with the Boatswain, Mr. Terreblanche. Then he walked aft and came onto the quarterdeck without ceremony, the XO being the only person aboard besides the Commodore so privileged.

  “I've passed the word to the galley to re-light the fires and make coffee and soup, in case it's a long chase and we can't secure for dinner, Commodore” he said in his characteristic raspy half-whisper.

  “Good thinking, Al. I do intend to keep on even when they've drawn out of sight. Just in case they're bound for Mauritius or Reunion. I hope it's Reunion.”

  The XO chuckled. “Me, too, Skipper. They'll be in for a warm reception there.”

  “Of course, they could tack as soon as they've run us out of sight, and cruise the Madagascar approaches instead. They may have chosen that heading just because it w
as their fastest course away from us. No way to know.”

  “Why do you think they changed their minds about engaging, sir?”

  “No idea. Maybe the senior skipper suddenly remembered that their orders were to cruise for merchant ships, or attack one of the Mascarene islands, not engage a warship. Or maybe they didn't actually see our gun until that point.”

  “Well, sir – the gun balconies are awfully conspicuous, even at a distance,” Kendall replied dubiously. “Like 'warts on a pretty girl's face', as the Boatswain said.”

  “Yes – it seems unlikely they would be that dozy. But who knows? The pirates are still a complete mystery to us in many ways.”

  They were interrupted by Ebert, the radioman whose battle station was on the quarterdeck. “Excuse me, sir, but Mister Robert reports that both Mauritius and Reunion have acknowledged your recent message. Still awaiting acknowledgment from Roland.”

  “Thanks, Ebert. You can secure now – we're at Condition Alfa.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  All through a long day, the Albatros chased the two dhows, watching helplessly as they drew ahead until they were hull down, then until their sails were a mere nick on the horizon, then until they vanished completely against a darkening eastern sky. The sun was low on the horizon, on their starboard quarter, by this point. The midshipman of the watch took one last azimuth of the sun to check the error of the standard and steering compasses – the navigational routine continued, even during Condition Alfa.

  Roland acknowledged her orders, and reported an underway time within four hours.

  The crew had their morning coffee, their rum at eleven, soup at noon, and afternoon coffee, all while at the slightly reduced state of readiness of Condition Alfa, which meant that half of them ate and drank at action stations. Sam had raced on with all sail set in the hope that one of the dhows would suffer some accident to her rig, or become complacent, and allow the Albatros to catch up: a very long shot, admittedly. Near sunset, he reluctantly gave up on this prospect, and spared a thought for his men, who were exhausted from the nervous tension of standing ready for action for so long, and hungry for something more substantial than soup, having missed their usually hearty dinner.

  “Secure from Condition Alfa. Splice the main brace,” he said to a weary Mr. Low, loud enough to be heard by all of the quarterdeck crew. The cheers began on the quarterdeck and spread forward as the news spread, and the hands quickly fell into line with their mugs for the welcome treat of an extra liquor ration.

  “Pass the word to the galley to lay on a meal for the crew, as soon as it can be cooked.”

  The XO came aft and said “Maybe we'll catch up with 'em tomorrow, Commodore.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, we'll stay on their track – we can't go back to Nosy Be with two big pirate dhows known to be loose.

  “It's been a long day, Al. Care to join me in a drink and some supper?”

  “Delighted, Skipper.”

  “Pass the word for the Commodore's steward,” Sam said to the midshipman of the watch, and when Ritchie quickly appeared, he said, “A big supper for two, Ritchie – quick as you can. The XO's joining me.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” And he vanished below. Sam knew that, with his usual efficient artistry, he would produce a gourmet meal in no time.

  While they waited for Ritchie to summon them to the table, Sam said reflectively, “You know, Al, I've been thinking about your question earlier – about why the pirates changed their mind about attacking, I mean. What if we've hurt them so bad they're now having to conserve resources? After all, even a large and prosperous society can't have an endless supply of ships and seamen, nor infinite resources. Maybe the skippers of those dhows had orders not to engage unless sure of an easy victory.”

  “That's a cheerful thought, Skipper. Hope it's not just wishful thinking.”

  “Me too.”

  They paced for a few minutes in silence, then Kendall said, “And taking that further: even a society that is apparently so much larger and richer than ours could get tired of making no progress against us. What if they reckoned the cost of driving us out of the IO exceeded the benefit? And decided to live and let live? That would be close enough to a victory to suit me.”

  “From your mouth to God's ear, Al. Anyway, that's as close to victory as we're likely to get.”

  Sam's confidence in Ritchie's efficiency proved justified.. He and Al soon sat down to a sumptuous meal of grilled fresh fish, roast zebu, rice, and fresh vegetables, followed by coffee, fruit and cheese. They ate without conversation, in silent appreciation of the food – “shop” was forbidden during meals, and nothing else was on their minds.

  When they were replete, they took their coffee mugs up to the quarterdeck, to enjoy the late afternoon coolness.

  After a few moments, Kendall said, “What next, Commodore? I mean, over the next few days.”

  Sam shrugged. “Cruise the neighborhood of Mauritius and Reunion. Hope for a sighting report by a radio-equipped vessel. If no joy, head south and cruise the Madagascar approaches. Perhaps with Roland in company.” He paused for a reflective sip of coffee. “We can't return to Nosy Be with two raiders loose. We have to catch 'em if we can.”

  During the four-day run down to Mauritius – Sam planned to reconnoiter it first, as the most vulnerable of the two islands – the Commodore made the XO very unpopular with the crew. He accomplished this by ordering the maximum speed that could be squeezed out of the bluff-bowed schooner. This meant continuous adjustment of sail trim, and setting and striking the drifter as the wind shifted minutely. Since the normal ship's routine had to go on as well, the crew were continually annoyed at being called away from a task before they could get properly into it, to haul on or ease a sheet. Since the XO was the source of all these commands, he was mightily resented. A moment's reflection might have shown them that, since the Commodore was the ultimate origin of every order, this resentment of Commander Kendall was hardly just. But seamen were not, as a group, particularly reflective.

  Kendall was aware of the muttered imprecations not quite audible, the glares directed at him when his back was turned, but he was philosophical about it. It was the role of the XO to attract all resentment like a lightning rod, directing it away from the almighty captain. And of course no one, commissioned or warrant officer, petty officer or seaman, dared to so much as look unhappy at any order he gave – not within his field of view, anyway.

  The time thus passed quickly for everyone except Sam, who spent most of each twenty-four hours pacing the quarterdeck impatiently, frequently glancing aloft at the set of the sails, and waiting expectantly for the lookout's cry: “land ho!”

  By the time they raised the green slopes of Mauritius, it was plain to Sam, from both the absence of emergency radio alerts and the routine nature of the broadcasts they did copy, that the pirates had not intended the Mascarenes as their target after all. Therefore they must have altered course days before, when well clear of the Albatros, and headed south for the Malagasy approaches, their preferred cruising grounds for raiding Kerg commerce.

  Accordingly, Sam transmitted a message to Roland to leave off her islands patrol and rendezvous with Albatros to sail in pursuit of the corsairs

  Roland was a swift sailor, at least by Kerguelenian merchant vessel standards, but Sam still waited impatiently for her to join at a designated point just south of Reunion. As soon as she was sighted, he ordered the signal "captain come aboard flag" hoisted and left flying for emphasis.

  Roland was fitted with that great convenience, radial davits, a pair on each side for launching her six-oared double-ended boats, craft her crew referred to as “mini-whalers”. A boat was swung out and ready to lower by the time she hove to fifty yards or so off Albatros's port beam, and was in the water before all the way was off her. Acting Lieutenant Commander Benoit Murphy, the efficient CO of Roland, could be seen in the stern sheets of the boat, urging the rowers on.

  When Sam had acquired Roland for the na
vy, Murphy, the Joan's navigation officer, had been promoted into her as Captain, rather to the resentment of Mike Christie, who was (barely) senior to Murphy on the lieutenant's list. But Murphy was older and more experienced, having commanded vessels very similar to the Roland while a merchant marine officer, so Christie had to content himself with being XO – and acting CO, during his captain's convalescence – of the Joan.

  From what he had seen so far, Murphy had been a good choice. Sam had been impressed by the alacrity with which Roland's crew had launched their boat, and the obvious good order of the schooner – clean, shipshape and tautly managed.

  Murphy's boat was soon alongside, and he ran quickly up the pilot ladder rigged for him. He was very agile for a man of his bulk – stout but muscular.

  “Good morning, Ben,” Sam said. “How are you?”

  “Good morning, Commodore. Fine, thanks.”

  “Let's go below for coffee and discuss the situation, shall we?”

  Once they were seated in Sam's day cabin, Ritchie quickly appeared with fresh coffee. Murphy sipped his and smiled appreciatively.

  “I envy you your steward, Commodore. Mine can't seem to get the knack of making drinkable coffee.”

  “Perhaps when we're next in port together, Ritchie can give your man lessons.”

  “I'd appreciate that very much, sir.”

  They drank their coffee in silence for a moment, then Sam said, “There's a midshipman named Murphy aboard – a relation of yours, possibly?”

  “My nephew, sir – my eldest brother's son.”

  “Well, he's shaping up nicely. You can be proud of him.”

  “Glad to hear that, Commodore. I'll pass that on to his dad, who's a master mariner himself – he'll be pleased.”

  Pleasantries out of the way, Sam went on to brief Murphy in detail about his intentions. The two vessels would cruise in company in the Madagascar approaches, well apart from one another yet not so distant that they could not come to one another's support in case the raiders were sighted. They would keep radio comms to a minimum, and broadcast only when out of visual signaling range. They would remain on station until the raiders were intercepted and destroyed, or until they were dangerously low on food and water. In the latter case, the Roland would sail to the nearest safe anchorage on the east coast of Madagascar and send foraging parties ashore for water and edible wild greens while the Albatros remained on station. Albatros was well-supplied, having only recently taken on full stores in Hell-ville, and could share with Roland as required until both vessels were in extremis. But under no circumstances was the patrol to end until Sam could be sure the pirate raiders were no longer a threat.