The Cruise of the Albatros: Book Two of the Westerly Gales Saga

by E. C. Williams

  But Sam, and probably the other officers as well, missed seeing the Doctor dressed as she had for previous Captain's dinners: alluring, feminine, in the latest French Port fashion for young ladies of her social status, and managing to display her slender figure to best advantage, but without the least hint of impropriety. Girard was a strikingly attractive woman however she dressed, but when she made an effort, she brightened the captain's mess like an arrangement of exotic tropical blooms in the midst of an otherwise drab and ordinary table setting. He wondered how he could tactfully convey to her the message that, while he appreciated her effort to blend in, it wasn't necessary to go quite so far.

  The dinner was brightened by a radio message from Foch, received and decoded just that afternoon, which Sam shared with his dinner companions. It was of the bad news – good news variety – but the good news was so delightful to the officers that the bad was promptly forgotten. It reported, briefly and with no details, that the Council had refused funding for more than one consort for the Albatros – that was the bad news – but that a suitable candidate for the single new warship-conversion they had approved had been selected, an agreement for her sale to the Republic reached with her owners, and that she would go into the shipyard for conversion as soon as her last cargo had been discharged. There were no details about the vessel other than that she was a three-masted schooner, a tween-decker, and she grossed a score fewer tons than the Albatros but was in most other respects a near-sister. This made Sam happy – he hadn't really expected his request for two more warships to be approved, not yet – and his officers were ecstatic. Although all the lieutenants took it for granted that Ennis would be given command of the new schooner – everyone except Kendall, who hoped against hope that he would be selected – it was obvious that two new executive officers would have to be promoted: one for the new vessel, and one to take Ennis's billet on the Albatros. The midshipmen, too, could hope that at least some of the new lieutenant billets would be filled by promotion from their number.

  As the news flew around the schooner at the speed of light, all hands – all those ambitious for promotion, at least – speculated excitedly about the opportunities created by the addition of a second ship to the Navy. It stood to reason that several new warrant officer billets would be needed – the new vessel had to have a Gunner, an Engineer, a Boatswain, a Sailmaker, a Carpenter – and LPOs in those departments debated which would be filled by promotion and which, if any, would be filled by outsiders. Petty Officers and Leading Seamen, too, daydreamed about being elevated to the lofty status of LPO or PO.

  This news and discussion of its implications occupied much of the crew's off-duty time for the rest of the voyage to French Port. The message's receipt was timely, because the excitement it prompted helped make the miseries soon to be inflicted upon them by the Southern Ocean at least somewhat endurable.

  Sam went on deck after his last dinner ended to find that the schooner was definitely entering the region of true Forties weather. The wind had freshened gradually all day, and the seas had steepened considerably. The schooner was already stripped down to her low Southern Ocean rig – the topmasts and their associated standing and running rigging struck down on deck and lashed down or stowed below, bermuda courses and storm staysails set. This process made Sam appreciate his sizable crew; what was a grueling, all-day chore for the small number of hands Albatros would have shipped had she still been a merchantman was only an hour-long evolution for her now.

  Sam took a turn around the deck of the schooner, from the quarterdeck all the way forward and back again, taking a good look at the doubled lashings on the motor sloop and the nested whaleboats, as well as the topmasts. They were well-secured, as he expected – the XO and the Boatswain would have seen to that. Still, a third pair of eyes couldn't hurt. Before now, even the most experienced sea-officer had missed a wire rope eye created with two rather than the required three clips, or the clips put on backwards, or a sloppy knot, or a lashing not heaved absolutely taut, with dangerous results.

  The next morning Sam awoke to a wild day. The sun was shining with incongruous brightness on a sea covered with fifty-foot waves, marching inexorably from the west, a ferocious wind tearing off their tops and driving the spray horizontally to sting any exposed skin like hailstones.

  The afternoon before, the Boatswain had overseen the rigging of a web of lifelines fore and aft. Every man whose duties took him on deck was issued with a fathom of best New Zealand half-inch linen line, with a snap shackle spliced into one end. Each was ordered to tie the other end snugly around his chest in a water-bowline, and never move about without securing the snap shackle to slide along a lifeline, and when shifting the shackle from one lifeline to another, to always maintain a fierce grip on a line with the other hand. Sam had never in his seagoing career, either as a merchant master or naval CO, lost a man over the side in the Forties, a remarkable record he was determined to preserve.

  The efficacy of this system was proven while Sam was on deck; a green sea swept the schooner from forward to aft, knocking every man then on deck off his feet and tearing from his grasp whatever hold he had on any part of the fabric of the vessel. When the water drained away, seamen were revealed drenched, bruised, and lying at the ends of their lifelines like hooked fish – but still alive, still on board the Albatros. Sam and every member of the watch on the quarterdeck were among that number. Even the helmsman and lee helmsman, partially protected by the tiny wheelhouse, were washed right out of it, the doors being hooked back to make room for the lee helmsman, the space too small for more than one man. But they had prudently made themselves fast to the binnacle, and suffered nothing worse than the usual bruises.

  Sam knew from experience that he would soon have, in black and brilliant purple, a perfect representation around his upper chest of half-inch right-hand-twist linen line, more detailed and realistic than any tattoo. He also knew that unless he stayed on his feet and active all day, he would be too stiff and sore to rise from his bunk in the morning.

  Below decks was the chaotic scene usual on the first day of really rough weather during any voyage: table-tops cleared, crockery smashed, cupboards and lockers emptied of their contents; a lesson that seemed always to need repeating, in the need for securing everything movable for sea. And if it seemed secure, to re-secure it.

  The XO worked his way aft and approached Sam, his sealskin foul-weather gear streaming seawater in sheets. “You okay, Skipper?”

  “Just shaken up a bit. You?”

  “Fine. Better than fine – I'm always happy on the first day of this kind of weather, southbound. Means we're inside ten degrees of latitude from home!” Sam laughed. “That's the spirit, Bill – and spread some of it around. Our Nosy Be recruits will probably need some cheering up.”

  Bill grinned. “Ja, they probably thought they were thoroughly salted down by now, proper sailor-men. But now they'll learn what real seasickness is!” As if to underline this statement, the lee-helmsman, who had turned pale, then green, turned away to leeward and vomited copiously. There was no need to make lompkinders carry buckets around with them in these seas; the noisome puddle was washed clean away by boarding waves within minutes.

  Sam, as always, felt a private sympathy for the sufferer. He remembered too well his own misery as a first-voyage cadet – and, in fact always suffered a twinge or two of queasiness himself, on his first day at sea after a prolonged period ashore. But he hardened his heart. When it came to seasickness, one had to be cruel to be kind; the least hint of sympathy led to the temptation to let the seasick man slack off a bit or, God forbid, do what every fiber of his being called out for – that is, lie prone in his bunk or hammock – which would only prolong his suffering. Except for the rare unfortunate like Mr. Andri, who never got over it, the quickest way to conquer mal de mer was to continue to do one's duty and fight through it.

  There followed days of the usual Southern Ocean misery. The motion of the vessel made the simplest task a physica
l and mental challenge. The nervous tension of constant sail-trimming, and, when on the helm, the knowledge that the slightest error would result in the schooner broaching-to in the trough of one of these gigantic waves, lost with all hands in seconds, made every watch an ordeal. Then, when relieved, the hands had to lie in damp clothes, damp blankets, damp hammocks. Never quite warm nor completely dry, every meal eaten cold while standing up, one hand grasping a lifeline or stanchion with an unappetizing lump in the other, the hands knew that the Roaring Forties constituted a watery hell that had to be endured. The fact that it was finite, with the delights of home at the end, kept the crew going.

  Sam and Bill agreed that they had rarely seen even the Forties so consistently horrible; even these latitudes had spells of tolerable weather, when the wind and sea moderated, the sun came out, and wet bedding and clothes could be aired. Not this trip, however – every day was equally awful.

  A few days after the first, another message from Foch brought the news that Mr. Daniel, Kerguelen's leading gunsmith and the Navy's principal firearms contractor, had finalized designs for an addition to the Albatros's main battery, as Sam had requested, of a gun of greater caliber and longer range than the one-inch rifles, and had started work on it. One prototype of this gun would be manufactured, intended for the Albatros; experience with it would determine whether or not it would be produced in greater numbers. Sam had already decided that the new and as yet unnamed warship would be armed with the two additional 25 mm rifles he had ordered before sailing from French Port, as well as the dozen 7.65 mm seal rifles he had also ordered. The new schooner's landing party would be armed with 6.35 mm rifles, of the type the Albatros had procured in Hell-ville – except that they should be repeaters, if this proved possible and practical – as many as could be produced in the time available. Mr. Daniel would sub-contract these to other gunsmiths.

  The gunnery officer, Mr. Du Plessis, and his mates were consumed with curiosity about the details of this new gun: what was its caliber? Its range? Was it fixed-mount or man-portable? The Gunner drafted a message to Foch posing these questions and it came to Sam for approval and release, as was required for all communications from the ship. He did not release it; he told the Gunner firmly that they would find out these details when they needed to know them, and every message the Albatros sent or received gave the pirates more data to work with in their code-breaking efforts. He wanted no needless radio chatter.

  But the long-awaited day finally arrived when the lookout shouted “land ho”, and the Rock gradually grew out of the sea, dead ahead. Sam and Mr. Mooney congratulated one another rather smugly on the accuracy of their dead-reckoning – celestial fixes had been impossible for days, and they had been able to get a radio bearing on the Kerguelen station only rarely because salt spray kept shorting out the directional antenna.

  All hands were on deck to savor the delightful moment when, having come abeam of Cape Digby – standing well offshore, to avoid the rocky shoals that stretched out like claws to grab the unwary mariner – the schooner drew into the lee of the island, and her motion immediately eased. Then for several hours the Albatros sailed due south along the gray and green shore of the Courbet Peninsula, carefully threading the rocks and shoals that lay off that coast, most unmarked. At last, the Albatros turned the corner at Harston rock and beat westerly through Royal Pass into Morbihan Gulf, to come to a safe anchorage off French Port. There she lay, flying the bright yellow flag that signified “My ship is healthy – I request free pratique”. But not for long: the harbor-master's launch was almost immediately seen heading their way, bearing the port health officer, who, after a very brief conference with the Captain and Doctor Girard, cleared the vessel in record time and then shared a homecoming glass of rum with Sam and Bill while the anchor was being heaved up again and the motor sloop launched to tow the Albatros in to a berth alongside the Long Pier.

  Sam, in conference with Bill, had decided to allow the port watch five days leave immediately upon arrival. For these five days, the starboard watch would be granted overnight liberty, keeping only a small ship-keeping detail aboard to tend the lines and guard the ship's property from the sticky fingers of the shipyard workers. For Sam learned to his delight, immediately upon their arrival. that the Albatros was scheduled to shift into drydock at the yard of Messrs. Lefevre at first light the next day.

  The first visitors from ashore the Albatros received were Commandant Foch of the French Port constabulary, and a lieutenant commander RKVNR, and Captain Lee, of the Kerguelen Bureau of Shipping. They had to force themselves up the forward gangway – the only one yet rigged – against an exuberant tide of larbowlines, rigged out in their best home shore-going clothes, pouring onto the pier into the arms of welcoming loved ones, or competing for taxis. Sam and Bill met them at the top of the gangway for an affectionate reunion; all four had become fast friends in the process of building the infant Navy. The men then quickly adjourned to Sam's mess – not least because a bitterly cold wind was driving snow flurries horizontally, making the open deck an uncomfortable place for conversation. There, Sam poured out stiff shots of rum – having to rouse out the bottle and glasses himself, since he had granted Ritchie leave with the port watch – and they drank a toast to the first cruise of the first ship of the Kerguelen Navy.

  “Tell us about the new ship,” Bill then asked eagerly – he had already been told by Sam that he was to have command of her.

  “She's the Theotokos, very similar to Albatros in nearly every respect,” Captain Lee replied. “It wasn't easy to buy her from her owners. They were adamant that they wouldn't sell her, and I had to pull out all the stops to get 'em to change their minds. I finally had to offer full replacement value, plus promise to use KBS influence with the shipyard in Port Molloy they prefer to put them at the head of the line for building a new one.”

  “I know her,” Bill said. “A fine schooner – a great choice. I know her owners, too, the Coutavas brothers. I'm not surprised they didn't want to part with her. It's very much a family enterprise, with the two brothers alternating as skipper, and half the crew being relatives. A religious name, too, like the Albatros's before she was re-christened – good luck, but of course she'll have to be renamed.”

  “What does her name mean?” asked Sam.

  “Literally, 'Mother of God' in Greek – signifying the Virgin Mary, of course. I wonder what would be a good new name for her?”

  “I'm afraid that's already been decided,” Foch said. The Council – or rather the piracy working group of the committee on merchant marine and fisheries – picked Joan of Arc as an appropriate name for a warship.”

  “And politically expedient, too,” Sam laughed, “Since Port Joan-of-Arc constitutes the second largest concentration of voters on Kerguelen! Still, it's not a bad name. I can live with it – how about you, Bill?”

  “I don't care what we call her – I love her already,” he replied, with the fervent affection of a sea-officer for his very own command, raising a laugh from the others.

  “Now, what about my homecoming gift – tell me about our new weapon,” Sam demanded.

  “You'll have to talk to Daniel and the folks at the Davis Foundry for the technical details, but I can tell you that it's a 37 mm rifle, fixed mount, with a considerable advantage in both range and destructive power over the 25 mm guns you have now.”

  “Breech-loading?”

  “Yes, but not a bolt action, like the twenty-fives. The breech works on a principle Daniel calls the 'interrupted screw', whatever that means.”

  “Sounds like a birth-control method,” Bill quipped with a lecherous grin. When the laughter died down, Foch added, “That's all I can remember from Daniel's description.”

  “Is it ready for mounting?”

  “Not quite, but Daniel and the foundry promise it by the time the yard's ready to mount it. The yard engineer has a preliminary design for a reinforcing structure, to take the weight, but he wanted to examine the vessel first to be sur
e he could make it work. The motor-generator set you wanted has to be installed first, and before that can be done, an engine room partitioned off and fuel tanks built into the bilge.”

  “Were you able to get funding for an MG set for Joan, too?” asked Bill.

  “Yes. Joan will be fitted out just like Albatros, except for the 37 mm gun. And if the new rifle proves successful, Joan will probably get one eventually, too.”

  “Funding for all this – was there resistance to spending this much?” Sam asked. Lee responded with a bitter laugh. “Be thankful you only had pirates to fight. I had to convince the working group to convince the full committee to ask the Council for all this extra funding – which required a new tranche of Navy bonds. Then I had to tussle with my own board to extend the tonnage assessment to back up the bonds.

  “Ironically, your very success worked against us. Plenty of people had become very complacent about the whole pirate issue – said the Albatros was taking care of it, so why spend more?”

  “But you won 'em over, obviously – a toast to the golden tongues of Captain Lee and Commander Foch!”

  Once glasses had been emptied and recharged, Lee snorted. “'Golden tongue', my ass! I just had to keep bangin' 'em over the head with logic: a single Albatros, which can't be everywhere at once, many pirate vessels – that, by the way, always cruise in pairs. I kept mentioning the case of the unfortunate Marchande Austral, taken while you were more than 700 miles to the south.

  “And Mother Moreau did most of the heavy lifting, anyway, once I had convinced her. Talk about a 'golden tongue' – that woman can talk!”