When the two anchored dhows had sunk, resting on the bottom of the harbor with only the upper halves of their masts visible, and the two grounded ones were silenced, Sam ordered away the motor boats, armed with a one-incher each, loaded with canister, and manned by a squad of riflemen, to set fire to the two larger dhows. Sam watched through his telescope. As he expected, the boats came under small-arms fire from diehard survivors. The motor boats – the sloop approaching the pirate flagship, the whale boat the other grounded dhow – soon silenced this fire with blasts of one-inch canister and closed on the pirate vessels.
If we had incendiary ammo for the 37 mm and the one-inchers, I wouldn't have to expose the motor boats to this risk, Sam thought, and made a mental note to consult the Gunnery Officer – if he still lived – about this possibility.
The gunner's mates had improvised fire bombs from empty glass bottles filled with fuel oil shaken up with a little vodka to add to the volatility, and oil-soaked rags for fuses. The motor boats' crews distributed these liberally from bow to stern of each grounded dhow, smashing them against hull and deck, and soon both vessels were aflame, twin columns of black smoke climbing into the sky, leaning northeasterly in the slight breeze.
The boats then proceeded on the second part of their mission – scouting out the location of any pirates ashore. The boats landed their seamen-gunners, then stood off to cover them with their one-inchers. The Albatros and the Joan also were alert to provide gunfire support with the 37 mm and the remaining one-inchers.
Long minutes went by, amounting to nearly an hour. Then: “Motor sloop to flag: 'Pirate camp abandoned'”, the midshipman said, reading the flickering of the boat's signal lamp.
“Reply: “Return'”, said Sam, and the shutter of the big signal light on the quarterdeck clattered rapidly.
Sam suddenly felt a wave of total exhaustion sweep over him, and staggered slightly until he could grip the rail with both hands. He stood there and looked around the deck of his command. He saw pools of blood, shattered bulwarks, tired men slumping at their stations.
The streams from the pumps waned from jets to dribbles, then died away completely. Sam saw the Carpenter come topside and sound the bilges. He then walked slowly aft and reported: “All shot holes plugged or patched, Commodore; two inches in the well.”
“Very well, Chips. Knock off the men on the pumps.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Sam then said, “Gadget, make to Joan: 'Captain repair aboard flag'”. Lights flashed, and then the midshipman said “Joan acknowledges, sir.” Sam slumped against the rail and gazed numbly at the Joan. After a while, he wondered idly why she wasn't launching a pulling boat to bring Ennis over, then reflected that her boats were almost certainly full of shot holes, as were the Albatros's. The Joan was awaiting the return of her motor whaleboat, which, like Albatros's motor sloop, had remained safely made fast to the unengaged side of the schooner throughout the battle.
At last the motor boats reached their respective mother vessels, and Sam saw the Joan's motor whaleboat take on a passenger and head for the Albatros. After the short passage of the whaleboat over to the flag Sam saw with a feeling of dread that the passenger was not Bill Ennis but Lieutenant Schofield, the Joan's XO. He met Schofield at the pilot ladder as he boarded, and demanded, “Where's Captain Ennis, Dave?”
Schofield, pale and staggering with fatigue, was liberally blood-spattered – one patch on the front of his blouse was quite stiff with dried blood – but apparently the blood wasn't his own, for he appeared unwounded. He stared numbly at Sam for a beat as if he had not been expecting that question, then said dully, “Captain Ennis is badly wounded, sir, but expected to live. Doc Cheah had to take his left arm off at the shoulder. – it was shattered by a three-inch ball.”
Sam was silent for a moment, coping with powerful mixed feelings – horror at the awful nature of his friend's wound, relief that he had so far survived it.
Christie came aboard then, and approached them. “Come below, both of you, and have some coffee with me while you make your preliminary reports,” Sam said.
In Sam's mess, the three slumped into chairs, and Sam shouted for Ritchie. The Commodore's steward soon appeared, still wearing an apron soaked in blood – his battle station was in sick bay, assisting the SBAs with the wounded. “Coffee, vodka, and whatever you can give us to eat in a hurry,” Sam ordered. The three sat in silence, staring at the table-top, until Ritchie reappeared quickly, bloody apron replaced by a clean one, his quiet efficiency unimpaired by the recent battle, bearing a tray laden with food and drink. He sat the table and poured coffee and vodka. “Leave the bottle,” Sam said.
They ate and drank voraciously, surprised by their own hunger and thirst. Then Sam said to Schofield, “At what point in the battle was Captain Ennis wounded, Dave?”
“Very early on – in the first few minutes. Amazingly, he remained conscious and tried to insist on remaining on deck, but I ordered him carried below. Good thing, too – Doc Cheah said if he had lost much more blood he couldn't have survived.”
“So you fought the ship for most of the battle?”
“Yes, sir.” Sam was silent for a moment, and then said, “Well done, Dave.” He turned to Christie and said, “Tell us what you found ashore, Mike?”
“A large camp on the shores of the creek, big tents in neat rows. Heaps of supplies and equipment – building tools – axes, hammers, saws, drills – nails and spikes, farm implements, seeds. It seemed pretty plain that they were in the process of establishing a permanent settlement on the island.”
“Did you encounter any pirates?”
“No, sir. The camp was empty of people – completely abandoned. Either all those ashore re-boarded the dhows for the battle, or ran off into the bush.”
“Did you find any weapons or ammo?”
“Only about a dozen muskets, with some powder and ball. We smashed the locks on the muskets and dumped the powder into the creek, in case any pirates in the bush came back. That was all the damage we had time to do. We were under orders to re-embark before sunset, and the sun was low by then.”
“Well done, Mike. Tomorrow, we'll have to plunder that camp for anything we can use and destroy the rest.” Sam thought a moment, then asked Schofield, “What were your casualties, Dave?”
“The doc and his mates were still stitching and bandaging when I came over, Commodore, so I don't have a full report. But I'd say in the neighborhood of fifty percent of the crew killed or wounded.” Sam was stricken by this news. He estimated that the losses to the Albatros were at least as bad, but he had hoped for better news from the Joan.
The three officers spent a few more minutes in a rambling discussion of the battle just concluded, and then Sam decided that a detailed postmortem would have to wait. There was much to do, and all three were too exhausted to think straight.
He accompanied the other two on deck, Schofield to return to the Joan and Christie to resume his temporary role as XO of the Albatros. Sam realized that the crew were still closed up at battle stations, and stood them down to Condition Alfa, so that half the crew at a time could go below for a bite and a shot of vodka. He wished he could stand his exhausted hands all the way down to normal routine, but there remained the possibility that armed pirates with access to boats or dugout canoes still remained ashore, perhaps up the creek, small but navigable by shallow-draft vessels. There was also the risk that other Caliphate dhows were about to arrive, with more settlers and supplies for the new colony.
But the rest of the day passed without incident, and darkness arrived with no further attacks. So Sam gambled, and stood the squadron down to normal at-anchor routine so that the crews could get some rest.
He spent the afternoon and the early evening in sick bay, speaking to those wounded men who were conscious, praising them for their courage and thanking them for their sacrifice. He was appalled at the slaughter of his men. Sick bay was packed with wounded, and with dead being reverently stitched up into
their hammocks and taken topside. Among the dead were three of the schooner's four midshipmen.
He sat by the XO's cot for an hour. Kendall was intermittently conscious, and lucid when awake. He could speak only in a very soft, raspy voice, and Sam had to put his ear to Kendall's mouth to understand his questions. He was anxious to know the outcome of the battle, and in his intervals of awareness Sam described it to him.
Doctor Girard stopped by his cot while Sam was there, to examine the patient and check his chart – actually a slate with a bit of chalk on a string, and columns for vital signs and time. Kendall had lapsed again into unconsciousness, so Sam asked her bluntly: “Will he make it, Marie?”
“I believe so, Sam,” she replied. “He lost a lot of blood, but incredibly the bullet didn't hit any vital parts in his neck. It was a through and through wound. The round did damage his vocal chords, so his speech will almost certainly be permanently impaired. But otherwise, I think he'll recover completely.”
“Thank God for that. What are our total losses – can you tell me yet?”
“I can't give you a precise count yet, but at least fifty total casualties, half fatal or likely to prove fatal within a day or so.”
Sam stared at the deck. He had expected this news, but that didn't make it any easier to bear. Nearly half the crew of the Albatros dead or wounded, and, from initial reports, the same proportion of the Joan's.
The Joan: he should go over to her, to encourage her crew, visit her wounded, and most importantly, to check on the condition of Captain Bill Ennis, who was not only his right hand but his best friend.
He went on deck and ordered the motor sloop readied. She was alongside, ready for the next day's mission, and only needed warming up. He didn't wait; instead, he climbed down the pilot ladder into the boat and slumped on a thwart in the stern sheets, staring dully as the crew of the boat, so exhausted they moved like men on the bottom of the ocean, got her ready for the short trip over to Joan. When the boat was under way, Sam said to the coxswain, “Port side.” Sam had never at any time been happy with the elaborate ritual of welcoming a senior officer aboard a warship; today of all days the Joans could do without this distraction.
Sam pulled himself slowly up the Joan's pilot ladder, and was greeted on deck by Schofield, whose face betrayed his curiosity at a visit from the Commodore so soon after his own visit to the flag.
“Carry on, Mike – don't mind me,” Sam said. “I just came over to visit Captain Ennis.”
“Yes, sir. I'll show you down to sick bay.”
“No, Mike. Don't bother. You have enough to do. I'll find my own way.” Indeed, Joan and Albatros had, as merchant vessels, been very similar, and the conversion of Joan had followed that of Albatros so closely as to make them even more alike, so Sam needed no guide.
Below, in sick bay, Sam found much the same situation as in Albatros's: every cot occupied, with rows of the lightly wounded and those not expected to live on the deck along the bulkhead. Interns and SBAs moved among the men in cots, checking vital signs and changing dressings. Sam looked about, thinking that he would have to visit every cot until he found Bill. Then Doctor Cheah, Joan's MO, noticed him and approached. Cheah had been youthful, even boyish, when Sam had first met him; now his face was drawn and pale with fatigue, and he looked ten years older.
“Commodore! What brings you here?”
“I came to visit Captain Ennis. Which cot is his?”
“I'll show you. He may not be conscious – he hasn't been out of surgery long. We couldn't save his arm.”
“Mister Schofield told me. Will he make it?”
“He's lost a lot of blood, but he was strong and healthy before his wound, so he has a good chance if we can avoid infection.”
Cheah showed him to a hanging cot. Ennis was as pale as the linen sheet that covered him, and where his left arm had been was only a bulge of bandaged stump, spotted with blood. His eyes were closed. Sam said, “Bill?” very softly, not wanting to wake him if he were sleeping, but Ennis immediately opened his eyes.
“Sam! Did we win?”
“We did indeed, Bill – sank or burned all four dhows. If there are any surviving pirates, they're hiding in the bush with no food or arms. It was a great victory.”
“Thank God for that! How did Mike do? After I was hit.”
“He did very well, Bill. You made a good choice for your XO.”
Ennis closed his eyes, and Sam thought that he had fallen asleep, but then he opened them again, and asked: “Casualties?”
“A great many, I'm afraid. But don't worry about that now. You'll be on your way home to the Rock soon, where Suzette can look after you.”
“No.”
“'No'?”
“No, I don't want to go home, Sam. As soon as I've recovered, I'll resume command of the Joan. A captain doesn't need two arms.”
“Yes, of course, Bill. Just rest now, though.”
“Don't humor me, Sam. I'm serious.” Sam bit his lip – he might have known that Bill Ennis, in sickness or in health, would never listen patiently to soothing lies.
“We'll have to see how well and how quickly you recover before I can make that decision. One arm or two, the commander of a warship has to be healthy.”
“I'll recover quickly, Sam. Don't worry about that. Just tell Mike to keep her warm for me – I'll be back in command of the Joan before you know it.”
“Okay, Bill,” Sam said with resignation. “Just don't rush it, hear? And don't try to run Joan from your cot in sick bay – Mike's perfectly competent, so let him get on with it. That's an order.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Bill replied, and his eyes closed. This time he was out, exhausted by the brief exchange.
Sam went on deck, said a brief goodbye to Lieutenant Schofield, and returned to the Albatros.
CHAPTER 19
At first light the next morning, Sam sent off both power boats, each armed with a one-incher and filled with all the surviving members of both schooners' riflemen, to destroy the pirate camp and reconnoiter again along the shore. They were under strict orders to penetrate the bush no further than the camp site. The boats landed the riflemen and then backed offshore to loiter as a floating reserve, one-inchers loaded with canister to cover the retreat of the landing party if necessary. This had become standard tactical doctrine for operations ashore.
Sam watched anxiously through his telescope as the riflemen disappeared into the bush, proceeding up the right bank of the creek toward the pirate camp. Nothing then happened for a long while – happily, because immediate action would have suggested that the landing party had encountered a force of armed pirates. Sam scanned the harbor with his telescope. The two larger dhows, grounded, had burned to the waterline, with only a few wisps of smoke still wafting into the morning calm. There were no signs of life on shore – no human life, that is, but the bush must have been full of other creatures, for birdsong and the harsher cries of larger animals, momentarily silenced by the passage of the landing party, resumed, clearly audible across the calm harbor.
Then multiple columns of smoke rose into the still air. The landing party had fired the camp and its store of supplies.
More time passed, and Sam paced the quarterdeck. He tried to avoid looking forward, where neat rows of fathom-long canvas bundles lay: the bodies of the fallen, sewn up in their own hammocks, stones from the permanent ballast at their feet, the stenciled numbers on the fabric uppermost so they could be readily identified. Sam reflected that they must get underway very soon, in order to give these men a decent burial in deep water. They were already beginning to smell in the tropical heat, and the stench of the corpses of their shipmates would not be good for the morale of the surviving hands.
Sam's eye was caught by movement on the shore. The landing parties had rendezvoused on the muddy beach, and the motor boats closed to pick them up.
“Signal from motor sloop, sir: 'Pirate camp destroyed, no enemy encountered,” the midshipman of the watch said to Sam.
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“Reply: 'Return'”.
When Christie, the officer in overall charge of the landing parties, was back aboard, he came aft to report to Sam. “No sign of pirates, sir. It looked as if the camp had been somewhat plundered overnight – the food stores and the tools – but not much was taken. The prints we found around the food and tool storage tents were of bare feet, so I think it must have been locals – not pirates.”
“Well, they're welcome to whatever they could use. We know they don't like strangers – maybe they'll take care of any surviving pirates for us.”
“The islanders certainly have no cause to love the pirates now. We found three bodies hanging from trees around the perimeter of the camp, apparently to frighten off intruders. They were men, and clearly locals, since they were dressed only in animal-skin breech-clouts. They had been tortured before being hanged.”
“The bastards! Any other sign of islanders near the shore?”
“None, Commodore.”
“I suppose it's unreasonable to expect any signs of gratitude for relieving them of their oppressors. Kergs and pirates – we're probably all the same to them.”
“I'm sure you're right, sir.”
“We have to sail as soon as possible, Dave. Get with the Boatswain and be sure essential repairs are made.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Gadget, make to Joan: 'Intend sail on evening ebb. Make essential repairs. Tow if necessary.”
The rest of the day was spent in frantic repairs to the rigging of both vessels. The sails, furled during the battle, had nevertheless suffered considerable damage. All needed repair; some were shredded beyond saving, good only to be cut up for patches. The running and standing rigging was much cut up, and bosun's mates stayed busy splicing wire and fiber rope. During all this frantic activity, the hands were careful to avoid the bodies of their dead shipmates. A lompkinder who inadvertently stumbled on a canvas-shrouded corpse was savagely excoriated by every one of his mates who were nearby.
The Cruise of the Albatros: Book Two of the Westerly Gales Saga Page 31
