“Why aluminum?”
“Something about increasing cargo capacity. I didn’t really understand.”
Sam reflected, and then said, “Of course – lighter weight and smaller scantlings allow both more deadweight and cubic capacity. Makes sense. You’d have to be careful about dissimilar metals in contact, though.”
“Want to go aboard?”
“Bien sûr! Let’s go.”
As they approached, Sam noted that she was already coppered, and fitted with bilge keels. These would protect the hull when grounded, allow her to sit upright while aground, and lend directional stability.
“Is she classified yet?” Sam asked.
“Yes, I checked with Captain Lee: she’s KBS rated A-1 for ocean service.”
The gangway watch was alerted ahead of time that they were coming, so he waved them aboard.
She had a tidy little chart house abaft the helm. A twenty-foot boat sat in its cradle atop the single cargo hatch, between the masts. Just aft of the foremast was an electric winch, which, with the use of fairleads and snatch blocks, could launch the boat, heave up the anchor, handle cargo, or do just about any other heavy lifting about the deck.
Below, he found a small Stirling cycle generator that powered the winch, and a bank of batteries charged by the masthead wind turbines for interior lighting and the running lights.
It delighted Sam to discover that, despite her small size, she was a tween-decker; this deck would be perfect for berthing a navy-sized crew. The interior of the cargo hold was sheathed in thin plywood, separating the frames from cargo that might include ferrous metal.
The small forecastle had double-tiered bunks for just twelve. Sam supposed that this was an adequate number of hands, given the labor-saving winch on deck. But these mere dozen seamen would be exhausted after working her north through the Forties. But since she was designed for the tropical inter-island trade, she was intended to make only a single one-way trip north, and spend the rest of her working life in milder seas.
Working their way back aft, they inspected the tiny galley, adequate for a crew of only fourteen or fifteen, counting officers. For naval service, it would obviously have to be enlarged. The combined oven/range was oil burning, as were the two tiny space heaters, one in the focsle and one in officers’ country. There was a tiny cubbyhole opening off the galley, just big enough for one narrow bunk; this was presumably for a single cook-steward. Only slightly larger were two officer’s staterooms.
“I love her!’ Sam exclaimed once they had finished their tour. “But can the navy afford to buy her? She must have cost a mint to build, especially on a per-ton basis.”
“Eager buyers haven’t exactly overrun the yard,” Foch replied. “Apparently, Kerguelenian shipowners don’t want to risk paying a premium for such a small, special-purpose vessel.”
Sam could see how that could be true; shipowners were a notoriously conservative lot; they shunned all innovations until they were thoroughly proven – at someone else’s cost.
“I think we can get her for a reasonable price,” Foch continued. “And, after tomorrow, I’m hoping we’ll have more money to spend on vessels and equipment.”
“From your mouth to God’s ear! This design – maybe a bit bigger – is absoluut volmaak for shipping protection. With auxiliary propulsion and a 37mm gun, she’d give the Pirates fits, for sure.”
“Well, if we can buy her, maybe we can fit her out as a war schooner now …”
“No, that’d take months, and I’ve got to get back to the theater of operations as soon as possible. Let’s see if we can buy her, then I’ll take her north and have her refitted as a gun vessel up there.” Then he added, not wanting to jinx the forthcoming council debate, “Always assuming the money’s available.”
“Ready to head back? If so, I’ll ask the yard office to call us a cab …”
“No, let’s walk – walking helps me think.”
Foch sighed to himself. Since his youth as a rookie flic walking a beat – and he must have trudged a thousand kilometers in those days -- he had preferred to ride wherever he went. With the Commodore in port, he was walking more than he had in years – and as they walked, Sam added greatly to Foch’s already lengthy list of matters to manage. Even though he was an intel officer, and chief of the Navy’s tiny Intelligence Corps, Foch seemed to have become Sam’s go-to gonze for everything that needed doing for the Navy in French Port.
“See if we can buy her, for a price the Council won’t gag on. Then tell Fuller to try to get hold of detailed building plans for her. Tell him my ideal schooner would be identical, but about 50% larger. I don’t want aluminum framing for future newbuilding – it has to be costlier than steel, and I’m not sure it’s suitable for a warship.”
They walked on for a few minutes in silence, while Sam cogitated and Foch struggled to list his wants in a pocket notebook while walking briskly. Foch had made up his mind to assign a bright young RKNVR mid or lieutenant to be the Commodore’s aide while he was ashore in French Port to relieve him of this chore of making lists while walking fast. Sam never walked slowly.
Sam resumed his monologue. “I’ve thought of recruiting a crew for this vessel as naval officers and ratings, but it would take too long to train them in the navy’s ways of doing things. Instead, I think I’ll sign on officers and crew using merchant shipping articles, for the one-way voyage to Nosy Be only, with me as the merchant master, not as a naval officer. By the time we’re there, I’ll be able to judge who would make a good navy officer or rating, and try to recruit ‘em. The rest I’ll pay off in Hell-ville, and we’ll help them find another merchant berth.
“I need you to send down to the Hall and the Guild for mates and crew. I want three mates, at least, and a couple of dozen sound hands; half of them experienced men rated able.”
Foch understood the Hall to be the Seamen’s Hostel and Hiring Hall, funded jointly by the association of shipowners and the Christian Mission to Mariners. The Guild was the master mariners’ and mates’ professional association, and it doubled as an employment agency for merchant officers.
“How will you accommodate so large a crew?”
“The hands can sling hammocks in the tween deck, and the junior officers in the focsle, with the Bosun and Sailmaker – that reminds me, add those two billets to be recruited, plus a Carpenter. And don’t forget two cooks: a chief cook and an assistant cook/steward.
“Oh, and by the way, check with the yard about the sails. There were none rigged, and I saw none stowed below. I’ll want a drifter made up too – make a note that I’ll describe how to make one to the yard’s sailmaker.”
Foch was scribbling frantically, trying to keep up with Sam and remembering to look up often so as not to trip and fall on the rough stone paving.
“We’ll need firearms, as well – I want one for every man jack aboard her: four seal rifles for the four best marksmen, double-barreled shotguns for the rest of the crew, and pistols for the officers.
“I’ll need to allow for a short shakedown cruise around Morbihan Bay, to get the crew working as a team, and familiarize them with firearms – no need to note that, Antoine, I’m just thinking out loud now.”
They walked a little further, and Foch scribbled some more in his notebook.
Sam then asked, “What’s this schooner’s name? No, I already asked you that. We have to think of a name or the putain politicians will want to name her after one of them.”
“She’s just known by her hull number, now. But the guy at the yard I talked with said the owner, before he went bust, always referred to her as the Tommy Sue.”
Sam winced at the corniness of that name, and asked, “For God’s sake, why did he want to call the pitiful thing that?”
“Apparently, he combined the names of two of his children.”
“Well, that’ll do for now. Tommy Sue, she is, if we can buy her – but only until I sail her to Nosy Be and put her on the Navy List.”
It was gettin
g late. When they reached a corner, Sam and Foch parted ways, Sam to Pete’s Bar and Foch (waiting until Sam was out of sight) to hail a cab to take him back to Navy House. He knew he’d be working late that night, despite his promise to his wife and children that from now on, he’d be working banker’s hours. He sighed at the thought of the phone conversation when he called home to tell her that now, for all his good intentions, he would once again not make it home in time for supper.
They met first thing the next morning at Navy House, Sam rested and alert, Foch red-eyed from working very late indeed the evening before.
Sam went through the cabaret routine on the quarterdeck, and on entering Foch’s office demanded coffee.
“I can do better than just coffee, Commodore – I ordered breakfast for us from the Gardien. It’ll be here any minute, and there’s fresh coffee in the galley. I’ll fetch you a mug.”
“Oh, no, no, Tony – you’re not my steward. I’ll fetch my own, and yours too. How do you take it?”
“We’ll go together, Commodore – the galley will be more suitable for breakfast, anyway.”
“What’s for breakfast, then?”
“Fish stew. You’ll love how they do it at the Gardien.”
“Great!” Fish stew was a common breakfast on Kerguelen, and Sam’s favorite. It arrived before they finished their coffee. It came steaming hot in a covered pail that held four generous servings. They ate it all. Foch sent the pail back to the tavern, and stacked their dishes in the sink. They each poured a second mug of coffee, which Sam thought wasn’t up to Ritchie’s standard, but was quite drinkable.
“What’s the agenda this morning?” Sam asked.
“Mother wants us at Government House not later than 0900. She wants to brief you before the general council meets. She also said something about reviewing your notes for your speech.”
“The speech is in my head, and doesn’t need ‘reviewing’, thank you very much, Mother!”
“Noted, Commodore, but if you don’t mind, I’d like you to be the one who tells her that.”
Sam laughed. “I’m not afraid of Mother Moreau. My charm and good looks never fail to win her over to my point of view.”
Foch smiled. “No doubt, sir.” Then he turned serious.
“The reason she’s so concerned about what you’re going to say is that she’s arranged a three-act drama for the council – and you’re act three, the closer.”
“Who are the other two?”
“First up is a young Research Fellow of the Institute whose academic specialty is the economy of Kerguelen. He’ll talk about the ongoing cost of the Pirate war on our tropical trade and the consequences if the Pirates cut that trade off completely.
“The second act is presentation of the budget Merchant Marine and Fisheries has worked up – one that is very, very generous to the Navy. Mother will do a hard sell to get it passed unamended, but she admitted to me that she left in some fat for the council to trim, so they won't feel steam-rollered.
“Then you’re the climax, the finale. She’s counting on you to win them over to the view that the Navy is essential to our prosperity, and now woefully underfunded. She’s hoping you’ll give them a vivid talk on what could be accomplished with more money and resources.”
Sam considered this for a moment, and then said, “I’m not a brilliant speaker, nor a salesman, Tony – just a sea-captain. Why doesn’t she make that pitch herself? I’ve given her plenty of ammo.”
“She doesn’t expect brilliance, just the hard, spiky truth, delivered by someone who has maximum credibility on the subject. You, in other words.”
Sam became alarmed. “I’ve never given a speech in my life, Tony! And on my maiden effort hangs the future of the Navy! But no pressure, eh!”
“You must have delivered lots of speeches to your assembled officers and crew – before a battle, for instance. This is no different.”
“But I never made a speech. I just told them what was at stake, and that I had confidence in them, and so forth.”
“That’s all we want from you this morning – convince them of the stakes, tell them ending the war is in their hands. Tell them to give you the tools you need to do the job.”
“But I can’t promise them total victory – you know that. The best we can hope for is a treaty with terms that allow us to co-exist with the Sultanate, and ends the piracy.”
“That’s a favorable outcome for us, isn’t it? Just tell them you can bring the war to a close on favorable terms if you have the forces and arms – don’t say anything negative, don’t sow doubt, don’t use terms like ‘total victory’.
“Just be yourself, and tell them the plain facts, as you see them.”
Sam was silent for a while, staring down at his coffee mug. He felt that he would be happier going into battle against overwhelming superior force than doing this.
“OK, Tony,” he finally said. “I’ll do my best. And God gee my krag.”
“Amen. And now we’d better get going, Commodore – if, as I assume, you intend to walk.”
“Oh, yes, Tony. I think best when I’m walking.”
Sam did not say a word during the twenty-minute walk, to Foch’s relief; no struggling to make notes and walk at the same time this morning.
Sam was going over in his mind all the times he could have struck a telling blow, and didn’t because of inferior force. He thought of the casualties the Navy had suffered in battle, which would have been fewer had he enjoyed superiority in firepower. He thought of merchant vessels not sunk, seamen not enslaved, had he been able to devote more vessels to the shipping-protection role.
By the time they reached Government House, Sam felt a bit more confident. All he could do was tell the truth, after all. If that didn’t work … well, what else would? They went straight to Mother’s office.
As Foch predicted, the first thing she said after bon jour was “May I see the notes for your speech, Sam?”
Sam tapped his forehead. “It’s all up here, Mother. No notes.”
“Oh dear, Sam – at this crucial moment you’re just going to wing it?”
“Not at all. I have the facts all marshaled in my mind, and I’m simply going to acquaint them with these facts, in plain seaman’s language.”
“Sam, I took the liberty of noting down some talking points you may consider, if you’d like to see them…” He was shaking his head firmly before she finished the sentence.
“No, Mother. I know what I’m going to say. I don’t need ‘talking points’.”
She shook her head and sighed deeply. “Well, let’s just pray it’s enough.”
She then offered them coffee, which they accepted gratefully – the walk had been a cold one -- and then told them about the three-act strategy already explained by Foch.
“You see, Sam dear, your remarks are the finish, the clincher…”
“I understand that, and I’ll do my best.” His tone of finality warned her against pursuing the subject. A silence followed this statement. Foch had rarely before seen Madame Moreau at a loss for words.
Foch broke the silence, which was becoming awkward, by asking, “Mother, what do you think of our chances with the council?”
She shrugged in reply, and made the Gallic moue that meant, “Who knows?”
She then said, “We’ve done our preparations as well as we can; we can reasonably hope for an increase in the appropriation. A significant increase? I just can’t read the mood of the undecided bloc.”
There seemed nothing left to do but to await the time for the council to reconvene. Mother left her office to “…twist a few more arms”, but bade them stay and make themselves comfortable. They did so, drank more coffee, visited the head because of the coffee, and made idle small talk until the tension of waiting reduced them to silence.
At last, after a seeming eternity, the gong sounded for the council members to meet in general session.
The council meeting room was a large chamber, with a high ceiling. The co
uncil, a body that had grown to number more than a hundred as Kerguelen’s population increased, sat in a semicircle of tiered chairs facing the speaker’s podium. Originally the last row was for non-members – press, interested citizens, witnesses – but growth of the council itself had entirely filled that row, and non-members were now crowded around the walls in temporary seating.
The Speaker, Madame Wong, a former member, was selected by the Council for her judicial temperament and detailed knowledge of parliamentary procedure. She was the only member of Council paid a salary for her time. By Council rules, she cast a vote only when needed to break a tie. This rarely happened, because the Council was reluctant to leave the outcome of a controversial measure entirely in the hands of one person. Usually, sponsors of bills avoided the situation by informal polling of the members in advance of a formal vote. However, in the case of the naval appropriations bill, this informal polling had failed to produce a consensus either way, because of the number of undecideds. Therefore, a tie was entirely possible. By custom, the Speaker never expressed an opinion on any measure before the council in advance of a vote, so no one knew how she felt about the Navy.
The Speaker called the council to order, and Madame Moreau rose to call the attention of the members to the naval appropriations bill, voted out of committee and scheduled for debate and a vote. She stressed that the bill had the unanimous support of the committee and herself, and said that two citizens and one member would speak in support of it. This was a limitation imposed by council rules to avoid endless debate; the opposition would have the same opportunity. Since the bill itself had been in members’ hands for twenty-four hours, she presumed that everyone was familiar with its details.
She then introduced the first citizen to speak in favor of the bill, Fellow of the Institute Piet Retief, a learned expert on the Kerguelen economy. His coloring and name showed that, like Sam, he had some Cape Coloured ancestry. Otherwise, he looked like the sort of weedy, bespectacled youth who was bullied at school.
Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga Page 25
