The Cruise of the Albatros

by E. C. Williams

  Sam realized, with a sinking feeling, that they now had no hope of catching both enemy-held schooners; he would have to choose one and let the other go.

  The Albatros and the motor sloop closed at a combined speed of more than fifteen knots; one moment the sloop was just a dark patch against the sea, with a white mustache of bow wave, and the next, it seemed, she was within hailing distance. Sam had to make a decision now. He looked ahead and astern, gauging the distances, thinking furiously. Then he grabbed his megaphone and ran forward into the bows.

  “Belay my last, Mister Peltier,” Sam shouted through his megaphone. “I've decided not to cheat you of your prey – go back and sink that schooner.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”, came the reply, with an excited laugh, while the sloop's hands cheered.

  “But mind me, Gadget – stay well out of range of the schooner's guns! If you lose my motor sloop, I'll cut off your wedding tackle and fly it from the foremast!”

  “Aye ...”. The rest of the midshipman's reply was lost as the motor sloop did a tight one-eighty without slackening speed, heeling far over and shipping an alarming amount of water, then settled on a course back toward the enemy schooner. The Albatros followed at a more sedate pace. Sam feared that the motor sloop would need re-fueling and a resupply of ammo before it completed its mission, and intended to stand by well out of the range of the schooner's guns to render any assistance he could.

  Sam and Bill watched through their telescopes for an hour as the motor sloop surged at full power in the enemy schooner's wake, throwing a great bow wave, then slackened speed to match that of the pirate as she came within the range of her one-inch rifle. Peltier and his gunner had learned to gauge to the fathom the maximum range of the enemy guns, and were taking no chances.

  The motor sloop began a steady fire at the pirate schooner, nearly every round visibly a hit. The Albatros reduced sail to remain astern of the motor sloop so as not to inadvertently foul her line of fire.

  The enemy schooner's crew had hoisted a storm marconi in place of the main course after losing her main topmast and gaff, and was noticeably slower.

  Twin jets of water spouted from the pirate's lee side – either she was taking on water, or jettisoning her own fresh water, or both. Her commander apparently gave up any hope of outrunning the motor sloop, and eased her sheets, gradually slowing down in the obvious hope of letting the sloop unknowingly creep within range of her own guns. But Peltier was too cagey to fall for that trick, and slackened speed accordingly, keeping up a constant devastating fire.

  The pirate then tried overcharging her guns, to increase their range, as evidenced by sharper reports. The first two rounds with increased charges gave the motor sloop a scare – twin splashes within half a cable or less – and she fell back still farther, to near the extreme effective range of her one-inch gun. The pirates gambled with yet larger charges, with the predictable result: a gun burst, almost certainly killing or wounding everyone on the schooner's after deck.

  With her helmsman down, the schooner's bow swung slowly up into the wind. Her sheets were then cast off, and the vessel lay motionless in the sea, pitching in the moderate swell, sails shivering, apparently surrendering herself to her fate.

  Sam remembered that ruse from the battle off Andilana: the pirate hoped to lure the Kerguelenian vessels close aboard and then explode her magazine, destroying herself but taking the motor sloop, and perhaps the Albatros as well, with her to the bottom. He was terrified for a moment that Peltier would fall for the trick, and opened his mouth to shout an order to recall the motor sloop, but before he could say the words he saw the sloop turn immediately and motor at full speed directly away from the pirate schooner. Peltier's memories of Andilana were apparently still vivid. After a few minutes it became clear that unless the pirate had tons of explosives aboard, both the motor sloop and the Albatros were now safe from any detonation.

  But the pirates preferred suicide to surrender anyway; the ex-Lac Marville suddenly vanished in a bright flash, followed a second later by a deafening bass roar. A great cloud of smoke, dust, and spray obscured the place on the sea where the schooner had been, then rose in a dense black tower that leaned away to leeward. A tall waterspout was revealed just as it crashed back into the sea. When the smoke and spray had cleared sufficiently, the crews of the motor sloop and the Albatros could see the remains of the pirate: floating debris, floating corpses, floating body parts.

  The motor sloop turned again and headed back toward the site of the explosion, clearly intent on picking up any survivors. Sam saw her gradually lose way until she was dead in the water. After a few moments, during which Sam could just make out Yeo and his mate examining the engine, a seaman on board the motor sloop semaphored to the Albatros.

  “ 'Out of fuel' ”, the midshipman of the watch at Sam's elbow translated before Sam could quite work it out; he still had difficulty with the semaphore flag code the Navy had invented, or rather revived, for communications with the motor sloop.

  The sloop's fuel supply had lasted just long enough.

  “Bring the motor sloop alongside for re-fueling, Mister Munro,” Sam said, and Munro directed the helmsman to steer for the sloop. He then ordered the word passed for LPO McIntyre, the senior noncom in the black gang, and the Albatros's engineer in Mr. Yeo's absence.

  “LPO, we'll re-fuel the motor sloop once we've brought her alongside.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” McIntyre replied, and ran forward shouting orders to his engine ratings to rouse out the fuel hoses and rig the electric transfer pump. Sam noted with approval that he also ordered the hand pump roused out, just in case. If, as he feared, the schooner's battery banks were just about sucked dry, the fuel transfer would have to be by “Norwegian steam”. This sailor's expression, so ancient that few knew what the adjective “Norwegian” meant, referred to anything powered by human muscle.

  “Have the sloop's crew and the rifle squad brought aboard while the sloop is being fueled, Mister Munro,” Sam ordered. “They'll be in need of refreshment after so long a time in a small open boat.”

  And, indeed, the motor sloop's crew and landing party were sunburned, dehydrated, hungry, and tired. They pulled themselves wearily up the pilot ladder as if with the last of their strength – but they were nevertheless exhilarated by their victory.

  Midshipman Peltier came aft to report to Sam with a jaunty grin. “Happy to report that I've returned the motor sloop all intact, sir.”

  “As was simply your duty, Gadget,” replied Sam, somewhat puncturing Peltier's youthful ego. Sam then relented and re-inflated it somewhat by adding, “But well done – a seamanlike job, Mister Peltier. Now go and have something to eat and drink, and get your head down for a while. We may need you and the sloop again soon.”

  Sam then summoned the Boatswain and Leading Seaman Eloy, the senior gunnery rating still aboard and unwounded.

  “Boats, have the motor sloop restocked with fresh water and food – extra food, as much as you can fit in the lockers. Second squad is bound to be hungry when we lift them off the beach, after this much time ashore.

  “Guns, clean and oil the motor-sloop's one-inch rifle thoroughly and resupply the motor sloop with ammunition. Be sure to include case and explosive.” He then dismissed the Boatswain, and said to Eloy, “PO, how are you coming with repair of the damaged one-incher?” Eloy looked deeply embarrassed.

  “Captain, we're rebuilding the mount now. We had one complete set of spares left for it. But I'm afraid we'll need a machine shop for the rifle itself. The bolt was destroyed, bent up beyond repair – which ain't so bad, since we have a spare bolt – but the breech is damaged, too. Mebbe Mister Du Plessis could do it, with the tools we have aboard, but...”. Eloy's voice trailed off and he looked down shame-facedly.

  “Never mind, PO. Just do your best. Inventory all of the Gunner's tools and spares and you and your mates put your heads together – try to figure out some fix, if you can. If we could fire it only with a reduced charge,
that would be better than nothing.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” replied Eloy, and left in dejection. He had little hope that he could comply with his captain's wishes.

  The XO approached, and asked, “Are you going to lift Kendall and the landing party now, Skipper?”

  “Ja. But not until first light tomorrow. We don't have time today before the light goes, and I don't want to send Peltier up that creek in the dark.”

  Both looked automatically westward at the sun, now very low over Africa, an oversized crimson ball.

  “Mind if I make a suggestion, Skipper?”

  “Of course not, Bill.”

  “Replace Peltier as O-in-C of the motor sloop for the mission to lift the landing party. One of the junior lieutenants would be a better choice, I think. My heart was in my throat the whole time that kid had charge of the boat. We made the senior lieutenant the skipper of the sloop for a reason: it's one of our most valuable assets. But then, with Kendall ashore in charge of the landing party, a midshipman wound up in command. Granted, he did fine – but if he had lost the motor sloop, half our firepower and most of our total advantage over the pirates would have gone with it.”

  “All of our firepower would have gone with it, now that the second one-inch rifle is out of action – only temporarily, I hope!” Sam replied. “But you have a point – I was worried about Peltier, too. However, as it stands, Peltier is the only officer on board with experience handling the boat in action.”

  “All of the lieutenants got a turn at familiarizing themselves with the sloop during our workup in Morbihan Bay. Handling a thirty-three-foot boat is hardly a challenge for a master mariner – as are all our lieutenants. With Yeo, a damn good engineer, to handle the engine, any of them could do a seamanlike job, I'm sure.”

  “Okay. Who do you recommend?”

  “Schofield. He's an intelligent, level-headed guy and a superior seaman.”

  “Very well, XO. Pass that word to Schofield and Peltier.”

  “Peltier will be disappointed, of course,” Bill said with a grin.

  “Let him pout – the kid's had his moment of glory. Besides, disappointment is good for the souls of gadgets.” Both men laughed.

  The Albatros stood on toward the mouth of Pirate Creek. Sam decided that he could wait no longer to know how the wounded were doing, and headed forward to sick bay. There he found the doctor, her three mates, and several SBAs – “Sick Bay Attendants”, a new rating – working frantically on the wounded. Bloody bandages littered the deck, and the white coats of the medics were themselves blood-spattered.

  Sam hesitated to interrupt their work, and waited patiently until the doctor glanced up and noticed his presence. She approached, and Sam said, “I know you're very busy, Doctor, but could you spare a few minutes for a quick brief on the state of the wounded?”

  “Only a very quick brief, Captain,” she replied, brushing a lock of black hair out of her eyes with the back of her wrist – her hands were bloody. “All of these latest wounded suffered very serious wounds, but I'm hopeful now of saving them all. We've removed most of the embedded splinters, those largest or most life-threatening, and now we're going after the smaller ones. We'll probably be picking out tiny splinters and steel fragments for a long time – some of these men may carry souvenirs of this battle to their graves.”

  “And how is Mister Du Plessis, the Gunnery Officer?”

  “He's not the worst case – apparently he was standing well back from the point where the enemy round impacted, and was facing away from it. All of his splinter wounds are in his back, buttocks, and the back of his thighs. He'll recover completely, but he'll be sleeping on his belly for a long time!”

  “How quickly can you get him fit for duty? I only ask because he is critical to the mission of this vessel – we need his skills desperately.”

  Doctor Girard frowned – she never liked questions like this.

  “It depends on what you mean by 'duty'”, she replied reluctantly. “For light work – supervising and instructing his subordinates, with minimal physical activity – perhaps two weeks. But it's far too soon to make a firm prediction. We'll have to see how he progresses.”

  Sam knew from past experience with the doctor that this was the firmest answer he was likely to get, so he thanked her, apologized for interrupting her work, and took his leave.

  Back on the quarterdeck, he resumed his pacing, glancing from time to time at the low green shore of Madagascar, with the faint misty outline of the Ankaratra Massif range in the far background, off to starboard. As always, he was planning the step after next – what the Albatros would do once the landing party, and any captives, had been recovered. He needed to replenish their stores, and especially fresh water – that reminded him that he wanted to ask the doctor about taking on some water up Pirate Creek; if it was likely to be drinkable, and, if not, could she make it so. They would probably have to call at Reunion in any event. He also very much wanted the services of a skilled gunsmith earlier than Mr. Du Plessis' predicted recovery, if obtainable.

  This chain of thought was interrupted by the midshipman of the watch. “Lieutenant Schofield would like a word with you, sir, if convenient.” Sam glanced up and saw Schofield waiting respectfully just off the quarterdeck.

  “Certainly, Gadget. Ask him to step aft.”

  David Schofield was a sandy-haired, blue-eyed young man, somewhat taller than average, and projecting a reassuring air of competence. Experience had shown that he was in fact an excellent seaman and a reliable officer. Sam remembered his background: he had, like all the other officers, entered the Navy from the merchant service with an earned master's ticket. He had been chief mate and relieving master of a vessel in the schooner trades.

  “Evening, Dave. I assume you've talked to the XO about the motor sloop...?”

  “Yes, sir. He said I was to take the sloop into Pirate Creek at dawn tomorrow, to bring off the landing party, and that I was to see you for further orders.”

  The two men discussed the mission briefly, and Sam found that Schofield had anticipated most of Sam's intended advice; he had personally overseen the restocking of the motor sloop with food, water, and ammunition, and had talked to Peltier about the navigational difficulties of the creek. He had, in fact, set the midshipman to drawing a rough chart of the waterway from its mouth up to the site of pirate camp.

  In the course of this conversation, Schofield revealed that he possessed a pistol, and intended to take it ashore with him. Sam was surprised; pistols were scarce on Kerguelen, where crime was both rare and hardly ever violent, and a rifle or a shotgun far more useful if a firearm was needed at all.

  “Wherever did you get a pistol, Dave?”

  “It was my grandpa's – he was a flic on the Port Joan force. When he retired, he was somehow allowed to keep his service revolver – he kept it, anyway, allowed or not. My dad inherited it, and when I joined the Navy he made me a gift of it – said I was more likely to find a use for it than him.”

  “A wise man, your pa.” Sam had forgotten that Kerguelenian cops, who normally went about their duties armed only with a nightstick, were nevertheless given rudimentary training in firearms, which were locked up in station armories to be issued if needed. He wished that he had thought of that earlier – pistols would be very useful to his crew, as sidearms for officers and senior petty officers, when engaged in close combat.

  “Any further orders for me, sir?” asked Schofield.

  “No, I think you've got the picture, Lieutenant. We'll launch the motor sloop at first light tomorrow – better get some sleep.”

  “Aye aye, sir. And....”. Schofield hesitated.

  “ 'And' “ what?”

  “And thanks for this opportunity, sir.”

  “No problem, Dave.”

  As the lieutenant withdrew, Sam thought about their last exchange. Schofield was by no means the only officer on the Albatros eager for more responsibility and anxious to prove himself fit for it. Every lieutenant w
as a licensed master mariner, every midshipman had a chief mate's ticket, and every one of them dreamed of having his own warship command some day. If their ambitions were frustrated, if no opportunities for promotion presented themselves, the Navy would lose its best officers back to the merchant marine, and be left only with the mediocre ones, those comfortable in the middle of a hierarchy and not eager for greater responsibility.

  The experiences of the Albatros in fighting the pirates clearly demonstrated the need for more warships to do the job, beyond a doubt. And here was another argument for that: without the opportunities for advancement a growing Navy would present, keeping its most promising young officers would prove impossible.

  His mind turned to Mr. Schofield's grandfather's pistol. He wanted one for each officer and senior petty officer – and he knew how to get them, if not immediately. Commandant Foch, a senior officer in the French Port Police Service, was also Lieutenant Commander Foch, RKNVR, chief of the fledgling navy's tiny intelligence branch. Sam was confident that Foch could wheedle a couple of dozen pistols out of his Commissaire. If he got off a message to Foch tonight, while radio propagation conditions were good, he could conceivably ship them out on the next schooner bound for Nosy Be.

  He remembered vividly the one time he had broken his own rule, and tried to take a pirate dhow by boarding, in spite of his bitter experience in hand-to-hand battle with pirates when he was master of the Kiasu. His men were armed only with clumsy machetes – basically farm tools – no match even for the pirates' slim, wickedly sharp short swords, much less their single-shot pistols, and suffered high casualties as a result. He thought the best combination of arms for close-quarters shipboard combat would be short, handy, double-barreled shotguns and repeating pistols – and once he got enough of each, the damned machetes could be retired to cane-cutting.