Into Uncharted Seas

by E. C. Williams

  “But, with regard to Mafia Island, he's thinking it might make a good advanced base for continued operations. And we don't yet know nearly enough to plan an occupation of this island. Nor even enough to determine whether it would be feasible as a base. We have to figure out a way to take a look at the west coast.”

  The chart of Mafia was spread out on the table in front of them. “Look, sir,” Cameron said diffidently. “There's a lot of shoal water, indeed – but there's plenty of water for us, all the way to Kilindoni, if we're careful. We only draw a bit over six feet – what if we stayed in charted depths of, say, fifteen feet or more? It wouldn't have shoaled up more than that over the years, surely,sir?”

  “I'd agree, maybe, if the hydrography of the channel were different, Todd. But take a look at the mainland opposite the island: the Rufiji River delta. And this river's not just a tidal creek but a substantial stream. Over the centuries, that river has dumped millions of gallons of fresh water into the channel, carrying tons of silt from upstream, with totally unpredictable effects on the bottom. We can't rely on those soundings at all. The contour of the bottom is almost certain to be radically different from that shown.”

  The three were silent for awhile, staring at the chart.

  “There's the dory,” Landry finally said. “It'd be a long pull, but we have a sail rig for it.”

  “It's a sloop rig, though – it would look damned unusual around here, if she were spotted,” Dave said, but he felt a rising hope that they were on the track of a solution to the problem.

  “Couldn't we re-rig her with a lateen sail, Captain?” Cameron said. “Trudeau, an AB in the starboard watch, was sailmaker's crew on the Joan – he could re-cut the sail, easy.”

  “Not a bad idea, Todd,” Landry said admiringly. “The boom could be the top spar, and we've got the jib if we need to piece out the main to get the sail area we need.”

  “Well done, Mr. Cameron,” Dave said. “Make it so. Start work on it as soon as all hands are called in the morning.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Cameron replied happily, pleased with both the compliment and the responsibility of the re-rigging of the dory.

  “Now, before we adjourn, there's something we need to take care of before we get back to Nosy Be, and now's as good a time as any,” Dave said, as he gave each of them a stack of pre-printed forms. “Get each one of the men in your division to read – carefully – this form, every word of it, and sign it. It might not be a bad idea to read it aloud to them, actually, just in case the reading comprehension of some is a little weak. You witness their signatures. Sign yours right now, and I'll be your witness.”

  The form swore the signer to absolute silence about the mission of the Scorpion, under threat of dire penalties for which “draconian” was too weak a term.

  “Stress to the hands that there may be pirate spies on Nosy Be. Stick to the cover story. We were sent to patrol the waters just north of Madagascar to provide early warning of any Caliphate cruisers heading south to raid our shipping. Our cruise was uneventful – we sighted no pirates. Don't be tempted to make up sea-battles to impress the girls. We cruised until we ran low on fresh food and water, and returned for resupply, and that's it. Nothing else happened. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The next morning, the Scorpion recovered her sea anchor, raised her sail, and beat back toward Mafia. Cameron and Trudeau, with the help of a couple of other seamen, got to work re-rigging the dory. This was accomplished in a surprisingly short period of time – before “hands to dinner” was piped, in fact – and Cameron so reported to Dave.

  “But we need a short maiden cruise, sir – to balance the rig and make sure we got it right. May we heave to and launch her for, say, an hour's sail, Captain?”

  “Very well, Todd,” Dave replied. He had decided that “gadget” wasn't an appropriate form of address for an acting lieutenant.

  At Dave's orders, the dhow luffed up and lost most of her way. The entire crew muscled the little dory off her cradle and she went over the side with a splash, held only by the sea painter. Cameron, Trudeau, and a couple of other seamen then clambered down into the little craft. They first rigged the lee-boards – without them, on any point of sailing closer than a broad reach, the dory would have made nearly as much leeway as headway – then raised the stumpy mast. Last, they hoisted the newly-made lateen sail, fell off the wind, and were under way, the little boat skimming lightly over the surface of the sea.

  The dory sailed round and round the Scorpion, trying different tacks, sail trims, and mast rakes. Dave watched with pleasure and not a little envy; to his mind, few delights compared with that of sailing a small boat in a fresh breeze on a tropical sea.

  Finally, when Dave had decided that Cameron and Trudeau had learned everything they needed to know about the dory's rig and were now just having fun, he recalled them to the Scorpion.

  “Well, boys, you seem to have mastered sailing a dory-dhow pretty quickly,” Dave said jocularly.

  “It's a great rig for a small boat, Skipper,” Cameron replied. “Handy – simpler than a sloop rig 'cause there's only one sail and one sheet to worry about. And she sails nearly as close to the wind as a sloop, too.”

  “Anyway, looks like she'll do for a sneak-and-peak of the western shore of the island. Officers' call. Trudeau, take the watch and keep her hove to right here while we confer, will you?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The three officers went below to Dave's day cabin, the usual venue for their war councils.

  “Okay, seems straightforward enough: the dory with a few men will cruise up the west coast as far as Kilindoni and return. They'll do a careful telescope survey of the coast. May as well take a lead line and a hand-bearing compass, too – no point in wasting the opportunity to gather a little hydrographic data.”

  “This'll have to be done in daylight, o'course, Skipper.”

  “Certainly, Chief. So I guess the dory will have to look like a little fishing boat. Maybe the seaman casting the lead will look like a man angling with a hand-line.”

  “So will the hands in the dory be disguised as Arabs, sir? Or Africans?” asked Cameron.

  The three of them thought about that for a moment. Then Dave said, “I don't really see how we can pass for Africans at even a moderate distance – especially since they don't appear to wear much in the way of clothes. So Arabs it is.”

  “But won't that look a wee bit suspicious, given that the pirates seem to be the master race around here? I mean, would Mafia Island Arabs lower themselves to such mundane work as fishing?” Landry mused.

  “Hell, I don't know. Maybe the onegte go fishing for the fun of it. Anyway, if either of you know how we can convincingly disguise ourselves as black Africans, say so.”

  Landry shrugged, and Cameron looked away; both remained silent.

  “That's it, then. We'll launch the dory at first light tomorrow. She'll sail close inshore as far north as Kilindoni, then back. Questions or comments?”

  “Just one, Captain Schofield,” Cameron said, voice quavering slightly. “May I be in charge of the dory tomorrow? After all, I'm most familiar with its handling. And I'm smaller than Chief Landry – more likely to pass for a pirate.” The Kergs were generally taller and more robustly built than Arabs, and Landry was a particularly big man.

  Dave and the Chief exchanged glances. Dave weighed the pros and cons in his mind. It was a critical mission that ought to be entrusted to his most experienced officer. On the other hand, junior officers learned to handle responsibility by taking it on. And Cameron had already proved himself to be an intelligent and competent watch-stander and division officer. The quality of his seamanship was amply demonstrated by his rapid conversion of the dory's rig.

  “Okay, Todd”, Dave finally said. “Pick your crew. Seaman-gunners, and have them take their rifles in case of trouble, but well hidden.”

  Cameron could not conceal his delight. “Thank yo
u, sir. I won't let you down.”

  “I'm sure you won't, Mister Cameron,” Dave said, in a tone that suggested the addendum: you'd better not. “And now, meeting's adjourned.”

  The next day, in the pre-dawn darkness, the dory, which had been towing behind the dhow all night as she reached back and forth south of Mafia, was drawn up alongside. Cameron and the three seaman-gunners he had selected manned the boat and bailed out the inch or so of seawater that had accumulated in her overnight. Then three rifles and a revolver, well-wrapped in oilcloth against the salt spray, along with ammo for all three weapons, were passed down, followed by rations and fresh water for three days.

  Dave estimated that the mission of the dory would take one long day, and hoped she would be able to rendezvous with the Scorpion by sunset. But just in case, the dory carried a light she would show if the dhow had to find her in the dark. The extra food and water constituted a belt-and-suspenders precaution Dave fervently hoped would be unnecessary.

  At first light, the dory hoisted sail and set out toward the dark blur of Mafia Island on the northern horizon. Dave crossed the fingers of both hands and then touched the rail, for luck. He thought that this evidence of base superstition so unbecoming in a learned man – he had after all benefited from eight full years of formal education, counting navigation school – would go un-noticed. But Landry, at his side, chuckled and said, “Me, too, Skipper. I think the youngster will need all the luck we can generate for him.”

  “Wish I had sent you instead, Chief?”

  “No, sir. Kid's gotta learn, and experience is the best teacher.” There was a long pause, and then he added, “I think Cameron's got the makings of a fine officer. If he survives.”

  This was high praise from Landry, whose opinion of junior officers – especially midshipmen – had never been high.

  The long day stretched out, the sailing to and fro in light and variable winds, keeping Mafia Island visible to the northward, double lookouts posted. If the dory's mission proceeded as planned, they needn't expect her much earlier than sunset. But if her disguise was penetrated, they might see her at any time, fleeing south. Too, Dave wanted the earliest possible warning of any traffic that might take an inconvenient interest in the Scorpion.

  The hours passed, tense but uneventful, until early in the afternoon watch, when the dhow was on the eastward leg of her constant back-and-forth. The masthead lookout called down, “Deck, there: sail dead ahead.” Dave raised his telescope and took a look. He could make out only a faint, blurry nick on the eastern horizon.

  He tucked his telescope into his sash and shinnied up the boom to a point just below the lookout, who was perched at the juncture of mast and spar. “What do you make of it, Tomlin?”

  “Two-masted dhow, Cap'n,” the lookout replied. “And I think she's got a mate, a couple of cables astern.”

  Dave studied the horizon through his telescope, and saw that the lookout was correct; they were a pair of two-masted dhows, clearly sailing in company. He didn't think the Scorpion had anything to worry about from them: if they sighted her they would surely think she was local Mafia Island traffic, and at this distance there was a good chance they wouldn't notice her at all.

  But they were clearly war-dhows, and just as clearly bound for a cruise off Madagascar and the Mascarenes to prey on Kerguelenian shipping. He desperately wanted to broadcast a warning – but he was under strict orders to maintain radio silence unless he was actually in danger of capture or destruction.

  On the other hand, this was a situation in which other Kerg vessels were in danger of capture or destruction. So was he justified in defying his orders?

  He considered his dilemma for a long moment, and decided that he would broadcast a warning and worry about the personal consequences later. He felt pretty sure that the decision was a defensible one, and, after all, the Commodore was a reasonable man … wasn't he?

  An ache in his inner thighs reminded him that this debate with himself was taking place while he was perched precariously on the boom, knees gripping the wood. He shinnied back down to the deck and stepped into his shoes, which he had kicked off for ease in climbing, and walked aft.

  Chief Landry was staring through his own telescope. “I make it a pair of two-masted dhows, Skipper,” he said. “Probably war-dhows.”

  “I agree, Chief. We've got to warn the Commodore. He may sortie to catch 'em, if the 'Big Sisters' are ready. He can at least warn shipping in the region.” Since the addition of two smaller vessels to the Navy, everyone had taken to referring to Albatros and Joan of Arc collectively as the “Big Sisters”.

  “For what it's worth, I concur, Captain. And I'll make a note in the log to that effect. You may need some backup with the Commodore for breaking radio silence.”

  “Thanks, Chief, but it's my decision and I'll take the heat, if any.”

  Dave passed the word for Sparks, and the pale radioman petty officer, blinking in the unaccustomed light of day, appeared from his dark lair below. He had, as usual when summoned by his captain, brought the message board with him, and Dave dictated a brief message, giving the position and approximate course of the raiders, addressing it to “CINCNAV”, the Commodore's radio call sign.

  Landry spoke up at this point. “Skipper, I respectfully suggest that you make it to “all ships and stations”, and broadcast it en clair. That way, every radio-equipped Kerg merchantman in the region will get the warning.”

  “No, Chief – if we send it in the clear, and the pirates intercept it, they'll know for a fact that we had a vessel in this vicinity, and our mission will be compromised. We have to encode the message.”

  Landry, abashed, slapped his forehead and said, “Duh! Sorry Skipper – brain fart. You're right, o' course.”

  “Well, Sparks? Go on and send it,” Dave said impatiently to the radioman, who was shifting from foot to foot and glancing fearfully to the east, in the direction of the pirate war-dhows.

  “With your permission, Captain – may I make a comment?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Well, it's just that if I broadcast at full power now, which I'll have to do to be sure of raising Nosy Be while the sun's up, and one of them dhows has a radio, it'll be just like yelling in his ear, sir, so to speak. They'll know it had to come from nearby.”

  “Merde! I didn't think of that! So how long do we have to wait to transmit? To minimize our chances of being detected, I mean.”

  “If we wait until late tonight, when propagation conditions are closer to ideal, it'll take no more'n three repetitions to be sure the Flag gets it. And only a station equipped for radio direction finding will have a clue where our broadcast originated.”

  “And, God willing, the pirates haven't figured out RDF. Not yet.” The pirates had captured radio-equipped Kerguelenian vessels and, no doubt with the help of Kerg renegades, began to use radio communications. It was not yet known,whether they were capable of manufacturing their own sets. And taking accurate radio bearings was as much art as science, requiring lots of practice and the use of correction tables Dave hoped they didn't have.

  “Okay, Sparkie. Do that – transmit when you think best, tonight, but no later than you have to. I want the Commodore to have this info as soon as possible. “

  They watched the dhows out of sight, and only breathed easily when they had disappeared. The wait for the return of the dory resumed.

  The sun was setting, and Dave was resigned to, at best, having to search for the dory in the dark – and, at worst, accepting her loss, although he didn't share that fear with Landry – when the masthead lookout called “Small craft on the starboard beam – could be the dory.” The Scorpion was then reaching on the westward leg of her all-day circuit. Dave studied the boat through his telescope and soon recognized the dory's makeshift lateen rig.

  “Port your helm,” he said to the man at the tiller – for the Scorpion had no steering wheel. “Fall off. Ease the sheet, there.” The last to the two hands on the main-sheet
.

  Now on converging courses, the two vessels rapidly drew nearer one another. Dave studied the dory through his telescope, waiting until he could distinguish individual figures and count heads – he wouldn't relax until he knew that not just the dory but her entire crew had returned safely.

  He counted – then, in surprise, counted again. The number stayed the same. There were now five people on the dory.

  Where the hell had the extra man come from?

  As the distance closed, Dave could see that the stranger was black, and wearing only a sort of kilt. He was thin, with no spare flesh, but muscular. The weather-beaten appearance of a sailor or fisherman made him appear middle-aged at first, but on closer look he was seen to be actually still a young man, perhaps not yet out of his twenties.

  Dave fumed until the dory was alongside. By the time Cameron had climbed aboard, he had reached ignition temperature.

  “Mister Cameron! You were very specifically forbidden any contact with the shore! I gave you no orders to take a prisoner! Explain yourself – and by God it'd better be good!”

  Cameron gulped and turned pale, but bravely faced his Captain's anger. “This man volunteered to come with us, sir! In fact, he practically insisted. And sir – he knew who we were!”

  “Go on, Mister Cameron,” the Captain said, glowering. The fact that he was being addressed as 'mister' instead of by his first name Todd took as an ominous sign. Nevertheless, he pressed on.

  “We were close inshore off the site of Kilindoni, trying for a good look, when we spotted a canoe, out in the channel, heading toward us. Mindful of your orders, sir, to avoid any contact, I quickly sailed away southward, along the shore. Almost immediately, we ran aground on a sandbar. Heaving her off wasn't much of a problem, but the delay allowed the canoe to catch up with us – they're amazing quick paddlers, sir.

  “As they neared, we could hear them shouting, 'wa Kergi, wa Kergi!' We later figured out that means 'Kerguelenians' in their language.

  “I had my revolver in my hand, just out of sight below the gunwale, and the men had their hands on their rifles. But the two Africans were clearly unarmed, and behaving in a very friendly manner. They came alongside and each insisted on shaking hands. They then made signs that we gathered meant they were hungry, so we shared our rations with them. They obviously hadn't eaten today – they wolfed down their portions, and expressed tremendous gratitude.