Into Uncharted Seas (Westerly Gales)
Page 3
Dave decided to first cruise the west coast of the island, opposite the African main, which he reasoned was the most densely settled, running before the usual gentle southeasterly breeze and making all the speed he could wring out of the dhow, so as to have a running start if sighted and chased by an enemy vessel. Then he could beat or close-reach down the east coast. When they had reached the southern tip of Zanzibar, completing their circuit of the island, Dave and Chief Landry would decide if, where, and when to put the landing party ashore.
Provided, of course, that the dhow had escaped suspicious notice during all this time sailing within sight of the enemy shore, and of any coasting traffic encountered.
It looked like being a tense couple of days.
- 2 -
Commodore Serge A. M. Bowditch, RKN, so well known as Sam Bowditch that everyone except his family assumed that his Christian name was “Samuel”, paced the quarterdeck of the RKS Albatros, the flagship of his squadron, presently in harbor. This exercise was neither as pleasant nor as relaxing as when the schooner was at sea, but Sam had grown hot and claustrophobic in his tiny day cabin, toiling over paperwork, and had come topside for some fresh air.
Sam Bowditch was 1.83 meters tall when ashore, an even six feet aboard ship (for reasons forgotten long ago, the Kerguelenians were metric by land but used the older system at sea). His black hair, dark eyes, and olive complexion hinted at the presence of a South African “Cape Colored” refugee among his ancestors. Like nearly all Kergs, he was a product of the intermarriage over the centuries of the various groups of fugitives from the Troubles who had found safety of a sort on Kerguelen.
The Albatros, along with Joan of Arc, was at anchor in the harbor of Hell-ville, the capital and main port of the Kerguelenian settlement of Nosy Be, an island just off Madagascar's northwestern tip. Both vessels were swarming with shipyard workers, repairing the damage sustained during the recent Battle at Anchor. Their much-reduced crews were busy repairing sails and rigging, and re-stowing their holds after loading stores. The surviving gunners were re-arranging the magazines to accommodate the ammunition needed to replenish the incredible amounts expended in the recent battle.
The Albatros' crew, and that of Joan, had been further reduced by the need to man the newly-commissioned Scorpion and Roland. Although the squadron had a small detachment ashore, roaming Nosy Be in an effort to find new hands, Sam had higher hopes for the Roland's recruiting mission. He had come to respect very highly both the seamanship and the fighting spirit of the Reunionnais, and was hoping the Roland would return full of new recruits. Experienced seamen and offshore fishermen were preferred, but Sam would take whatever men he could get, so long as they were healthy and strong. By now, the squadron's officers and petty officers had considerable experience in turning lompkinders – a Kerg synonym for landlubbers – into sailors.
This train of thought called to mind the issue of his rather high-handed expenditure, without approval by the Council, of the funds necessary to acquire Roland and convert both her and Scorpion. He knew that his officers were worried about repercussions from this, but he had carefully thought it through beforehand, and considered that whatever political risks it might cause were worth taking.
He had provided talking points to Councilwoman Moreau and Commander Foch in a long radio message, pointing out that the Scorpion had cost the Republic nothing but the rather modest price of the refit necessary to accommodate a larger crew; that the Roland was easily convertible back to a merchant vessel, her market value if anything enhanced by the higher standard of maintenance she would receive in the Navy; and that the expenditure of these funds on Nosy Be had won the good will of local elites, in furtherance of the diplomatic aspect of his mission.
In the same message, at some risk of inflaming further the anti-Navy faction in Council, Sam also asked again for the second 37 mm gun, this one for the Joan and already approved but not yet funded, as well as four more 25 mm rifles, and enough repeating rifles, shotguns, and pistols to arm the expanded force. Once these were on their way, he would set a rendezvous in the high thirties south latitude with the vessel in which they were shipped, in order to avoid any danger of their capture by the pirates.
Until these weapons arrived, the squadron was considerably under-gunned. The Albatros's and Joan's one-inch rifles had gone to arm Scorpion and Roland, along with a significant proportion of the two larger vessels' small arms. Albatros still had her rifled 37 mm gun, but Joan's sole armament was half her original small-arms issue. Since the two schooners were woefully undermanned as well, only the most tempting opportunity to strike a blow at the pirates – or the most desperate threat – would persuade Sam to take the remainder of his squadron to sea until these defects were remedied.
These reflections were interrupted by Mr. Robert, the Albatros's comms officer, who requested permission of the watch officer to approach the Commodore. He had the message board in his hand, and Sam could tell it was important because Robert brought the message himself, rather than sending it by one of his mates, as was his habit with routine traffic. And it was apparently not good news, judging by the grave expression worn by the usually cheerful warrant officer.
Robert offered Sam the message without comment, and then presented his clipboard for the Commodore to sign the radio log acknowledging receipt. Although he said nothing, Robert's face warned Sam to brace himself for bad news. He expected to read that either the Scorpion or the Roland was under attack and in immediate danger of capture. What he read was, in a personal sense, even worse.
It was from Commander Foch, and headed “Personal – Commodore's Eyes Only”.
It began, “It is with deep regret that I inform you that Mrs. Suzette Ennis, wife of Captain William Ennis, RKN, passed away this morning at 0147 KST due to complications in childbirth. The child, a boy, also died.”
Sam was shocked and saddened. He vividly remembered Suzette Ennis, a pretty, cheerful blonde, full of life, in apparent exuberant good health, and obviously very much in love with Bill. They had been trying to have a baby; Sam recalled Bill's delight at receiving the personal radio message informing him of the good news that she was pregnant.
Foch went on to say that he thought it best if Ennis got the news from Sam, rather than by radio message, and hoped the Commodore would forgive him for the imposition of this sad duty.
There was nothing to forgive. Sam was not only Ennis's CO but his best friend. It was obviously better that Sam convey this tragic news. Yet he would have given much to have this cup pass from him.
After some reflection, he ordered the word passed for the ship's medical officer; her “... presence was requested on the quarterdeck”, the polite formula by which officers were ordered to report on the double to the Commodore. Dr. Marie Girard made a prompt appearance, her striking good looks and slim figure attracting, as always, admiring glances from crew and shipyard workers alike as she walked briskly aft toward the quarterdeck. There she paused and formally requested permission of the watch officer to approach the Commodore. This was a bit of naval ceremony that had taken her a long time to remember, or perhaps simply to accept. For most of her first cruise, she had scandalized the other officers by simply walking up to the captain whenever she wanted to talk to him.
The watch officer sent the midshipman of the watch to tell Sam that the Doctor wanted to see him; Sam assented; the gadget reported this to the watch officer, who then gave the Doctor permission to come onto the holy quarterdeck and approach the Commodore. Sam thought all this rather silly, especially since all concerned stood well within earshot of everyone else. From where she stood at the foot of the short ladder leading to the quarterdeck, Girard would not have had to raise her voice to address Sam directly. But Bill Ennis, when he had been Sam's XO, had insisted that reviving such ancient naval traditions, which he had learned through assiduous research in the stacks of the Institute, was important for instilling an esprit de corps in their infant navy from the beginning.
As soon as the Doctor approached him, Sam said, “Let's go down to my day cabin, Doctor.” Girard raised an eyebrow at that; ever since their single night of passionate lovemaking back in French Port, with the Albatros in drydock and with only a skeleton crew aboard, they had been uncomfortable in one another's presence, and had largely avoided being alone together. The awkwardness was exacerbated by the fact that, while Girard was in love with Sam, he had clearly indicated that he thought their encounter was unwise and not to be repeated.
When they were seated in Sam's cupboard-sized office, she glanced nervously at the door leading to his sleeping cabin, the scene of their lovemaking. Was it his intention to renew their physical relationship? While she could not have denied him, it was hardly the most discreet time and place – the middle of the working day, with all port holes open for ventilation and the entire watch on deck aware that she had gone below with the Commodore.
But he simply handed her the message form. And watched her go pale with dismay as she read it.
“Quelle tragédie,” she said softly. “Hoe hartseer. Poor Bill – my heart breaks for him.” They were both silent for a long moment.
“I don't understand how this could happen to such a healthy young woman,” Sam said. “Suzette was no frail little thing – she seemed as full of life as, as...”. Sam's voice trailed off as he failed to find the right simile.
“Even in these modern times, and even when the mother is in good health, childbirth is still dangerous. Without knowing more details I can't say what the problem was, but at a guess I'd say preeclampsia.”
“Pre … what?”
“Preeclampsia. We're not really sure what causes it, perhaps a hormonal imbalance in the mother. It is the most common cause of death in childbirth, for both mothers and infants.” The two then sat for a moment in sad silence.
“What will this news do to Bill, in his condition?” Sam asked.
Ennis, now CO of Joan of Arc, had been grievously wounded during the Battle at Anchor, his left arm shattered so completely by a three-inch ball that it had to be amputated above the elbow. Sam knew that Girard had been making a daily visit to him on board the Joan, consulting with Joan's medical officer, Dr. Cheah, on his care. Her interest was more than professional. Girard and Ennis had become close friends during the previous cruise, when Bill had taken her under his wing and mentored her in naval customs and procedures; this, after Sam had finally had enough of her casual attitude toward navy ways and administered a severe rebuke – “re-calibrated” her, in navy jargon.
Although an excellent physician, Girard had at first demonstrated a haughty indifference to naval matters, particularly the chain of command. Sam's dressing down had shocked her into the realization that she had to conform to navy ways of doing things if she was to continue as MO of the Albatros, a job she had come to love.
Now she considered Sam's question. “It will naturally have an adverse effect. In the worst case, it could send him into shock – physiological shock, I mean – which would be a severe setback to his recovery, even life-threatening in his current weakened condition. Can we delay passing on the news for at least a few weeks, until he's stronger?”
Sam considered this, then reluctantly shook his head. “The radiomen of all four Navy vessels, plus the Nosy Be station, almost certainly copied the message, and they all hold the Naval code. Anyone who went ahead and decoded it past the “Personal – Eyes Only” header – that is, anyone with a normal quota of human nosiness – will have the news, and will probably pass it on, under the assumption that Captain Ennis will already have been told. I'm afraid there's no hope of holding the news close. We'll have to tell him right away, before some officious fool expresses condolences to him.”
Sam considered, momentarily, the implications of what he had just said for operational security. Perhaps it was time to add another, more closely-held code, for very sensitive traffic. But that issue would have to be left for another time.
“No, I've got no choice but to tell him now. And I'd rather have one of my own arms cut off than be the one to relay this news.”
“May I be with you when you tell him, Sam?” Girard asked in a soft voice.
“Yes, of course, Marie. He'll need your moral support – and so will I.” The two exchanged a look that took Sam back to the night in French Port. After a moment, he recovered his poise, and added, “And maybe your professional services, as well.”
They went topside, and Sam gave the order to muster a crew for one of the pulling boats. The two vessels were moored so closely that they could be rowed over to the Joan before the motor sloop's Stirling cycle engine could be warmed to operating temperature. The business of rounding up a boat's crew, then embarking, rowing over to the other schooner, and going aboard (from the port side, to avoid ceremony) took up a little time, nonetheless. Sam was grateful for the slight delay, since he wasn't looking forward to this painful duty, and as yet had no idea just how to phrase what he had to say.
They were welcomed aboard by acting Lieutenant Commander Michael Christie, the new XO of the Joan – the “acting” would be dropped from his rank once it had been confirmed by the Council – who had taken Schofield's place when the latter had been placed in command of the Scorpion. While his captain remained on the binnacle list, Christie was also acting CO. He saluted, and said “Good morning, Commodore, Doctor. To what do we owe the honor?”
“Morning, Mike. We have to see Captain Ennis, urgently. Is he still in sick bay, or has he been moved to his cabin?”
“He's actually up and about, much to the dismay of Doc Cheah.” Christie paused and looked forward. “There he is now, taking the air on the foredeck.” Sam looked, and saw to his amazement Ennis walking somewhat unsteadily in their direction, a Sick Berth Attendant following anxiously in his wake, apparently ready to catch his captain if he fell.
“He really shouldn't be out of bed yet,” Marie Girard said, both professional disapproval and personal admiration evident in her tone.
Sam rushed to him and said, “Bill, what the hell are you doing out of your rack? It's too soon!”
Ennis, pale and thin but his old cheerful self, grinned and replied, “You too, Sam? I get that from Doc Cheah and Mike Christie on a daily basis. I'm fine – just need to get my strength back. A little exercise and three square meals a day and I'll be good as new.”
Sam stared at him – ashen, down in weight by at least fifteen pounds, a lump of white bandage at the end of a short stump where his left arm used to be, tottering unsteadily but shaking off every attempt by the SBA to help him stay upright – and wondered in horror what the news of his wife's death would do to him.
“Bill, I have some important news for you, and it's not good. Let's go below to your cabin.” This wiped away Ennis's grin. “What is it, Commodore? You can tell me right here.”
“In your cabin, please, Captain Ennis. It's not news to be relayed on deck.”
They went below to the captain's cabin then, Ennis now accepting the assistance of the SBA. The medic helped Ennis into his bunk, then glanced inquiringly at Sam, who indicated by a jerk of his head that his services were no longer required. The SBA quietly left.
“What is it, Sam? Don't keep me hanging.”
“It's very bad news, I'm afraid, Bill – the worst.” Sam paused, then went on, “I've just received word that your wife, Suzette, is dead.”
“What – Suzette dead?” Ennis became even paler than before. “You're joking, right? No you wouldn't joke about that – of course, you wouldn't joke about something like that.”
Ennis was clearly in shock now, unable to accept or comprehend what Sam was saying. “But it – this --can't be true – there must be some mistake. Someone – the wife of someone else...” He was stammering now.
“There's no mistake, Bill, cher,” Marie said softly. “I saw the message. Suzette died in childbirth yesterday morning.” She paused, then added, “I'm afraid the child did not survive either. I'm very, very sorry.”
Sam went topside, and shared the news with Mike Christie, whose evident shock and grief showed how much he loved his captain. Sam climbed down into his boat and was rowed back to the Albatros. He glanced aft and saw the crew of the Joan already busy in her rigging: sails being hoisted halfway then left hanging loosely, sheets slacked off, lines hung in loose bights over the side – all symbolic of a ship's company so sunk in grief that they could not bring themselves to keep their vessel ship-shape.
As soon as he had returned aboard the flag, Sam would issue the order for the Albatros to join her sister ship in mourning.
Sam had resumed his pacing on the quarterdeck, wondering sadly if Bill would be able to recover from the shock of this news, when he noticed a small boat heading toward the Albatros. In her stern sheets he could make out a young man in the distinctive uniform of an officer of the Nosy Be Militia Regiment. What now? he thought with some exasperation. Although, being at anchor in the harbor, the vessel was denied the luxury of a telephone for communications with the shore, the new harbor signal station could certainly have relayed any routine traffic for either ship. The militia officer could only mean a missive from Nosy Be's governor, an old-fashioned type who liked to communicate by messenger.
And, indeed, once aboard, and after glancing around curiously at the disarray of the schooner's rigging, the young officer introduced himself to Sam as the Governor's aide-de-camp, and presented him with not one but two messages. Once was a formal invitation to dinner at the governor's residence for that very afternoon, at the fashionably late hour of three. The other was a note explaining that the dinner would be small and informal, and that the purpose was to introduce Sam to the new High Commissioner for Kerguelen in Nosy Be, who very much wanted to meet Sam and be briefed on the naval situation in the Indian Ocean. Sam had no idea what a “high commissioner” might be, and was hardly in the mood for a dinner with the governor, however “small and informal”. He was strongly tempted to beg off, but on further consideration realized that his position with the Kerguelen government was already precarious enough without running the risk of offending the 'High Commissioner'. Whatever kind of official this was, his title sounded, well, high, and Sam could use another friend in high places at the moment.