“Millions more died. The survivors tried to live by scavenging, but since they avoided the ruined cities where the materials, tools, weapons, and preserved food they sought were most likely to be found, this lifestyle, as miserable as it was, could support only a few.”
“Why not mine the cities for salvageable materials? It's what we did to survive,” Sam interjected.
“The ruins of the cities and towns were then charnel houses, reeking with the stench of unburied corpses and crawling with the vermin and scavengers who fed on them. Too, many were still dangerously radioactive from attacks with nuclear weapons. The cities were associated with horror, disease, and death. Even today, every one of the remnant populations we've encountered has some sort of taboo about city ruins – fortunate for us, since we can rummage them without competition.”
“I still don't understand why more peoples couldn't have survived by maintaining some semblance of technology – like we did, or as the Caliphate must have.”
“Well, perhaps more did, in the northern hemisphere, and we just haven't made contact with them. But keep in mind that the overwhelming majority of the immediate survivors of the troubles were city dwellers – even in the Third World, people two, three, or more generations removed from the soil. During the two centuries preceding the Troubles, there had been a global wave of urbanization. Most urbanites knew nothing of agriculture, nor what wild plants were edible. Those lucky enough to have firearms could hunt wild and feral animals – but only until they ran out of ammunition. Their metal tools, once broken, lost, or worn out, were irreplaceable because no one knew how to make them. They had no survival skills whatever. You must consider that even a neolithic hunter/gatherer was master of several fairly complex technologies – had command of scores of skills, passed down through generations, such as making tools out of wood, stone, shell, or animal bone, tanning hides and making clothing from them, and intimate knowledge of the habits of wild game animals, to name just a few. But someone who had made his living behind a desk or on a factory assembly line was, for the most part, as helpless as an infant in this environment.
“We Kergs mustn't be complacent about our own survival – it was more a matter of luck than anything else. Luck that the Iles Kerguelen were spared the wave of volcanism for some reason, despite the fact that the archipelago is volcanic in origin. Luck in being so incredibly remote that the disorder and disease couldn't follow us there. Luck in the mix of skills that happened to be among the refugees, and those stranded on the island by the Troubles.
“Anyway, the end result, as you know, was a world population crash in which more than 99% of the human race died, and civilization was destroyed almost everywhere.”
There was a brief, sober silence.
“Now, Commodore, High Commissioner, perhaps we can take our coffee into my study,” the Governor said, dispelling the somber mood.
Once they were settled in the governor's study, a comfortable, high-ceilinged room with large windows open to the tropical afternoon, their coffee cups refilled, Ravenel said, “Commodore, now I'd appreciate very much your assessment of the strategic situation in the Indian Ocean for Kerguelen and her settlements.”
“Certainly, sir. But first, if you don't mind, I'd like to know your official standing here, and what your role is with regard to the Navy. Forgive me if this is impertinent, but I have no idea what a “High Commissioner” is, nor if – or why – I should answer to you.”
“I beg your pardon, Commodore. I should have explained earlier.” Ravenel paused for a sip of coffee. “As High Commissioner for Kerguelen, I am in effect the Kerg ambassador to Nosy Be – but we don't like the term 'ambassador', because it implies that Nosy Be is a foreign country from our point of view, and it most certainly is not. On the other hand, it is politically independent and self-governing. So I did a little historical research and found the usefully ambiguous diplomatic title of 'High Commissioner', and recommended its use.
“My official role is to represent the interests of Kerguelen to the government of the Dominion of Nosy Be. More immediately, I'm tasked with concluding an agreement with the goal of protecting our maritime trade, and eradicating the pirate threat. My recently-appointed colleagues on Mauritius and Reunion are working toward the same end.
“Of course, I understand that the government of Nosy Be, in particular, has been very helpful to the Navy, for which we are grateful, so it may be more a matter of simply formalizing existing arrangements. But in any event, we hope soon to conclude a treaty binding Nosy Be, Mauritius, Reunion, and Kerguelen in a military alliance for the defense of the southern Indian Ocean.”
Sam was silent for a moment. Ravenel's explanation raised more questions in his mind than it answered.
“Does that mean the the Indian Ocean islands will contribute naval forces – armed ships? Who'll be in overall command?”
“All parties have already agreed that you are the obvious choice for commander-in-chief of alliance naval forces,” Ravenel replied.
“With regard to Nosy Be contributing armed ships, we don't have that capability, not yet, Commodore,” the governor interjected. “We will continue to provide basing facilities to your squadron – and, of course, you're welcome to carry on with recruiting new hands here. The High Commissioner and I will negotiate a division of the costs of supplying and repairing your vessels. As before, the militia has standing orders to release any man who chooses to enlist with you. Our naval capability is pretty much restricted to the present near-shore patrol of small craft, manned and operated by the Naval Detachment of the militia, to provide early warning of a pirate raid.”
“Am I to take orders from you, then, Mr. Ravenel?” asked Sam with brutal directness. He wanted clarity on this issue even at the risk of giving offense.
“No, no, Commodore – or, at least, only in the sense that you now 'take orders' from the Council back on Kerguelen. I will be merely the conduit for the policy decisions of the Council, but naval strategy will remain entirely your purview.” Sam decided to be content with this for now But the distinction between “policy” and “strategy” seemed vague to him, a vast, gray, murky area where a great deal of mischief could occur.
“And now, Commodore, perhaps you could brief me on the naval and military situation. I have all the information your Commander Foch could provide me before my departure from the Rock, and of course the Governor has been kind enough to put me in the picture. But I'd very much like your perspective.”
Sam obliged with a summary of the Navy's operations to date, beginning with the first battle off Pirate Creek and ending with the “Battle at Anchor”. He also described how the Navy had grown from one vessel to four, with the acquisition of Joan of Arc and Roland, and the capture of Scorpion.
“Scorpion is presently on an intelligence-gathering mission to Zanzibar, where we suspect the pirates have their main Indian Ocean base. Our long-range strategy is to make the Indian Ocean south of the equator safe for our trade by destroying or neutralizing pirate bases in the region.”
“And if there is an enemy base on Zanzibar, how do you propose to 'destroy or neutralize' it?”
Sam shrugged.“That will depend on what we learn from Scorpion's mission. If she returns -- it's a very dangerous errand she's on, you know. But the fact that we have yet to hear from her is a good sign. Her skipper has orders to break radio silence with a full report of everything he's learned only in the event his disguise is penetrated by the enemy, and the dhow's in danger of capture or destruction. I estimate that Scorpion's had plenty of time to reach Zanzibar. I conclude from her silence that she's carrying on with her mission as planned.”
Ravenel pondered for a while, then said, “What immediate help can I give you, Commodore?”
“Get the Council off my back about my acquisition of Scorpion and Roland,” Sam replied bluntly. “I admit that my actions in acquiring them for the Navy were rather arbitrary, but I simply can't wait for approval from Government House for every thing
I do. I had immediate operational requirements for both those vessels.”
Ravenel exchanged smiles with the governor . “I think I can relieve your mind on that point, Commodore. The Governor has very kindly agreed, even in advance of a formal treaty, to cover the costs associated with these two craft from Nosy Be's funds, as a further contribution to the common effort. I've just radioed that information to French Port.”
Sam felt a heavy weight lift from his shoulders. He turned to the Governor and said, “I can't thank you enough, sir. You can't imagine how I've fretted about the Council's likely reaction to that. You've taken a great load off my mind.”
The Governor smiled and replied, “No, we're grateful to you, Commodore. Especially the people of the town of Andilana, whom your squadron saved from destruction, death, or slavery.”
The meeting ended soon afterwards. In the back seat of the governor's limousine, on his way back to the harbor and Albatros, Sam sat back, pleasantly replete and still enjoying the sense of relief at the news that the issue of the unauthorized costs he had incurred was resolved.
Then he thought of Bill Ennis, and the tragedy he had suffered. The triple tragedy, actually: first the loss of an arm, then of his wife and child, and Sam's spirits fell again. Bill had insisted almost from the moment he regained consciousness after his amputation that he could and would resume active command of the Joan of Arc. “A Captain doesn't need two arms, Sam – just a loud voice,” he had insisted. Sam had deferred his decision on that until Bill had recovered further, but Dr. Girard had said that, barring unforeseen complications that might arise, there was no reason why Ennis couldn't remain at sea once he had his strength back.
But would he regain his strength, after the terrible blow he had just received? Sam wasn't sure that he could, himself, if he were in Bill's shoes. And if Captain Ennis was disabled permanently, or even for a protracted period, the personal loss to Sam of his best friend and closest confidant would equal the loss to the Navy of an invaluable officer.
This reflection, added to the ever-present worry about the two vessels of his squadron on detached duty – especially the Scorpion – caused Sam to return aboard the Albatros in a somber mood.
- 3 -
On a black moonless night, the Scorpion reached slowly and quietly eastward into Zanzibar's main harbor of Stone Town, towing her dory, and luffing occasionally, as silently as possible, to keep down her speed in the light southerly breeze.
A seaman in the bows was casting the lead, and the soundings were relayed aft to Dave, in whispers, by a chain of sailors stationed a few feet apart the length of the vessel.
Dave's telescope survey of the harbor by day, from miles out in the channel between Zanzibar and the African mainland, had revealed a busy port. The ancient marine terminal was crowded with the ruins of ancient godowns, some apparently repaired and returned to use, as well as new, modern transit sheds. The rectangular terminal had apparently been built up of dredge spoil in antiquity, and its long axis ran north and south. An ancient wreck, its rusting upper works just visible above the water, blocked the berth on the north end, but the eastern, inshore, side of the terminal was crowded with dhows, and there were many more anchored in the harbor. Among them were big two- and three-masters that were unmistakably the war-dhows that cruised off Madagascar and the Mascarene islands, attacking Kerg shipping.
The Commodore's suspicion that Zanzibar was the pirate's main base in the south Indian Ocean, which one look at the port of Stone Town put beyond any possible doubt, had been previously confirmed by the Scorpion's circumnavigation of the island and her survey of its shores. Through his telescope, from well offshore, Dave had seen numerous fishing villages, with boats drawn up on the beach and nets hung out to dry. The boats were no crude dugouts, either, but plank-built and lateen-rigged, clearly seaworthy enough for long offshore fishing trips. Also visible, inland, were cultivated fields and well-tended groves of oil and coconut palms. It was clear that Zanzibar could support a population easily double that of Kerguelen – and the island was only the southernmost outpost of what was, apparently, a large and far-flung maritime civilization. A humbling thought, and a frightening one.
In the harbor, the ruins of a pre-Troubles breakwater, aligned east – west, lay northward of the terminal, still protecting its berths from a northerly swell. Of particular interest to Dave was a battery built atop the breakwater, apparently of stone, with two guns visible that commanded the approaches to the harbor. It could have mounted as many as two more guns, invisible to Dave from his vantage point to seaward. This battery was the key to the harbor, and the visible guns appeared to be bigger than the long three-inch bronze muzzle-loaders that were the usual armament for war-dhows.
As dangerous as it was, a closer look at that battery was essential if the Scorpion's mission was to be a success. And that look necessarily had to be taken in the dark of the moon, which meant a risky near approach by small boat.
Sound carries a long way over calm water, so Dave anchored when he estimated that they were no nearer than about two miles off the breakwater. Fortunately, the Scorpion was not equipped in the usual Kerg fashion with 15 fathoms of chain between anchor and fiber-rope anchor line, because there was no way to let go anchor chain quietly. As it was, they had lowered the anchor to the surface of the water while well outside, and moored by first lowering the sail carefully, by degrees, to minimize the clatter of halyard through blocks, then eased the anchor into the water once almost all the way had come off the dhow. To minimize their visibility, Dave had ordered the sail darkened with soot from the galley range. There had been neither enough soot nor time to dye it completely black, but he hoped the jet blobs and streaks would so break up the night-time appearance of the already-dirty sail as to fool the eye of any sentry.
Once at anchor, the crew heaved the dory alongside as silently as possible, and Landry with seven armed seaman-gunners, in jungle green and dark watch-caps, their faces and hands streaked, like the sail, with soot, climbed down into it. This many men crowded the little boat considerably, but luckily the night was calm, with only a slight swell. When every man was in position, Landry murmured “Fend off. Out oars”. Each man carefully lifted an oar muffled with a wrapping of rags and set it as quietly as possible into its similarly muffled oarlock.
“Oars. Give way together,” Landry whispered to the man rowing stroke, and the sailors dipped their oars slowly and with elaborate care, pulled gently, then feathered precisely as they returned oars. The dory gradually disappeared into the gloom, the only sounds – the drip of water from the blades as the oars were feathered, the slight creaking of the oarlocks – dying away quickly.
Now Dave had nothing to do but wait. And worry. If they were discovered, even if they got away safely, the mission was a failure. The pirates would know that the Kergs had reconnoitered their base and would be expecting an attack. The Commodore had put great stress on his desire that the raid, if and when mounted, would achieve both tactical and strategic surprise for maximum effectiveness.
He fidgeted on the quarterdeck, desperately resisting the urge to pace. Even barefoot, as they all were, footsteps on a wooden deck over a void space made a sound like a dull drumbeat. He couldn't check the time without going below, since he didn't dare show a light on deck.
The number of lights visible in Stone Town bothered him: why were so many people up so late? Would one of these night owls catch a glimpse of something suspicious – the flash of oars, for instance?
He went over in his mind the preparations he had made for the worst. The radio antenna was rigged to the masthead, the wind generator up and rotating slowly in the gentle breeze, and Sparks was standing by to transmit the message Dave had updated daily, giving their position and a summary of all intelligence gathered to that point, so that if the Scorpion was attacked by a superior force she could at least relay to the Commodore everything she had learned so far. Both one-inch rifles were mounted and manned, and every man of the crew was armed wit
h either a shotgun or a revolver, and the sheath knife no seaman was ever without.
He and Landry had discussed at length the pros and cons of mounting a one-inch rifle in the bows of the dory, as a defense if she were discovered. They decided that, on balance, it would be better for the dhow to retain the maximum ability to provide covering fire in that event, leaving the entire crew of the dory free to man the oars and pull like hell back to the Scorpion.
The balance of the crew was as tense as Dave, who had ordered them to be still and quiet and listen for the sound of any approaching vessel.
Then, to Dave's incredulous rage, he heard a faint snore; the phlegmatic AB, Best, had curled up on deck and taken this opportunity for a nap. A vicious kick in the ribs from the nearest bosun's mate brought the sleeper back to full alertness.
Dave had hoped, ideally, to complete the mission and be away before moonrise, but it had taken longer than he anticipated tho reach their intended anchorage. Luckily the moon was in its last quarter, a mere sliver, but it would still shed a good deal of light. Dave could still hope to get away before it had risen too high -- if the dory returned before too much longer. He strained his ears listening for shouts, a gunshot, any indication that the boat had been discovered. Time stretched out until it seemed as if the Scorpion had been anchored in that vulnerable position for days on end.
Finally, after what seemed like a year, with the crescent moon high, Dave saw before he heard the dory returning. He let out a sigh – but it was too soon to relax yet. The moon offered enough light for a vigilant sentry at the battery to spot the dhow, if not the dory.
Into Uncharted Seas (Westerly Gales) Page 5