Where the hell was the motor sloop? And why wasn't she keeping the second dhow off his ass? With her 75 mm rifle, she should have been able to handle the pirate easily. Sam grabbed his telescope and looked past the second dhow.
There she was – the motor sloop was hanging on the second dhow's stern, just outside her range, and peppering her ineffectually with rifle fire. From Sam's vantage point, the sloop's 75 mm recoilless rifle appeared intact and manned, but wasn't firing. Surely they couldn't have run out of ammo so quickly!
The Albatros's 37 mm gun had now been trained around dead aft, and was firing rapidly at the second enemy vessel. While Sam watched, he had the immense satisfaction of seeing a direct hit on the pirate's bow, which severed the fore-tack, casting loose the foot of her foresail and making her fall off the wind. It had been a fragmentation round, and Sam could just make out many small jagged tears along the foot and leading edge of the sail. Unless the dhow's sailmaker got busy right quick, the holes would be blown larger and larger until the foresail was in tatters.
But this was no knock-down blow for the pirate. Sam could see sailors busy around the tack of the foresail as he watched. Mr. Terreblanche didn't need to be reminded what a tempting target this group presented – one hit and several of the dhow's most valuable petty officers would be killed or disabled. But the dhow, in falling off the wind, had put herself out of easy range, and the 37 mm rounds fell short or wide. The 37 mm then shifted her fire back to the more immediate threat abeam, which had been furiously engaged all the while by the Albatros's one-inch rifles. They were firing fragmentation rounds at the dhow's gun crews, in an attempt, partly successful, to disrupt her fire..
“Signal the motor sloop to come alongside,” Sam bawled into the ear of his phone talker. This word was passed, and a signalman raced to the after rail, where he wig-wagged frantically to get the sloop's attention, then passed on Sam's orders. The motor sloop acknowledged, then swung in a wide circle across the second dhow's stern, carefully staying out of range of her three-inch guns, and raced toward the Albatros. When she was finally alongside to starboard, Sam could see that the 75 recoilless rifle had been damaged by a glancing shot, and her gunner killed or rendered unconscious by some wound not visible from the schooner's deck. He was still hanging in the lashing with which he had made himself fast to the gun's mount, a sight that enraged Sam even more than he already was.
Why, oh, why had that blasted kid taken the sloop within range of the dhow's guns? In clear defiance of Sam's orders to the contrary?
“Why haven't you rendered first aid to the gunner?” he shouted down to Munro.
The Lieutenant, his face pale with shock, stammered back, “He's … he's d-dead, sir.”
“He ain't dead 'til the Doctor says he is!” Sam roared back. “Pass him up!"
As soon as the Gunner's limp body had been gently brought up on deck, Munro began to stammer an explanation, but Sam interrupted him by bellowing, “Mister Munro, go forward and take a towline!” There would be time enough later to conduct postmortems – right now, the Albatros was threatened by two dhows, each armed with two of the pirates' improved three-inch guns, and could only make a run for it.
Again, Sam thought bitterly.
As the motor sloop accepted the towline, made it fast, and took up the slack, the schooner's speed increased perceptibly. The relative wind drew forward, and Sam fell off accordingly, finding the course best suited for motor-sailing, one with the relative wind just aft of the beam. At this angle with the wind, both the square topsail and the drifter would set, and the Albatros should be able to just outrun the swift-sailing dhow.
Sure enough, the lead dhow fell astern, but so slowly the difference was almost imperceptible. Sam noted that she appeared a bit lower in the water, and there was a pulsating stream jetting out from her lee side. One of the 37 mm hits on her hull must have been difficult to patch.
The Albatros continued to exchange fire with her opponent, inflicting damage and casualties and taking them herself. Neither vessel was able to score a mortal hit.
The second dhow slowly overtook the first one, came just within range of her own guns, and joined in the fire. By this time, the Albatros was presenting her stern to the enemy, a smaller aspect and a smaller target. But a hit on her rudder post or helm would disable her – would be the mortal blow Sam feared. Worrisome, too, was the fact that the first dhow appeared to have gained on her leak, perhaps by finally getting a solid patch on the major hull puncture, and was showing a bit more of her hull out of the water and sailing just a bit faster as a result. He had hoped to draw the second pirate vessel far enough away from her consort to let him turn and deal with her individually, but apparently this was not to be.
Distance off by vertical angle showed that Albatros was gaining very slowly on the dhows – so slowly as to be barely detectable, but, still, she was gaining.
The Albatros kept up a steady fire at the lead dhow, with both the 37 mm gun and, from the starboard gun balcony, both one-inchers, crowded together at the after rail. This concerned Sam, who envisioned one lucky pirate hit taking out his entire secondary battery, so he ordered one of the 25 mm rifle crews aft, to the quarterdeck, to resume fire from there. The rifleman so selected came hurrying aft, sharing the awkward burden of the long, heavy rifle with his loader, leaving the rail mount attached to the gun. They set up the weapon just to port of the taffrail log , still patiently whirring and clicking as it recorded distance run through the water.
“Thanks, sir!” the gunner bawled at Sam. “We got a much clearer shot from here.” That had not been Sam's motivation for the order, but he was grateful for the lagniappe. The gunner was soon blazing away again at the enemy vessel.
The dhow had one of her three-inchers in her bow, on the windward side. Sam marveled once again at the no-doubt-ingenious design of the mobile mounts the pirates used, which allowed them to quickly move a gun to any point around the rail of one of their vessels, lock it down, and fire as securely as from a fixed mount. The mobile mounts must incorporate an efficient recoil system, and the pirates had quickly adopted from the Kergs the addition of a splinter shield to the mount for the partial protection of the gun's crew.
But by placing a gun there, the pirate master made that crowded spot drew Kerg fire like molasses draws flies. The gun itself was a high-value target, as was the adjacent foresail tack, and the leading portion of the spar. One solid hit with 37 mm HE could conceivably both take out the gun and degrade the dhow's sailing qualities, at least temporarily.
But from this angle, the bow of the enemy vessel presented a small target. Thirty -seven millimeter rounds whizzed past or over the enemy's gun, coming close enough in some cases to part a seaman's hair but failing to score a decisive hit. The one-inch riflemen did better, hitting the occasional pirate who carelessly showed himself, but otherwise, as Sam could see through his telescope, mostly putting dimples in the enemy gun's splinter shield. Sam considered briefly, but rejected, the ploy of slowing down a bit to draw the enemy, all unwitting, closer to the Albatros, to increase the chances of a hit. That would also, of course, increase the enemy's chance of a hit, and the Albatros's speed advantage was so slight that the gain could be measured in yards per hour; he didn't dare lose any of that.
Then the stroke of luck all aboard yearned for came: the 37 mm scored a hit on the bow of the leading enemy vessel. When the smoke had blown clear, Sam could see the leading edge of the foresail in tatters, the tack obviously severed because the sail flapped wildly all along the foot, held in place only by the sheet, and, best of all, the bow gun's barrel was sticking up at a crazy angle, the carriage obviously shattered. The dhow fell off to leeward, briefly presenting her side to a fierce volley of one-inch and 37 mm rounds from the Albatros, some of which went home and had to have done significant damage.
The other dhow came up with her sister and luffed up, apparently to give aid. Sam was strongly tempted to turn suddenly one hundred and eighty degrees and swoop down
on the two, catching them in an awkward position, firing rapidly as he went. But the dhows still had three heavy guns between them, and the damage to the lead dhow's foresail could be easily and quickly repaired. The advantage still lay with the pirates. No, he would keep on running away, he thought bitterly – something he had been doing far too much of lately.
The Albatros sailed on out of range, and Sam passed the word to cease fire. The ensuing relative silence was blessed, but was soon replaced by everyone shouting at everyone else in what the speakers thought were conversational tones. The gunfire had made everyone temporarily deaf.
The damaged dhow apparently made quick work of emergency repairs, because the two of them were soon under way again, chasing the Albatros. To an objective observer, had there been one, they would have made a beautiful sight, towering white sails full and drawing, their slim forms heeled well over to leeward. But to Sam and the rest of the Albatrosses, they represented death afloat. If they managed to out-sail the Albatros, they would range up on either side of her and, regardless of their own casualties or damage, smash her into a sinking wreck.
The chase went on for another hour, but it was plain that the hundred yards or so the Albatros had gained by that lucky hit had made all the difference. Finally, it seemed to Sam that the enemy had altered course. He took up his telescope again. The two pirate dhows had dwindled rapidly in the distance, and now appeared to be on a more northerly heading, running with the wind abaft the beam. Clearly they had abandoned the chase.
Sam leaned into the wheelhouse and keyed the schooner's PA system on. “Well done, all hands. And a special 'well done' to the 37 mm gun's crew for some very fancy shooting.” Cheers and backslapping from the 37 mm gunners. “Now all hands turn to and splice the mainbrace,” Sam added, and the entire crew burst into cheers.
While the Boatswain and the XO oversaw the solemn ceremony of mixing rum with water to the prescribed proportions, the crew fell into line for their ration, but this time with little of the laughing and rough-housing that usually accompanied a spirits issue, everyone too conscious of their shipmates below, in sick bay, or laid out on deck sewn up in their hammocks. They then returned with their mugs to their battle stations. Sam did not yet intend to stand the crew down from general quarters, not until the dhows had sunk below the northern horizon.
He now spared a thought for the Chaton Doux. He could not doubt that the pirates had paused long enough to sink her – it wouldn't have taken more than a few rounds, in her condition. The question that concerned him most was the fate of her crew. Would the pirates have taken the trouble to pick them up and make them prisoners? Or would they have simply left them in the water?
If the former, he had no choice but to leave them to their fate. But if it were the latter – and he felt fairly sure the pirate commander would have regarded it as more important to first sink the Albatros – he was compelled to return to the location where the pirates had first come upon them and search for any survivors from the Chaton Doux.
These thoughts were interrupted by the watch officer, Mooney: “Sir, the motor sloop reports her fuel state is ten percent.”
“Recover the sloop, then tack, Pilot. Lay off a course that will take us back to the last known position of the Chaton.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“And pass the word for the XO, please.”
When Kendall quickly appeared, Sam said, “Take the conn for me, Al, in case the pirates have another trick left and suddenly appear out of nowhere again. I'm going down to sick bay to visit the wounded. And Al – be thinking about what I should do about Munro. I'm too damn mad right now to talk to him, but he disobeyed my orders and took the motor sloop into the enemy's range. So he cost me the recoilless rifle and a gunner, and very nearly my motor sloop.”
“Aye aye, Commodore,” Kendall rasped, his face impassive. But Sam knew him well enough to tell that he disagreed – that he wasn't so sure it was Munro's fault. Well, to hell with them both – Sam knew he was right, and had already made up his mind that this marked the end of Munro's naval career.
He walked forward toward sick bay, a process that took some time since he greeted each man he encountered by name, and asked him how he had fared in the battle.
He also paused to take a quick look at the motor sloop, now in her cradle and in the process of being lashed down. Specifically, her 75 mm gun: he wanted to see the damage it sustained for himself. It looked as if a ball had glanced off the barrel just forward of the chamber, denting and bending it. He hoped fervently it could be repaired.
He entered the brightly lit, white-painted sick bay, and looked around for Dr. Girard. He didn't see her. Every hanging cot was occupied by a man, most showing blood-stained bandages. The interns and SBAs busied themselves caring for them. Lightly wounded men sat or lay in a corner, the triage process having relegated them to bottom priority for care.
Sam grabbed a passing SBA and asked, “Where's the Doctor?”
“In surgery,” the man replied, jerking his head toward the curtained-off corner so designated.
“What's the count – how many dead and wounded?”
“Dunno, sir. Ask Miz Annie,” the SBA replied, meaning the senior intern and Girard's right hand.
Sam looked around for her, and quickly picked her out – with her bright red hair, she was readily distinguishable. He threaded his way through the cots to her, and demanded, “Annie, what's the bad news?”
“Four dead, eighteen wounded, sir, two seriously – they may not survive.”
Sam heard this with mixed feelings of sorrow for the dead and elation that it wasn't worse – he had formed the impression during the battle that the schooner's deck was a slaughterhouse, and thought the count would be much higher.
He could see that she was frantically busy, so he let her go and passed among the hanging cots, exchanging a few words of praise and comfort with every man who was conscious, not neglecting the lightly wounded who were waiting patiently for treatment.
Sam returned to the deck, and noted with approval that Mooney had set all the canvas she would carry – square fore-topsail, drifter, gaff topsails, and every staysail in the inventory. She wasn't exactly racing along – the Albatros was incapable of racing, even with the aid of the motor sloop – but she was like a fat old hound who had scented a rabbit and was after it, straining every muscle. She could carry all this sail because, fortunately, the course back to the last known position of the Chaton was a broad reach.
Sam now had time to look around his command, and saw the damage she had sustained, and the jury-rigged repairs, and – most disturbingly – the numerous bloodstains on the deck and fittings, everywhere.
“Set Condition Alfa, and pass the word for the Boatswain and the Carpenter,” Sam said to his phone talker, who repeated his words to all stations. They were then echoed over the PA system, and half the hands at each station stood down. Warrant officers Terreblanche and Foy soon appeared.
“Boats, Chips, you'll each have half your gang for a while,” Sam said. “See what you can do to render first aid to the poor old Albatros.”
“Aye aye, sir,” they chorused, and turned to muster their available mates and put them to work.
Sam could see Du Lesseps, the Gunner, examining the 75 mm rifle on the motor sloop, just as he himself had done a few moments ago.
“Ask Mister Du Plessis to step aft for a few moments whenever he's free,” Sam said to his phone talker. He didn't know why he bothered with this polite formula, because of course the phone talker intoned into his microphone, “Gunnery Officer's presence is requested on the quarterdeck”, and of course within seconds Du Plessis could be seen hurrying aft as quickly as his limp allowed.
“I won't keep you long, Guns – I know you're busy. And I also know you haven't had a chance to examine the 75 mm carefully. But your first impression: can it be repaired? Here on board, I mean.”
Du Lesseps looked dubious. “I dunno, sir. Mebbe. It ain't damaged so bad as all that,
but it's precision work to straighten the barrel properly, like. We can try.”
“Do try, Guns. Do your best. Tell the Engineer I said you're to have all the help you need from his department. I need that gun. Our only other option is to take it back to its makers, on Reunion, and God knows how long it'll be before we have it back.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
It was fortunate that Mooney had taken that round of morning stars so many hours ago, for it gave them a fairly precise last known position for the Chaton. But as the hours crept by with no shout from the lookouts, now doubled, Sam began to wonder if Mooney had not made some mistake.
But Mooney did not make mistakes, not in navigation, and the foremast lookout eventually reported wreckage in the water dead ahead. Sam studied it through his telescope, and decided that it was fresh enough to be fragments of the Chaton. He ordered sail reduced to mizzen course and staysails, to bring Albatros's speed down to bare steerageway in the gentle southeasterly breeze, and launched the motor sloop.
There was only a little debris, and that little very dispersed now by the wind and waves. The pirates must have sent the Chaton straight to the bottom. The Albatros sailed slowly through the debris field while the sloop cruised back and forth at right angles to the schooner's course, searching for survivors.
Or bodies, which they found first. And sadly, one of the first ones they came across was that of Captain Bowman, he of the large happy family in Port Douzieme, who would never see him again on this earth. They recovered several more floating bodies, which they laid out reverently on the foredeck, wrapped in canvas, for eventual return to the sea in the proper, reverent form.
Sam was beginning to despair of finding a single survivor. Few Kerguelenians knew how to swim, the rough and icy waters around the Rock being hardly conducive to recreational bathing.
Then the lookout spotted a man clinging to a piece of wreckage – a living man. It turned out to be Veldhuis, the young mate of the Chaton. His fair skin was blistered and scarlet from the tropical sun, and he couldn't speak for a tongue swollen with thirst. Sam had him hustled down to sick bay, to the doctor's care.
Into Uncharted Seas (Westerly Gales) Page 28