The carpenter's mate, one of the survivors, leaped over the rail onto the deck of the Scorpion and returned almost immediately with his tools.
“Skipper, the Scorpion's settling fast – water's well up into the berthing spaces,” he said as he returned. “She won't stay afloat much longer.”
Dave glanced over the side and saw that Chips was right – the deck of the Scorpion was almost awash. The lines by which the pirates had made fast their vessel to their would-be prey were drumhead -tight, and the sinking Scorpion had already given the enemy dhow a decided starboard list.
“Chief! Have everybody but Chips go back aboard the Scorpion and bring off everything we might need – ammo, food, water. Double-quick!” Landry sent the Scorpion's survivors scampering back aboard their vessel. Then he walked the length of the enemy dhow,scanning the deck, apparently looking for something. When he found it, he knelt and stared, then shouted and waved frantically, “Captain! The magazine!”
He was standing over a deck light, a glass prism set flush into the deck and intended to bring natural light below. This was an expedient for safely lighting the armory, where open flames were dangerous. Dave hurried over and peered down. The prism distorted objects seen through it from above, but it was still possible to make out human figures below, hurriedly stacking kegs and cotton bags, the former obviously containing powder, the latter being charges measured out by the dhow's gunner for the three-inch guns.
The pirates were preparing to blow up their own vessel and everyone on it: a desperate measure but one to which they had resorted more than once in the past.
Dave glanced around wildly, searching for a solution. Landry must have been doing the same, for their eyes alighted on the same object, and they both cried out at the same time: “The fire engine!”
The pirates, like the Kergs, always rigged the fire engine as a precaution before going into battle. This apparatus, which doubled as a portable pump for use in controlling flooding, was rigged ready for use forward.
“Run a hose aft, here! Man the pump!” Dave shouted. “Chips, a hammer – quick!”
Hose and hammer were quickly brought. Landry took the hammer, and with two powerful blows shattered the thick glass prism. Dave fed the hose through the opening and yelled, “Pump! Pump!” He could now see into the armory more clearly. Several men were busy below, one trying to strike a light. Just as a small flame appeared, the hose bucked and a surge of salt water gushed down into the space below, extinguishing the light and thoroughly wetting down the three men working frantically there.
“Keep pumping! Fast as you can!” Dave played the hose all around the small room, trying to wet down every ounce of powder stored there.
The pirates tried desperately to stop this process before all the powder was spoiled. One man fired a pistol up at Dave, just missing him. Realizing the pointlessness of that effort, he then fired another round, this time into a powder charge. Luckily, it was a bag that had already been thoroughly wetted, so nothing happened . Another slashed wildly at the hose, and succeeded in cutting off the brass nozzle. This was an equally futile effort, since all Dave had to do was feed a few more inches of hose through the deck light opening. This game would have been ludicrous had not the stakes been so high.
Finally, one pirate dashed to a heap of powder bags and delved through them to the bottom of the stack, grabbed two, and raced toward the door. Dave realized what he was trying to do just in time to play the hose onto him – but to what effect, he couldn't tell. The other two pirates in the magazine followed suit – but without the presence of mind to try to take a dry powder charge or two with them.
“Keep soaking it down,” Dave said to the number two man on the hose. “Wet all the powder – flood the magazine completely if you can.” He straightened up with an involuntary groan, and realized that he was completely exhausted. He looked at the fire pump, and saw that the men working it were as tired as he: they sagged onto the pump handles on the downward stroke as if resting on them, and their faces were drawn and gray.
Dave looked around dully at the dead men strewn around the deck, and said in a weary tone, “Chief, we've got to see to our wounded. And bury our dead. And mount a guard on the hatchways...”
“We did it, Captain!” Landry interrupted him. “You did it! You took an enemy vessel of five or more times our strength! This is the greatest single-ship action in the history of the Navy!”
This fact gradually bloomed in Dave's consciousness, but it was difficult for him to feel joy, given the loss of half his crew, and his total, draining exhaustion.
“Well, we'll celebrate later, Chief,” he said. “Right now there's too much to do.”
For the next hour, the Scorpions tended to their wounded, reverently prepared their own dead for burial at sea, and tossed the pirate corpses unceremoniously over the side. Among the dead Scorpions, to Dave's sorrow, were many old shipmates from the very beginning of the vessel's commission – and some new hands whose loss was much regretted. Among the latter was Midshipman Chen, the steady, quietly-competent young man who had quickly earned Dave's respect and affection.
They lost no time in committing their shipmates to the deep, the tropical climate making haste imperative. Dave recited as much of the service for burial at sea as he could remember, said a prayer, then intoned each man's name as his canvas-shrouded body was slid over the rail. His voice broke a couple of times, and he thought he might not be able to make it through, but he managed to persevere. By the end, his cheeks were wet with tears, and he saw that those of many of his surviving shipmates were as well.
As soon as the last of their former shipmates had been dropped into the sea, they had to return to work, with no time for an interval of mourning. An antenna indicated the presence of a radio, but the radio itself proved to be below decks, in enemy-held territory. They pulled down the antenna and disabled the wind generator that powered it, so the pirates couldn't call for help. Both Dave and Landry inspected the hatches closely, to ensure that the carpenter had done a thorough job of sealing them. Then Dave ordered the sails sheeted in, and the dhow put on an easterly heading.
When the immediately necessary tasks had been completed, Dave said, “Is there any rum? If so, we can splice the mainbrace.”
There proved to be ample rum, as well as coffee; the Scorpions who had rummaged their sinking vessel for supplies would have overlooked food and water before leaving these two essentials. In the absence of mugs or glasses everyone had to take his tot by swigging directly from the jug, under the boatswain's watchful eye. Then all hands, including Dave and Chief Landry, collapsed to the deck, exhausted. Several of the hands fell instantly into a deep sleep.
“What next, Chief? We've got a ship full of armed enemy fighters nailed up below who outnumber us by at least two to one, probably closer to four to one. And we've got nearly three hundred miles to sail before we can possibly get any help.”
“Yeah, Skipper. And they've got access to tools, and plenty of food and water. And they can cook, which we can't.”
“Well, by God, we can keep 'em from cooking!” exclaimed Dave. “Plug up the Charley Noble – then if they light a fire they'll suffocate themselves with charcoal fumes!” “Charley Noble” was sailor slang for the galley stovepipe, which of necessity came out above the weather deck.
“Great idea, Skipper! Petel!” he shouted. “Go stuff up the Charley Noble with rags or whatever you can find.”
Petel looked confused for a moment, then gave a sly grin as he saw the point. “Aye, aye, Chief!” he replied, and hurried to comply.
“As for us cooking,” Landry said slowly. “Mebbe I spoke too soon ...”
The ability to cook was obviously essential if they were to make it to Nosy Be while maintaining enough strength to deal with the pirates. It was at least a two and a half day sail, maybe longer, depending on the weather. And rice, which formed the bulk of their food supplies, was inedible unless cooked. But without some kind of stove or fire-place, ho
w were they to cook on the deck of a wooden vessel? And what about fuel?
Chief Landry set two men to listening at the main and after hatchways, ear pressed to the deck, for any noise indicating an attempt by the pirates to break out, while the rest went to work on the cooking problem. After some discussion and head-scratching, this was solved with seamanlike ingenuity by removing the iron splinter shield from one of the pirate guns and pounding it into a crude, shallow bowl. For a base, Chips knocked together three triangular wooden brackets, nailed to the deck, into which spherical solid shot nestled securely. The bowl was balanced on the shot. Et voila,a fire pit, ugly but serviceable.
The boats nested on deck, most of which were damaged by gunfire anyway, would provide ample firewood to get them home. Since a hot meal was what the Scorpions now required above all else, one boat was knocked to bits, a fire started, and rice and coffee made. All hands ate voraciously. It was their first meal since early that morning, and it was now near sunset.
“The hands have to get some rest, Chief – but we're so short handed we'll need everyone alert and ready at once in case the pirates try a break-out.”
“Thought of that, Skipper. How about this: we divide the hands into three watch sections, and stagger them so that two are awake and on watch while one is sleeping on deck. That way, everybody ought to catch a nap overnight.”
“Sounds like a plan. Make it happen, Chief.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
But the pirates failed to cooperate with Landry's neat watch schedule; they made two breakout attempts that evening.
At about 2300, Dave was jolted out of a sleep of profound exhaustion by yelling and the sound of axes thudding into timber. “They're trying to break out through the forward hatch!” he heard Landry shout. The Scorpions seized weapons and hurried forward to surround the hatch. They could see the blades of the axes as they pierced the wooden hatch cover.
Landry broke up this attempt quickly. He fired a solid one-inch round directly into the hatch cover. Cries of pain from below showed that if the round missed hitting a pirate, the cloud of lethal splinters it generated in its passage didn't. Then he reloaded with HE-frag and fired again, putting the muzzle directly into the shot hole he had previously created. This means of defense was seemingly effective – silence ensued.
“Guess those two charges one of the pirates grabbed from the magazine turned out to be wet after all – else they could have blown the hatch open.”
“I'd forgotten about that. Powder can be dried, Chief – that's another thing we have to look out for,” Dave replied.
Chips repaired and reinforced the main hatch cover, and the watch below tried to catch another forty winks. But it was not to be.
At about 0130, the pirates tried again, this time with a simultaneous assault on the forward and after hatchways. This attempt, too, was broken up by similar tactics to the first, but barely in time, as Landry rushed fore and aft with the one-inch rifle.
Then dawn came, and the Scorpions could hear distant, ominous chopping sounds that reverberated through the vessel. This time, they weren't attacking the hatch covers, but the very fabric of the vessel itself; they were trying to breach the hull and sink her.
“How many of the bastards are there?” Landry moaned. “I musta killed or wounded scores of 'em during the breakout attempts. And they're still chopping.”
“They want to entice us to come below and fight, to save the vessel. But I'm not falling for that. We'd be slaughtered,” said Dave.
“So we call their bluff.”
“I don't think it's a bluff; men who would blow themselves up to avoid capture won't mind going down with the ship.”
“Still, it could be a bluff, Skipper. It's one thing to face going to Paradise instantly in a mighty flash, another to think about the water slowly rising until your nose is pressed to the overhead – and then you drown like a rat.”
“Either way, I think it's time we started thinking about abandoning this dhow. We can fix up two of the remaining boats that are least damaged, rig 'em for sail. Leave the pirates to sink with her.”
“Oh, Skipper,” lamented Landry. “Think how cool it would be to sail into Hell-ville with a great big rattlesnake ensign at the fore and a hold full of prisoners!”
“Well, the pirates won't let that happen, Chief – they'll sink her under us first. I've got a duty to my crew. What's left of 'em.”
“Guess you're right, Captain. We'll start on those boats right away. But where are we going to get sails for them?”
Dave grinned and pointed upwards in the general direction of the dhow's rig. “We won't need this canvas anymore, Chief, nor the spars. Let the pirates paddle her home!”
The weary Scorpions turned to and selected two of the least damaged boats, those holed only well above the waterline, and Chips patched them up. They lowered both of the big lateen sails down to the deck and separated the long two-part spars to make masts and sprits. Those handy with a palm and needle whipped up two sprit-sails.
“Best, boil up every grain of rice we have – we won't be able to cook in the boats. And pass the word to the boatswain to set aside some canvas and line to take along for spare, in case we have to repair the rigs.”
There were no boat compasses, so Landry ripped the dhow's steering compass out of its binnacle. The boats and their rigs were finished, and launched over the side to drift at the ends of their painters.
At last, Dave looked around and said, “That it? We ready to go?”
“One last thing, Skipper. All you men, rally round and help me.” Landry led the Scorpions in levering the bronze three-inch gun tubes out of their carriages and over the side, where they sank with a mighty splash. Landry then grinned and said, “Even if the pirates succeed in getting this tub seaworthy again, at least she won't be armed.” Dave laughed, and nodded his approval.
“Okay, everyone into the boats. I'll take charge of one, Chief Landry the other. Mister Devan, you go with the Chief – you'll be his navigator.”
Landry divided the rest of the Scorpions between the two boats, and they went over the side until only Dave and the Chief were left.
“You next, Chief – Captain last into a boat,” Dave said.
“Aye aye, sir,” Landry said – and then turned and kicked over the improvised fire pit, in which the coals from their marathon rice-cooking session still smouldered. He then looked at Dave and said, deadpan, “Oops.”
Dave, appalled, hesitated. He could order Landry to douse the coals. But, on the other hand, they were only embers, widely scattered – probably they would die out on their own. And certainly, the pirates would break out onto the deck fairly quickly once the Scorpions were gone. Probably.
Finally, Dave said, without further comment, “Into your boat, Chief.”
Landry, then Dave, went over the side into their respective boats, cast off the painters, and set the little sprit sails. They reached away to the eastward, toward Madagascar, invisible below the horizon, leaving the dhow behind. When they had sailed a mile or two, Dave glanced back over his shoulder at the dhow, now dwindling astern, and saw a thin column of white smoke rising, bending off to the north on the breeze.
He knew his conscience would bother him a long time about that.
- 18 -
On Castle Beach, the pirates effected a landing in spite of a fierce resistance by the militia that killed at least half of the attacking force. The Caliphate fighters took the hotel ruins and dug in, using it as a base for frequent counter-attacks on the Nosy Be troops attempting to dislodge them.
Their boat guns turned out to come equipped with wheeled mounts that allowed them to be quickly converted to field guns, and the half-dozen of these that had survived the landing now commanded all approaches to the ruins.
Their success had come at a terrible cost; the surf was full of floating bodies and the wreckage of boats. It was difficult to see how the pirates could turn this into a victory in the long run, greatly out-numbered as they w
ere, but for the moment they were tying up all the militia forces in the near vicinity of Hell-ville. The First Battalion, including its reserve, was fully committed, and the Third Battalion was hurrying down the Route de L'Ouest from its rally point at Dzamandzar to reinforce the First.
Colonel Dumont and Major Daniels were standing at the large-scale map in the ops room, discussing these developments, while Hank Dallas looked over their shoulders. He was concentrated on a different part of the map – the commercial harbor east of Hell-ville center, where the two pirate dhows had taken up positions in the mouth and were bombarding the vessels remaining, and the godowns.
And of course, concentrating most of their fire on the drydock containing the RKS Joan of Arc. Or for the moment, trying to sink the two schooners Hank had ordered moored so as to mask the dock, in an attempt to get a clear field of fire to the Joan. Radio exchanges with the latter revealed that these two craft had already been holed several times. Their crews had scurried ashore when the shooting started, but the Joan had managed to put together two damage control teams that were working frantically to keep the vessels afloat, at considerable risk to themselves.
The only effective defense of the harbor the Nosy Be forces could mount consisted of Battery Berthe. The battery NCOIC had devised a tactic of fire-and-move, shooting over the cab from a mount in the bed of the vehicle. The gun would fire one round from a position partly masked by a building or another vehicle, then dash to another location before the dhows' fire could find it. Reports from this battle to regimental HQ were fragmentary and frequently contradictory, but so far as Hank could tell, Berthe was at least succeeding in drawing some fire away from the Joan, and had also claimed several hits on each dhow.
Colonel Dumont turned and said, “Hank, I can't help thinking about the fix we'd be in if the pirates had fifty percent more men ashore and one more dhow bombarding the harbor. I think the Scorpion, whatever she's done to delay that third dhow, has already earned our gratitude.”
Into Uncharted Seas (Westerly Gales) Page 41