Into Uncharted Seas (Westerly Gales)

by E. C. Williams

  “I'm afraid the other dhow may still show up, Colonel” Hank said. Having sunk the Scorpion and killed all her crew, he added to himself.

  “Well, if she just holds off for another hour or so … “.

  Hank replied cheerfully, “From your mouth to God's ear, sir.” But he wasn't as sanguine as he tried to sound. In “another hour or so” Joan could be sunk.

  And if the enemy troops forted up in the Castle held out that long, they'd be reinforced and resupplied by the third dhow, whose landing force could come ashore against a defense forced to divide its effort between containing the force in the ruins and defending the beach. The Third Battalion was now on the move toward Castle Beach, but it would take them at least two hours to march from their rally point to the beach and there get integrated into the defense.

  There was little hope, of course, of the Albatros and the Roland returning in time to aid the defense. Hank had repeatedly and compulsively calculated the distance between their estimated position on receiving the attack warning and Nosy Be. It was barely within the realm of possibility that they could sail back in time to make a difference. But the chance was so remote he knew they couldn't count on it.

  Sam Bowditch refused to give in to despair. Until the Albatros rounded Cap d'Ambre, it was possible to motor-sail, towing with the sloop. Now, with the relative wind on the bow, motor-sailing was pointless. He couldn't fly the drifter on a beat, either, so he ordered it struck and the motor sloop to keep the towline and stand by to pull the Albatros out of any trouble, such as getting in irons and drifting helplessly aground.

  The Albatros had now left the Roland far behind; she had not yet rounded Cap d'Ambre.

  Sam stepped into the chartroom, where Mooney, the navigator, was studying a chart of the northwest coast of Madagascar.

  “Mister Mooney, instead of sailing west about Nosy Be as we usually do, we're going to shave the headlands and these little islands – what are they called? – as close as possible and come at Hell-ville from the east. That'll save us a few miles.”

  “Captain, there's a reason why we always swing out well to the west – this is the best chart we have, and it hasn't been updated in several centuries. It's too small-scale to show all the shoals and soundings, and anyway everything on the bottom has almost certainly changed over that period. And cutting inshore doesn't really save that much distance.”

  “It saves some – and maybe enough to matter. Lay off the tracks on the chart, and tell the watch officer to have a man in the bows swinging the lead as we come in close.”

  “Very well, Captain – under protest.”

  “Duly noted, Pilot. On my own head be it.”

  Sam stepped out of the wheel house, and looked at the coast of northwestern Madagascar off to port, green and beautiful and serene. But he wasn't appreciating its beauty. He was thinking of the treacherous rocks and shoals the emerald water almost certainly hid this far inshore. Behind him, he heard Mooney call Lieutenant Low, the watch officer, into the chart room for a conference. After a few minutes, they emerged, and he could hear Low giving orders to the helmsman.

  Mooney approached Sam and said, “Captain – I mean Commodore – we don't have to go inshore of Nosy Mitsio, there” – pointing to the large green island looming ahead of them. “The most direct track takes us to her west. Well, really, right across that western headland. So if we shave her as close as we dare … “

  “Make it so, Mister Mooney.”

  Munro sent a leadsman hurrying forward, right into the eyes of the ship, and he started sounding. “No bottom! No bottom with this line,” were the reassuring early reports. Munro also posted one of his sharpest-eyed men into the foretop as an additional lookout, with orders to focus on the sea ahead of them, looking for the color changes that would suggest shoal water.

  An advantage of sailing to the west of the islands of Ankarea and Nosy Mitsio was that the schooner was beating into a southeasterly breeze on the port tack. If the water began to shoal, too much, she had only to fall off in order to sail into deeper water without coming about. Soon, she was in soundings continuously.

  Mooney approached Sam again. “Good news, Commodore. So far, the soundings are pretty consistent with those found on the chart. Incredible that it should be so after all this time, but there you are.”

  “Still, better not trust the chart too much, Pilot. There could have been underwater earthquakes, raising the bottom. Or there may be uncharted wrecks – those huge pre-Troubles steel ships make hellacious reefs.”

  “Of course, Skipper.”

  Tense hours passed. The vessel was virtually silent except for the cries of the leadsman from the bow. The vessel keep edging westward as the water shoaled, first off Ankarea, and then Nosy Mitsio. There were some anxious moments as the soundings dropped and dropped, and the Albatros turned away until she was reaching due west, straight for Africa, until the water began to deepen again. And then Sam always brought her inexorably back toward the rhumb-line track to Nosy Be, until the soundings became dangerously low again. Twice, the Albatros touched bottom, but very gently. Soundings of the hold after each momentary grounding showed no flooding.

  “Bet that cost us some copper, 'though,” was Sam's only comment on this cardinal sin of the mariner.

  “Thin water. Mighty thin water,” muttered Mooney, face strained with anxiety.

  Finally, the Albatros sailed clear of Nosy Mitsio and found herself in deep water once again, to the profound relief of all her navigating officers. The leadsman was stood down, and his regular cries ceased. It was now a straight southwesterly run to the southern shore of Nosy Be. Providentially, at just about this time, the wind veered round more to the south-east and freshened considerably. The schooner, now on a beam reach, her best point of sailing, stretched out for home, Sam Bowditch overseeing the trim in minute detail to get the most out of her.

  “What d'you think, Pilot – would towing help now?”

  Mooney stroked his stubbly chin – no one had had much time for personal grooming lately – and said dubiously, “I dunno, Commodore. I think it's about as long as it is wide. Won't hurt, but I don't think it'll help.”

  “Okay. We'll hold off for now. But let's keep her ready, eh?”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  An hour later, the wind veered a bit more easterly. Both Sam and Mooney sensed it immediately.

  “Commodore ...”

  “Signal the motor sloop to take up the tow again.”

  The sloop had been hovering off the lee side, towline slack. She bustled up to a point ahead of the Albatros and on the track for Hell-ville and took up the strain. Sam could feel the slight increase in speed.

  “Trim in, there! Trim headsails and courses,” shouted Low, a cry taken up by the petty officers in charge of headsails and of each mast. The schooner heeled over a bit more, the difference small but unmistakeable.

  After two hours of tense motor-sailing – sheets minutely adjusted at frequent intervals, course carefully monitored – the foretop lookout shouted “Deck, there! Land ho, dead ahead.” The low, dim shape of Nosy Faly gradually took shape on the southern horizon. Nosy Be was only a few miles beyond this small, lightly-inhabited island. Once they brought the westernmost point of Nosy Faly abeam, they were only about two hours sailing from the harbor entrance.

  Frustratingly, at just that moment, the wind veered back toward the south and died away to a gentle breeze. This put the relative wind bang on her nose, thus adding nothing to her forward motion. The sails began to slat.

  “Sheet in flat, there,” shouted Sam. He knew that they would have the wind on their beam again when the schooner rounded the corner at Point Tafondro.

  “Signal the sloop to squeeze every last hundredth of a knot out of her,” he ordered.

  With agonizing slowness, Nosy Faly grew out of the sea and seemed to move leftward, since the schooner's course would leave her to port. Nosy Be itself became visible due south. Sam paced the quarterdeck in quick, anxious st
eps. Would they be on time? Were they already too late – would he find Hell-ville aflame, the Joan sunk, drydock and all, the pirate dhows long gone?

  An eternity of time crept by. At last, they brought Point Tafondro abeam. As they turned to the westward, they brought the wind onto the port beam, and the schooner picked up some speed as the sails filled. They could see thin columns of smoke arising in the direction of Hell-ville, bending away to the northward on the gentle breeze. A little closer, and in the tense silence on deck they could hear the dull boom of gunfire in the distance.

  “Signal the motor sloop: as soon as we've rounded Point Lokobe drop the towline and man the reckless rifle; be ready to engage the enemy on my order.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” and a signalman hurried forward with his semaphore flags tucked under his arm.

  “Battle stations. Issue small arms and rig the sound-powered phones.”

  The three-inch rifle was manned and ready, but still in her at-sea position midships, the Gunner awaiting orders to run her out. Sam carefully gauged the direction of the wind, and did a quick relative motion plot in his head.”We'll engage to starboard. Run her out, Mister Du Lesseps.”

  “Aye aye, sir. You heard the Commodore – tail onto those tackles and heave!” The heavy weapon ran smoothly out on its recessed rails to the starboard gun-balcony, where it hit its stops. The crew trained its long, slim barrel around to dead-ahead.

  The direction from which they could now hear the fire of heavy guns.

  Hank Dallas had been able to tolerate standing idly by in the regimental headquarters no longer. He begged the colonel to allow him to go to the Joan; he could at least pitch in with the DC parties on the sheltering merchant vessels. Colonel Dumont took pity on him. “Okay, Hank. Take my car. Send the driver right back – I may need to go into the field.” Left unsaid was the fact that if the Colonel left HQ, it would mean the regiment was on the verge of defeat, and he was going to pick up a rifle and die with his troops.

  Hank dashed out to the front of the HQ building, where the colonel's vehicle, side emblazoned with the badge of the regiment, sat waiting, driver behind the wheel. Hank got in the open car and told the driver where he wanted to go. The driver pulled away immediately without questioning Hank's right to commandeer the regimental commander's transport. Out of doors, the sound of gunfire was louder, the sharp reports of the three-inch guns of the pirate dhows and the boom of the 75 mm reckless rifle louder and distinct from the small arms and 25 mm fire from Castle Beach, further away.

  As they neared the waterfront, more and more damage from the dhows' shelling became apparent. At one point, their way was blocked by the Hell-ville fire brigade, hosing down a burning building with calm professionalism. The driver, in civilian life a Hell-ville cabbie, had no trouble finding an alternative route. When they drove away, Hank realized that the glimpse he had gotten of the firemen showed that every one was well past middle age, some past retirement age; apparently all of their younger colleagues had been called up to active duty with the militia.

  As soon as the car reached the floating drydock containing the Joan of Arc, Hank jumped out, shouted a quick thanks to the driver, and dashed out the finger pier to which the drydock was moored to the sidewall ladder. As he climbed it as quickly as he could, a round from one of the pirate dhows whistled past so close he could feel the wind of its passage. At the top, he crossed the sidewall at a bound and dropped down on the deck of the Joan, now afloat in the flooded dock. Pausing to catch his breath, he glanced around hurriedly, looking for damage to the vessel, and was relieved to see none. But at the forward – seaward – end of the dock, the two merchant vessels moored there to protect her were both sagging against their mooring lines, their masts making an angle with the shore beyond. Clearly, they were both holed and taking on water.

  He looked aft and saw two figures standing together on the quarterdeck: Commodore Ennis, stern and gaunt and one-armed, and Surgeon Lieutenant Marie Girard, slim and erect, managing as always to look elegant even in her working rig of white coat over seagoing slops.

  Hank walked aft and saluted Ennis. “Permission to come aboard, Commodore?”

  “Granted, Hank, since you're already aboard. What brings you to the Joan?”

  “Thought I'd come see if I could help out, Commodore. I was feeling pretty useless at Regimental HQ.”

  “Well, well, you're just in time; the petty officer in charge of the DC party on board the Saint Denis just got killed. You can go aboard her and take charge.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Hank replied, then after a pause went on. “Captain, have you thought of sinking the Joan here in the dock? Her hull would then be protected from enemy fire.”

  “Yes, I've thought of it, but that'll ruin every piece of electric gear below decks. It's a last resort. If she's holed and taking on water, I'll counter-flood and sink her back onto her blocks – but only if I have to. Fortunately for us, we're the target of only one of the dhows. The other is preoccupied with chasing the militia's reckless rifle around the waterfront. The rifle fires a round, then scurries to a new covered position while the dhow blasts the previous one. So far, the merchant vessels are shielding us. You go keep the Saint Denis afloat, and I won't have to do that.”

  “Yessir. Just one more thing ...”. He paused and glanced at the doctor. “Shouldn't Marie – Lieutenant Girard – go ashore for her own safety? Surely there's nothing she can do here.”

  Commodore Ennis laughed harshly, and replied, “I've already thought of that, Mister Dallas. Lieutenant Girard has flatly disobeyed a direct order to leave this vessel. I may have to put her in for a court-martial once this is over.” But the look he gave her as he said this was one of pure affection, and belied his words. That look provoked a surmise in Hank's mind.

  “There is something I can do here, Hank,” Marie said imperturbably. “I have two wounded men below, in sick bay. I only came on deck for a breath of air, and to see how the battle is going.” The three fell silent for a moment, making the bombardment seem all the louder. Then Hank said, “Guess I'm off to the Saint Denis, then, Commodore. By your leave.”

  “Carry on, Mister Dallas.”

  As Hank ran forward to the bow of the Joan, from which he could leap down onto the deck of the Saint Denis, he hoped that after all this time as a staff officer he could still remember enough about damage control to be of use.

  The Albatros at last rounded Point Lokobe, and the mouth of the harbor came into view, not two miles distant. There, a pair of big two-masted gun dhows were lying at anchor, firing at frequent intervals at the shore.

  “Signal the motor sloop to attack the enemy. Main battery to open fire when in range,” Sam said to his phone talker. The talker had barely finished speaking into the horn of his neck mike when the 37 mm rifle barked. Sam could see the round streak directly at the nearest dhow, but slightly over; a near-miss.

  “Main battery, be advised,” Sam said hurriedly. “Your overs will impact in the town!” The Gunner acknowledged, and the next round hit the dhow low in the hull, near the waterline.

  Meanwhile, the motor sloop had dashed forward and opened fire with her 75 mm recoilless rifle, the backblast putting on a brilliant light show with every round. Both the Albatros's main battery and the boat rifle were soon hurting the two dhows with every round.

  But although apparently caught completely by surprise, the pirates reacted with remarkable alacrity. As soon as the Albatros had come into view around the point, both had slipped their anchors and began shifting their guns. They started to return fire within minutes.

  The motor sloop made repeated high-speed runs at the dhows, chasing their shell-splashes and straightening up only long enough for the reckless-rifle gunner to take aim. When uncomfortably close, she turned tail and raced away to open the range again. Meanwhile, the Albatros approached slowly, chasing the faint airs common in the lee of the land, and firing rapidly and continuously.

  The dhows had now turned to point away from the har
bor and toward the threat, but the faint and shifting breeze hindered their movement. Their gunners weren't hindered, however, and they began to find the range. Sam shuddered as a couple of solid rounds thudded into the Albatros's hull.

  “To the motor sloop: stay out of range of their guns!” Sam barked to his phone talker. He didn't want to chance losing the sloop and her recoilless rifle in a battle he regarded as already won – he would regard it as a victory to simply chase the dhows away. But it was clear that the Caliphate fighters would fight fiercely to the bitter end, as they always did, doing as much damage to their enemies as they possibly could.

  When the pirate dhows turned to face the threat, there was a critical few moments during which the guns of the inshore vessel were masked by her consort. Exploiting to the full this advantage, which he knew would be brief, Mr. Du Lesseps focused a storm of 37 mm fire on the exposed dhow, aiming for her guns with HE fragmentation rounds. The dhow fought back desperately, but the Albatros soon evened the odds by silencing two of the enemy vessel's three-inch bronze guns. The motor sloop helped by engaging the enemy vessel from a position on her other bow, and soon destroyed the dhow's remaining gun.

  By this time, the second enemy dhow had succeeded in maneuvering so as to unmask her guns, and opened a fierce fire on the two Kerguelenian vessels. She dedicated two of her three guns to attacking the motor sloop, whose recoilless rifle was the deadliest weapon on either side, at least at these ranges. But this meant that the Albatros's 37 mm rifle could get off three or more rounds for every shot the pirate vessel fired from the one gun devoted to her. The motor sloop, meanwhile, danced at the very edge of the range of the pirate three-inch guns, pouring a devastating fire into the vessel. First one mast, then the other, went over the side, and the dhow drifted helplessly toward the shore, eventually grounding in shallow water several hundred yards off the southern end of Rue Manceau, a street in Hell-ville proper, very near the shore.