Into Uncharted Seas (Westerly Gales)

by E. C. Williams

  “Main battery, Pilot: leave her for the militia!” Sam barked to his phone talker. “Chase that other dhow. To motor sloop: 'pursue and disable enemy vessel'.”

  The first dhow, rig intact, had sailed away southwestward toward Point Mahatsinjo. A stream of water jetting out to leeward showed that she had been holed at least once, but she didn't appear to be low in the water, or at all sluggish, so clearly the pirate's damage control measures were coping. The motor sloop chased her, firing a round at her stern that narrowly missed. The dhow replied immediately, a near miss that showered the sloop with its splash. The sloop spun in a tight circle and opened the range before resuming fire. “Good boy,” murmured Sam appreciatively; his greatest fear was the loss of the sloop and her rifle, irreplaceable in the near term. At the same time, he realized that, in naval warfare, an asset never risked is no asset at all, so there was always that tension between taking full advantage of the sloop's capabilities and minimizing the risk of losing her. But he had to keep in mind that he was fighting a poor man's war, with expensive platforms like the motor sloop and weapons such as the recoilless rifle virtually irreplaceable in the short run.

  The first dhow, wind right on her beam, was picking up speed and already opening the range on the slower Albatros. The pirate vessel also kept up a furious fire at the motor sloop, forcing her to haul off to the very edge of her maximum effective range.

  The gun dhow was on a course to weather Point Mahatsinjo. What would she do next? Sam tried to put himself in her commander's place: he would of course do everything possible to recover the landing party, now holding out in the Castle, according to radio reports of the battle ashore.

  That would put both dhow and landing party in an extremely vulnerable position, from both seaward and landward. But in that position Sam would take the risk anyway, rather than simply abandon his men.

  Would the Caliphate commander do what Sam would have done? Judging from past encounters, he didn't think so; he thought the dhow would sail away as fast as she could, to preserve something from the debacle the raid had become for the pirates.

  And the dhow had to be sunk. Kerguelen and her allies could never win a war of attrition against the vastly wealthier and more populous Caliphate. The enemy had to be beaten decisively in every encounter, to convince them that they could not defeat the Kerguelenians, and force them to make peace.

  “To motor sloop: query fuel state,” Sam said to his phone talker, who relayed this to the bow, where a signalman semaphored the message to the motor sloop. The reply came back in a few minutes: “APPROX TWO ZERO MINS THIS SPEED.”

  “To motor sloop: return to Mother for refueling,” Sam said. It might be a long chase.

  Once refueled, the sloop could harry the dhow, perhaps disable her with a lucky hit, but Sam didn't want to risk her at closer than extreme range until the Albatros could come up and offer support.

  He considered what fire tactic would be most likely to slow the dhow enough to allow the Albatros to catch up: fragmentation rounds aimed at her rig and steering? Or repeated solid shot to her hull, to overwhelm her damage control crews and cause flooding? He made a snap decision.

  “To main battery: rake her with solid shot, rapid fire.” The aspect the dhow presented, stern-on, meant that most hits by the Albatros would cause not one breach in her hull but two, as they raked her stern to stem. In addition, every round would create a cloud of lethal splinters below, making life unpleasant for her damage control crews.

  The 37 mm gun's crew fell into a well-drilled groove, firing a round every five to ten seconds. Sam judged that at least a third of them were hits, after the first few ranging rounds. The near misses splashed well forward.

  He was puzzled by the fact that the dhow seemed to be steering an erratic course. Then he realized that it was deliberate: a weave a few degrees either side of the heading that would allow her to weather Point Mahatsinjo. After he moment, he grinned. Clever old fighter, that dhow skipper. He was chasing shell splashes, taking what advantage he could, even at his relatively slow speed, of the probabilistic element inherent in the most carefully aimed gunfire – the low likelihood of two rounds falling twice in succession in precisely the same spot.

  The motor sloop made a wide circle to the south-east and approached the Albatros from astern, coming up on her starboard side to take a line. A party of engineer's mates were ready with the fuel hose and pump, and within seconds palm oil was surging through the line into the sloop's tank. Mr. Munro, officer in charge of the sloop, shouted up for more ammo. Gunner's mates quickly brought up round after round from the magazine until the boat could stow no more. Her little water tank was refilled as well – in the heat and tension of battle, in a tropical climate, men needed lots of water.

  Within minutes, the motor sloop had been refueled and resupplied, cast off, and dropped aft to cross the Albatros's stern. She then swung out to the south-eastward and surged forward to catch up with the pirate dhow.

  By this time, the enemy vessel had drawn well ahead of the Albatros, come abeam of Crater Bay Point, and altered course to the westward. Sam couldn't yet tell if she intended to sail up the coast to Castle Beach and attempt to lift the pirate landing force, or run away to the westward on a beam reach.

  The sloop, motoring at her maximum speed of twelve or so knots, soon came abeam of the dhow, staying well out at the extreme range of her guns, a tactic Sam had pounded into Munro's head. She opened a deliberate fire, and began to score better than one hit for every two or three rounds, since the dhow, now beam-on, presented a bigger target. This just happened, as well, to be the safest attitude from which the 75 mm recoilless could be fired, with the back blast directed out abeam of the sloop. Return fire from the pirate's smooth-bore bronze three-inchers was mostly wide or short, although the occasional near-miss showered the sloop's crew with seawater.

  Meanwhile, the Albatros's 37 mm rifle maintained a steady fire at the dhow's stern, alternating solid shot aimed for her hull and fragmentation rounds into her rig.

  At the same time, as Sam later learned, the militia was having a tough time with the dhow grounded off Rue Manceau. The first tactic tried by the soldiers, an assault by small boat, was instantly broken up by devastating fire from the dhow, the crew of which clearly had no intention of giving up. At the same time as they were driving off the boats, they continued working frantically to re-float their vessel, as evidenced by the pulsating jets of water spurting from the decks as they pumped. The hands on deck were seen to be busy trying to put together some sort of jury rig. DC gangs were also no doubt busy below, patching up shot holes.

  The on-scene commander ordered up Battery Berthe from the waterfront. The 75 mm recoilless rifle opened fire on the dhow, but its effectiveness was diminished by the fact that its location was plainly and dramatically revealed by the back-blast from every round it fired. The reckless-rifle had to “shoot-and-scoot”, a tactic the crew had practiced in the duel for the harbor. This was effective in protecting the rifle – so far – but it greatly reduced its rate of fire. The dhow had succeeded in returning two of its guns to action, and kept up a suppressive fire on Berthe.

  Hank Dallas arrived at the command post of the captain in charge of the ad-hoc task force besieging the dhow, the threat to the Joan having ended. Adrenaline was still pumping through his system, and he couldn't bear the thought of returning to regimental headquarters, to maps and telephones. He introduced himself to the militia officer, and said, “Mind if I hang around and watch?”

  “Not at all, Lieutenant; be my guest. It'll take awhile, but we've got that pirate dhow in the bag. She ain't going anywhere – it's just a matter of time.”

  “Well, Captain, it's a matter of not much time, if you don't mind me saying so. She's quickly lightening the vessel – see the jets of water? She'll be patching shot holes in the hull too.

  “And – look – she just launched a boat on the offshore side.”

  “Where? I don't see it.”

  �
��It's in the water now, shielded by the dhow herself. The boat must be taking an anchor out so they can kedge her off.”

  “What's that mean? 'Kedge'?”

  “It means to drop an anchor as far out into deep water as they have cable, then heave way on it with the anchor winch to pull her out of the shallows. They'll soon have a jury sail rig up, too. That vessel's doing her damnedest to get away from you, Captain.”

  The militia officer's complacent look was replaced by one of worry. He was no doubt thinking about what the colonel would say if the pirate dhow, disabled and aground, managed to get away from under his very nose.

  “What can we do about it?”

  “Signal Berthe to fire at her hull with solid shot. Maybe if you can get ahead of her damage control parties you can keep her flooded and hard aground.”

  “Our reckless rifles aren't issued with solid shot – just HE and frag.” Hank groaned to himself. The rifle in its entire combat career so far had been used only as an anti-ship weapon – yet it had not been given the rounds most useful against ships.

  “Well, have her shoot at the gang working on deck, on that jury rig, with fragmentation rounds. If we can stop her from getting any sort of sail up, we can keep her nearby until the Albatros can take care of her, even if she manages to kedge off.” Hank then added hurriedly, “I mean, that's what I'd recommend,” becoming conscious that he had sounded rather as if he were taking command.

  “Okay.” The militia captain, who seemed not to have noticed Hank's tone, or if he had, taken no offense, scribbled a message and shouted for a runner. Hank asked, aghast, “Don't you have a radio?”

  “The battery might, but I don't. Radios are in short supply in this outfit.” Hank was appalled. Weapons, tactics, training – all were trumped by a lack of reliable communications. “How long will it take to get that message to the battery?”

  “Hard to tell. The messenger will have to track her down – she's moving after every shot.” Hank could see that for himself. The recoilless rifle was moving back and forth on the landward side of Rue Manceau, utilizing the shelter of buildings – which were rapidly becoming ruins as the dhow's guns chased it from place to place.

  Hank had to admire the determination of the dhow's commander. The odds were very much against him, but he seemed bent on fighting it out to the end.

  The motor sloop, by now, had succeeded in shredding both of the second dhow's sails. Fortunately, contact fuses for the 75 mm, which had a slightly lower velocity than the 37 mm, could be robust enough to handle safely, but sensitive enough to explode on contact with sail canvas. The dhow gradually lost way until she was dead in the water, still firing steadily at both her adversaries.

  Sam was tempted to try to board her – taking a gun-dhow would be a major coup – but he knew from bitter experience that the dhow's commander wanted him to do just that. He didn't know for sure that all Caliphate officers were as suicidally fanatical as the ones he had so far encountered, but he didn't want to find out the hard way.

  “To motor sloop: haul off and stay well away from enemy vessel”, he said to his phone talker. “Luff up” – this to the watch officer. The Albatros eased her sheets and came up into the wind a bit, causing the sails to flutter and stop drawing; the schooner gradually lost way until she, too, was dead in the water.

  Now there ensued a duel at extreme range. As the dhow drifted, her head come up into the wind, and her crew had to move her guns again and again to keep them bearing on the Albatros and the motor sloop. Sam marveled, not for the first time, at the ability of the pirates to move the heavy three-inch bronze cannon quickly from point to point around the vessel's perimeter. The mobile mounts they used, which he had never had an opportunity to examine closely, must be of an ingenious design.

  The Albatros and the motor sloop both had the advantage in accuracy in this shoot-out at maximum range, however, and the dhow's topsides gradually became a splintered wreck, while the vessel herself settled lower in the water. Her return fire died away, as did the jets of water from her pumps.

  “Cease fire,” Sam ordered, and, with the cessation of gunfire, a profound silence fell over the schooner, shocking after the continuous din of battle. Sam stared at the battered, mastless dhow through his telescope. Any ordinary enemy would have surrendered by now; Sam would have ordered the Albatros to close and board an ordinary enemy by this point. But he had learned that Caliphate fighters never gave up.

  He braced himself for the shattering explosion, the column of fire, that he confidently expected any moment. When it came, it was an anti-climax; there was a muffled whump from below decks, and the dhow's bow and stern both rose as she began to sink amidships.

  “Looks like she had just enough powder left to do the job, Commodore,” rasped Al Kendall, who had come aft to confer with Sam at the cessation of fire, the sound-powered phones not lending themselves to any lengthy exchange of views – and they offered no privacy of communication, being all on a “party line”.

  “Ja. Just enough to break her back,” Sam replied. “Well, let's try to pick up survivors. Warn our men in the boats to be careful – you know how they are.” In the past, survivors from Caliphate vessels in the water would feign exhaustion or wounds until pulled into a boat, then strike out with a hidden blade. In one case, a wounded fighter already in sick bay had managed to snatch a knife from a seaman and strike out at his rescuers.

  Now that his fierce concentration on the dhow had relaxed, and his own gunfire had ceased, Sam could hear, faintly, the rattle of small arms from the fight for the Castle, and, louder, the duel between the militia's reckless rifle and the grounded dhow, reminding him that the battle was not yet over. He decided that the survivors would have to wait.

  “Belay that,” he shouted to a group of seamen in the act of launching a pulling boat. “To motor sloop, 'ignore my last – return and engage grounded dhow from offshore side'. Pilot: tack.” While his phone talker repeated his last two orders, he turned to Kendall and said, “We've still got work to do, Al – better go forward again.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “'Commodore to motor sloop: remember, your overs will impact in the town'. Guns, you get that too?” Both acknowledged.

  The schooner began to come up into the wind in a smooth curve, then her sails slatted and she fell into irons – heading ineffectually into the slight breeze, going nowhere. Sam cursed, but it wasn't the fault of his deck crew; a fluke of the wind had hit her dead on the nose just as she was coming about.

  “To motor sloop: belay my last. Return to Mother and tow our head around to put us on the starboard tack.”

  It took some time to get the sloop's attention. Munro and his crew were apparently too focused on the destruction of the second dhow to spare a glance back at the Albatros.

  “Give her a rocket!” Sam shouted in exasperation, and a red rocket was quickly ignited to soar up and over the sloop. This got her attention, and Sam's last order was transmitted and acknowledged.

  “To motor sloop: 'be attentive to signals of Flag',” Sam said irritably, and resolved to give Munro a metaphorical rocket to supplement the actual one just launched.

  The sloop circled and motored back to the Albatros. She took a towline, and soon had the schooner under way on the port tack. She was then allowed to escape her leash and turn her attention to the grounded dhow.

  Sam saw a small boat to seaward of the dhow. He raised his telescope for a closer look, and reckoned that it was taking an anchor out: the dhow was trying to kedge herself off.

  “To motor sloop: sink that small boat.” The sloop promptly did so, with two rounds, leaving a few survivors in the water.

  This marked the end for the grounded dhow. Fire from the motor sloop, battery Berthe, and Albatros soon turned her into a flaming wreck. Figures could be seen leaping over the side. Not, Sam was sure, to ultimately save their lives so much as to avoid the horror of being burned to death.

  Albatros and her motor sloop next turned thei
r attention to the Castle. Their fire, with that of battery Alphonse, soon leveled the Castle ruins completely, leaving no cover for the defenders. They lashed out in one last suicide charge which ended only when all had been killed.

  Sam now, at last, ordered boats away to assist the motor sloop in picking up enemy survivors. They didn't get many, mostly men too exhausted, or too disabled by wounds, to fight back. Still, Hank Dallas would be glad of some Caliphate fighters to chat with.

  So ended what came to be known as the Battle of Nosy Be.

  - 19 -

  Sam paced the quarterdeck of the Albatros in his usual fashion, waiting for “up spirits” to be piped; after events of the past week, he had begun to look forward to the morning tot eagerly – perhaps a bit too eagerly. But with characteristic self-denial, he restricted himself to just the one.

  Albatros was at anchor in the outer harbor of Hell-ville. Banging and hammering noises came from below and topsides as repair crews set about repairing the combat damage she had suffered. She had been holed a couple of times below the water line, and the schooner's efficient damage control gangs were replacing the temporary cement patches applied at the time with sturdier versions. She would have to wait her turn to go into drydock for permanent repairs, since the Joan was still occupying it. However, the good news was that all work on her would soon be completed, and she would – finally – be ready for sea once more..

  Sam had approved, after the fact, Hank Dallas's high-handed commandeering of the Saint Denis and the Zeeschuimer as shields for the Joan. Their owners were irate and bombarded the governor of Nosy Be, as well as the Kerguelenian High Commissioner, with demands for restitution. There was as yet no such thing as war insurance, and their underwriters, using standard clauses centuries old, had excepted damage or detention from force majeure.

  But the Dominion of Nosy Be, in gratitude for the Kerguelenian Navy's role in the recent battle, had saved the day by buying them from their owners at market value, then took responsibility for repairing them, with the announced intention of donating the vessels to the Navy. Four twenty-five millimeter rifles were being manufactured to arm them, and while Sam was unsure how he would find enough trained sailors to man them, he had no doubt about how he would employ them. He had never had enough warcraft to devote even a single one exclusively to the shipping protection role – now he had two. Renamed Scorpion – in honor of the lost dhow – and Wasp, they would cruise the Mascarene islands approaches, sweeping for war dhows and alert to cries for help from merchantmen.