Something about the schooner struck Sam as familiar. It wouldn’t be surprising if he had seen her before, of course, in port back on the Rock, or at one of the Indian Ocean settlements.
The XO walked aft, holding his own telescope. He, too, had been studying the stranger.
“I think I recognize that schooner, Captain. She’s almost certainly the Lac Marville. Do you remember her? We watched her depart from Hell-ville.”
“You’re right, Bill – I thought I had seen her before.”
“Strange thing is – why isn’t she well into the Forties by now? She sailed days before we did, and her skipper told me he was homeward-bound, with no port calls en route.”
The same thought struck them at once. “You don’t suppose...?” Bill began.
“There may be a perfectly innocent explanation for her delay, but let’s take no chances. Battle stations, Mister Schofield.”
The officer of the watch immediately shouted “battle stations”, and the bosun’s mates shrilled their calls. The word was also passed via the schooner’s PA system, as was standard procedure, but so softly as to go unheard in the general uproar; the schooner’s battery bank was nearly flat because of recent light winds and steady use of interior lighting. Wind generation of electricity might be all very well down home, where the wind blew all the time, Sam thought, but in the tropics it could be very unsatisfactory.
“Recall the motor sloop,” Sam ordered, and a red rocket soared brilliantly up into the clear blue sky.
“Set every stitch you can hang out, Mister Schofield.” Fortuitously, the wind had now freshened a bit, and Albatros moved through the water with increasing speed as more staysails and the square topsail were set, now on a broad reach and a northerly heading, a course to intercept the Lac Marville.
Mr. Du Plessis hurried aft, and asked, “Where shall we mount the 25 mm rifle, Captain?” The Gunner, alone among the crew, stubbornly refused to call it the “one-incher”.
Sam thought a moment, then replied, “On the port bow, as far forward as you conveniently may. But tell the gunners to be ready to shift her rapidly from side to side, as necessary.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
With the slightly fresher breeze, the two schooners were closing more quickly. Lac Marville was now on a beat, and pitching slightly into the slight swell.
The lookout shouted, “Sail one point on the starboard bow.” Sam snatched up his telescope, and saw a pair of white blobs nicking the northern horizon.
“Well, well, XO,” he said. “It never rains but it pours.”
“Ten francs says both those vessels are in the hands of the pirates,” replied Bill. “And another ten that the second one is the Marchande Austral.”
At that point, the Lac Marville tacked, then fell off through 180 degrees to the reciprocal of the course she had been steering, directly away from the Albatros.
Sam laughed. “No bet, XO – we just got confirmation. There’s no way the skipper of the Marville could fail to recognize the Albatros, and he could hardly believe that we’re in the hands of the pirates!”
Some of the hands on deck laughed, and one cried gloatingly, “She’s running away from us!”
“Silence there, 'midships!” growled a petty officer.
Sam knew Lac Marville wasn’t running away – whatever may be said of the pirates, there had never been any question of their courage.
No, it was clear to him that the Marville intended to join her consort, the strange schooner on the horizon, and then attack the Albatros with the odds in their favor, as had been the case in the Albatros's two previous battles with pirates. And, for that matter, in Sam's first encounter with the pirates when he was master of the merchant schooner Kiasu. Sam wondered if they were cursed to always be outnumbered two to one, and when their luck would run out. For he knew that their previous victories had relied to a great extent on good luck.
Sam looked astern through his telescope, and saw that the motor sloop had left her station at the mouth of the creek and, in response to his signal, was forging at full speed through the Albatros’s wake to rejoin. The wind was still light enough that the sloop had a speed advantage of several knots, and was steadily closing the distance. This was a relief – he couldn’t afford to reduce sail to allow her to catch up, for fear that Marville would thus be allowed to join up with her consort, but he badly wanted the extra firepower the sloop represented. He was glad not to be presented with the choice.
For a couple of bells, the chase continued over the turquoise tropic sea, both Albatros and Marville showing all the canvas they had, including gaff and square topsails. From a God’s-eye view, it would have been a pretty sight – the white sails against the blue sea – pleasant sailing but for the tension that gripped all hands.
As a race, it was really no contest, however, since the Albatros was longer and therefore, other things being equal, faster, and could spread more sail on her three masts than Marville ever could on her two.
“Mister Du Plessis!” Sam called, and the Gunner came hurrying aft.
“Take her under fire as soon as she’s within range, Guns. Try to cripple her – knock away her rudder, or a mast.”
“I think she’s just within range now, Skipper,” Du Plessis answered, and ran back to the bows. Almost immediately, the ear-splitting crash of the one-inch rifle rang out. It was apparently a clean miss, because there was no visible impact on the target vessel, nor a splash in the sea near her.
But the gun’s crew found their target after a few rounds wide, short, and over;, and settled down to a steady fire that could be seen to have an effect, nearly every other round creating a puff of smoke and a just-visible cloud of splinters.
Sam glanced aft, and saw that the motor sloop had closed to within hailing distance. He grabbed up the megaphone, and shouted, “Take a towline, Mister Peltier, and help us nearer the chase. And take her under fire once you’re clear.”
The midshipmen waved an acknowledgment, and passed the schooner to starboard. It slackened speed at the schooner’s bow long enough to take a towline, then surged ahead.
Lieutenant Munro, now the officer of the watch, was ready this time: “Douse the square topsail!” he shouted. “Sheet in as the wind comes forward!”
The motor sloop took the strain on the towline just as the sails were trimmed appropriately, and Sam could feel the little surge of additional speed – only a knot and a fraction, but enough to overhaul the Marville at a perceptibly faster rate.
The sloop’s one-inch rifle joined in the battle, and, as the range shortened, Sam was gratified to see the Marville’s main topmast and main gaff shot away. She began to steer wildly, too – an indicator that her rudder had been damaged.
“Have the motor sloop recalled, Mister Munro,” Sam said. Munro sent a seaman forward to semaphore the recall signal to the sloop. She acknowledged the order, and immediately turned back toward the Albatros, two seamen in the stern hauling in the now-slack towline to keep it out of her screw.
As the sloop came alongside to starboard, Sam grabbed his megaphone and yelled down to the midshipman, “Mister Peltier, drop the tow and stay with the enemy schooner. Don’t try to board her – just keep hurting her all you can – try to keep her from repairing her battle damage. And for God’s sake, keep well clear – she may be armed with one of those hellish fire weapons! We’ll be back for you once we’ve sorted out her mate, there. And good luck to you!”
“Aye aye, sir. Good luck to you, too, sir!”
One of the pirate vessels at the first battle off Pirate Creek had been armed with a frightening weapon: a flame projector. It had caused horrendous wounds and one death among the Albatros's crew, as well as starting a fire that was extinguished only with difficulty. Fortunately, it had a very short range.
A crashing boom from the Marville drowned out Peltier’s last few words, and a cloud of smoke and splinters near the Albatros’s bow indicated that their prey had teeth, too. Sam heard cries of pain forward, a
nd saw that the Albatros had taken a hit on her port bow. The Marville had clearly been armed with at least one of the three-inch smooth bores the Albatros had first encountered off Andilana.
“Fall off!” Sam shouted to the helmsman, and the Albatros sheered away from the enemy schooner. The motor sloop, caught by surprise by this maneuver, crashed against the starboard side of the Albatros, but quickly sheered off as well. Sam glanced quickly over the side and saw no damage done to the schooner other than scuffed paint. He seized his megaphone and shouted to Peltier, “Any damage to the sloop?”
The last word of this sentence was drowned out by another crash from the enemy vessel. Sam looked forward in time to see a splash just forward of the Albatros’s bowsprit. They were apparently at the extreme range of the enemy’s gun. This was encouraging, since, at about three cable lengths, they were well within range of Albatros’s one-inch rifle.
“No serious damage, sir!” came Peltier’s reply. “One casualty.”
Sam looked back down at the sloop and saw one seaman grimacing in pain as a shipmate bound up his left hand in a handkerchief. He could guess how that happened: the man had carelessly had his hand on the sloop’s gunwale when the two vessels came together, and got his fingers crushed.
“Send your injured man aboard, Mister Peltier,” Sam shouted back. His whole being rebelled at any delay in closing with the second enemy schooner, but he couldn’t in good conscience leave the man aboard the sloop to suffer for hours without medical attention. Munro yelled for the pilot ladder to be put over, and the injured seaman, supported from below by a couple of his mates, started to climb it awkwardly, using only his right hand. A part of Sam’s mind found time to hope, for the man's sake, that he was right-handed.
The Boatswain came hurrying aft with a damage report, followed closely by the Gunner.
“Bad news, Mister Terreblanche?”
“Not too bad, Captain. Three men with splinter wounds. The port rail is shattered for about a fathom, in way of the anchor capstan. We’ve rigged safety lines.”
“Are the wounded being seen to?”
“But yes, Captain – they were taken straight down to sick bay.”
“Well done, Boats. What’s your news, Guns?”
“Two of those wounded men were the 25 mm gunners, Captain. The gun was dismounted, but the gun itself was undamaged as far as I can tell – I need to examine it more closely. The mount may have been damaged. My mates are working on it now.”
“Can you re-mount it?” Sam asked anxiously – with the second one-incher in the motor sloop, the dismounted rifle constituted all of Albatros’ remaining firepower, apart from the small arms.
“Working on it now, Skipper. Luckily, Mister Daniel” – the French Port gunsmith who had designed and manufactured the one-inch rifles -- “very thoughtfully provided us with a full set of spares for both rifles and mounts. If the mount can’t be repaired quickly, we’ll jury rig something. It should be back in action soon, with the standby gun crew.”
“Well done, both of you. I won’t keep you.” With this hint, both warrant officers hurried back forward.
“Carry on as ordered, Mister Peltier,” Sam shouted to the motor sloop through the megaphone. “But go no closer – not a fathom closer – to the enemy schooner than we are now!”
“Aye aye, sir,” came the reply shouted back as the motor sloop fell back to allow Albatros to pull ahead.
Sam now focused on the schooner approaching from the north. He heard the sounds of combat being resumed between the motor sloop and the Marville – a dull boom as the enemy tried a ranging shot, the sharp crack of the sloop’s one-inch rifle – but he resisted the temptation to look aft. He had no attention to spare for second-guessing Mr. Peltier’s battle. He could only hope the young gadget was up to the responsibility.
The possibility still remained that the oncoming schooner was not in the hands of the pirates after all – that she was an innocent Kerguelenian homeward-bounder. Her behavior as she neared the Albatros would make clear which was the case.
Sam could see now through the telescope that she was a three-master, almost the twin of Albatros. In this breeze, which had freshened to about ten knots over the course of the morning, she had a very small bone in her teeth, a mustache of foam, as she beat into the steady southeasterly.
Sam wondered why, if she was in fact in the hands of the pirates, she was sailing so far astern of her consort. Was this evidence that she was an innocent bystander?
No. Just as that thought passed through Sam’s mind, she wore right around through 180 degrees and sailed directly away from the Albatros, as clear a sign of guilt as if she flew a giant banner that read: “Pirate!”
Sam could almost read her commander’s mind: he now had no hope of joining forces with Lac Marville and presenting Albatros with odds of two to one, before having to engage Albatros on her own. So he decided to fight another day. Given what Sam had observed of the fanatical courage of the pirates, he could only assume this meant that the commander of the chase was aware of the superior range and accuracy of Albatros’s guns, and therefore knew that fighting her alone, however bravely, would only sacrifice his men and vessel uselessly.
If he had known that Albatros was down to just one of her one-inch rifles, and that one currently dismounted, he might have made a different decision.
Sam saw her square topsail being set as she ran almost before the wind on a broad reach. He looked up and saw that their own square topsail had not been re-set after it was doused for the brief tow the Albatros took from the motor sloop.
“Have the square topsail set, Mister Munro. And quickly!”
“Aye aye, sir,” Munro replied, and gave the order.
The XO came aft, and said to Sam, “Guns reports that the one-incher is OK, and the mount is damaged but repairable, although it will have to be rebuilt completely. He and his mates are working furiously on it now.”
“It won’t matter if we can’t catch her,” Sam said pessimistically. He had noted that the distance between the two vessels had, if anything, widened. The two schooners, so similar in rig and build, should be about equal in speed. The winner of the race would be the one with the cleanest bottom and the best sailors.
Sam did not think his bottom could be very clean after all this time in tropical waters. He hoped the same thing could be said of his opponent.
The XO sent the midshipman of the watch to his temporary cabin – normally Lieutenant Kendall’s – for his sextant. When it arrived, he measured the vertical angle between the enemy schooner’s maintop and the waterline. He left the sextant set at that angle and re-checked it from time to time. Sam could tell from Bill’s face that the results did not please him.
After twenty minutes, Ennis said reluctantly, “She’s gaining on us. Not by much, but she’s definitely a bit faster.”
Sam swore and stamped the deck in frustration. He stared up at Albatros’s masts and sails, looking for a sheet improperly trimmed, a halyard not two-blocked, but he could find no fault with Munro’s adjustment of the rig. Instead of pleasure at Munro’s apparent self-improvement in the art of schooner-sailing, he felt only greater frustration at his inability to find some way squeeze another fraction of a knot out of the vessel.
He paced for a few minutes, lost in furious thought, then said to the watch officer, “Pass the word for Mister Lim.”
The grizzled old warrant sailmaker appeared quickly. He was the oldest man on the ship, and Sam had hesitated about accepting him when he showed up at the gangway to volunteer. But he was enthusiastic, very fit for his age, and, most importantly, he was probably the best sailmaker on Kerguelen. After years at sea, he had swallowed the anchor to work ashore at his trade, and eventually came to own French Port’s most respected, and busiest, sail loft.
“Sails, you know what a bonnet is, don’t you?”
“O'course, sir. It’s a way to increase the area of a loose-footed fore-and-aft sail, such as a jib or staysail. It’s a panel
of sailcloth made to lace onto the foot of the sail.”
“I may be using the term wrong, then. Because what I want you to do is make what is in effect a bonnet for the square topsail – to make the sail a lot bigger and fuller-bottomed -- and in a helluva hurry! Can you do that?”
Lim took off his hat and scratched his head as he thought a moment.
“It’s all them grommets that take the most time, sir – a row of grommets in the foot of the topsail and the top of the bonnet, for to lace them together. It would go quicker if we just sewed them, head to foot. Then we’d only have to turn in two grommets, one in each clew of the bonnet, for the sheet and tack. That be okay, Cap’n?”
“Perfectly okay, Sails. And don’t worry about a neat appearance – the quicker the better.”
Lim looked affronted at the notion of deliberately not doing work in a seamanlike manner, but only said “Aye aye, sir,” and hurried away forward, calling for his mates. They roused a bolt of sailcloth out of their stores, and were soon busy measuring, cutting, turning in grommets, and sewing on boltropes, all working together around the perimeter of the expanse of canvas spread out on the foredeck. They finished the sail quicker than Sam had dared hope, and Mr. Lim came aft to ask the watch officer to have the square topsail lowered to the deck.
“Stitch fast, Mister Lim – I don’t want that topsail on deck for more than a couple of heartbeats, hear? Every minute it’s down, the chase will gain on us.”
Sam walked forward with Mr. Lim, hoping to add urgency to the work by his presence.
As soon as the topsail came down, yard and all, the sailmaker’s mates, palms and needles at the ready, matched the two sails, head to foot, and started stitching madly, needles flashing in the sun, as many as could crowd along the seam.
“Quick, boys! Never mind neatness!” Sam urged, and the needles flashed faster. Lim groaned as each big, uneven, “homeward-bound” stitch stabbed him to the depths of his tidy sailmaker’s soul, but the job was quickly done, and the topsail re-hoisted, this time to the top of the lower foremast,under the fore-stay, rather than to the topmast, so that it would not fouled by the stay.
The Cruise of the Albatros: Book Two of the Westerly Gales Saga Page 9