Sam went into the chart room and drafted a radio message for Foch, requesting the pistols to be shipped out as soon as possible.
When he came out of the chart room, and sent the message down to radio by the midshipman of the watch, Sam realized two things at once – it was dark, and he was exhausted. He approached Mr. Mooney, the warrant officer who was Albatros's navigator.
The Pilot, as he was always known on board – a pilot being the seaman's idea of the acme of shiphandling and navigation – had finished plotting his evening star fix, and dismissed the midshipmen, all of whom were required to take morning and evening stars under his supervision as part of their training. The celestial navigation portion of the KBS master's license exam was notoriously difficult. The minimum passing grade was 90%, and a master's ticket was one of the requirements for promotion to lieutenant.
“Pilot, we'll reduce sail for the night, and stand off and on the mouth of the creek until first light. Put in my night orders to call Mister Schofield, the motor sloop's crew, and the first squad of seamen-gunners with the morning watch. Call me then, too.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Sam then went below to his cabin and collapsed instantly into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER 8
When the midshipman of the watch rapped on Sam's cabin door the next morning, he was already dressed and in the act of lacing his shoes. When he was at sea, some part of his mind, however soundly he slept, always seemed to count the bells and wake him on time. But he was afraid to rely exclusively on this quirk, and always left a wake-up call anyway.
He was thus on deck in good time to see the oncoming watch being mustered, the landing party formed up, and preparations for launching the motor sloop commenced.
Schofield came aft and said, “Any last orders, sir?”
“No, Dave. Can't think of any – just don't lose my motor sloop, hear?”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Is that your granddad's pistol? May I see it?”
“Certainly, Skipper,” and Schofield withdrew the weapon from his belt and presented it to Sam, butt forward.
“Is it loaded?”
“Only five chambers, sir – the chamber under the hammer is empty, for safety.”
“Sound practice.”
Sam hefted the pistol in his right hand, and sighted down the barrel with it pointed astern, out to sea. Schofield said, “Grandpa told us they were trained to steady it with their free hand under the butt.”
Sam did this, and found he was able thereby to hold the pistol steadier.
“What caliber is it?”
“Nine millimeter, sir. It's a six-shot, single-action revolver. 'Single-action' means you have to cock the hammer with your thumb after every round.”
“Thanks, Dave,” Sam said, returning the weapon. “And now, looks like the sloop is manned and ready to launch. Good luck!”
“Thank you sir.”
That will do very nicely, Sam thought, about the 9 mm pistol, and hoped that Foch had gotten the message he had sent last night. If so, they would have at least a dozen, and hopefully twenty or so, of those useful little weapons, with a supply of ammunition, within a matter of weeks.
It occurred to him, too, that if gunsmiths could make repeating pistols, why not repeating rifles? And repeating shotguns? Worth looking into.
By the time it was light enough to make out the shore as a low, dark line on the western horizon, the motor sloop – so called because it had been completed from the hull of a coasting sloop already on the builder's ways, and also because the order “launch the motor launch” sounded comically redundant – was in the water, fully manned, idling alongside as its Stirling-cycle engine warmed up to operating temperature.
“Green rocket shoreward,” called the bow lookout, and Sam turned just in time to see the green rocket joined by a red one. The red rocket was obviously meant to add urgency to the signal conveyed by the green one.
“Carry on, Mister Schofield,” he shouted down to the sloop. “Good luck!”
“Aye aye sir. And thanks.”
The sloop dropped its sea painter and moved silently away, slowly at first and then with gathering speed, disappearing almost immediately, except for its stern light, in the pre-dawn gloom.
Then dawn came, with the usual tropical suddenness, and Sam could follow the motor sloop with his telescope all the way to the mouth of the creek.
After that, it was a matter of waiting. The Albatros cruised under reduced sail back and forth off the creek mouth, as close inshore as the Pilot dared, given the shoals that stretched out on either side of the channel, which was scoured out once or twice a day by the ebbing tide. The schooner went from a beat into the gentle south-westerly to a run and back again, never sailing so far north or south as to lose sight of the creek mouth.
This went on until “up spirits” was piped, to the cheers of the sailors, and the daily rum ration – “elevenses” – was served out. Then, an hour later, “mess call” was piped, and the hands went to dinner by watch.
Sam decided to remain on deck and dine on a mug of coffee and a slab of the latest version of the “iron ration” Cookie was experimenting with, at the request of the First Lieutenant. Kendall wanted some form of food the landing force could take ashore that would be less messy and smelly, and keep longer, than the salt fish and cold boiled potatoes that was presently their only choice for field rations.
His steward, Ritchie, brought his scanty dinner to him with an expression of deep disapproval – he was always ready to prepare an elaborate meal for his captain, doing wonders with the limited range of ingredients available. When Sam remained on deck and made a meal of a cold boiled potato – or the experimental field ration – it was, to Ritchie's mind, a waste of the culinary artistry he had developed in the kitchens of the finest restaurants in French Port. As it was, Ritchie only got to display his talents fully on the rare occasions when the Captain entertained his officers or shoreside dignitaries at dinner.
“What is it this time, Ritchie?” Sam asked, as he looked dubiously at the slap of hard substance in his hand.
“Cook minced up fish, potato, and cabbage very fine, with a very little palm oil – at my advice she also added a little cane sugar for palatability – and baked it in thin sheets at low temperature for hours until completely dehydrated.” Sam could hear the very slight stress on the phrase “at my advice”, and the nearly audible sniff that accompanied it. Ritchie had a low opinion of the talents of the ship's cook, and sometimes condescended to offer her tips on improving her food; he was offended that, for some reason, she was not as appreciative as she should have been.
Sam took a cautious nibble, and found it rock hard. After considerable chewing, he was able to swallow, and considered: bland – which was good, since any strong flavor would surely pall after days of eating the same thing – not as fishy or salty as he expected, and slightly sweet. He dunked his next bite in his coffee, to soften it, and found the flavor thereby improved.
“Not bad,” he said. “Tell Cookie that this may do very well. Ask her to wrap up the rest of this batch and set it aside for a few days to see how it keeps.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Another uneventful hour went by. Sam finished his slab of landing-party ration, and decided that, however nourishing it was, he'd hate to have to live on it indefinitely. He sent for Ritchie to bring him another mug of coffee, to rinse away the taste.
Then the lookout called, “Motor sloop standin' out from shore,” and Sam grabbed his telescope off the rack on the rear bulkhead of the chartroom, its fair-weather stow, to take a look. He saw, as expected, the sloop packed with people – but not the same people that crowded it on its trip inshore. Only Schofield, at the helm, Mister Yeo at the engine controls, and a seamen in the bow looked familiar – the rest looked like Kerg civilians. Thin, ragged Kerg civilians – the captives!
“By God, Bill, we did it! We rescued the prisoners – or at least some of 'em!”
“Congratulations, Skipper!”
“No – congratulate Kendall and his landing party when they return – they did it.”
After what seemed an interminable wait, the sloop was alongside, the pilot ladder rigged, and sailors were helping the newly-freed captives up the ladder and on board the Albatros. They were all women and small children – no men or adolescent boys. They were dressed in rags, and very gaunt. Some of the women wept for joy; others seized the nearest seamen and hugged and kissed them, to the red-faced consternation of the objects of their gratitude.
Sam wondered what should be his first order with regard to these people, so obviously in need of food, water, medical attention, whole clothing – some of the women wore garments so tattered that they had to clutch them together with both hands to maintain their modesty in front of so many men.
Thank God for a good XO.
Before Sam could decide what to do first, Ennis took charge: “Pass the word for Doctor Girard – she needs to examine all these folks, see who needs medical attention. Sails, whip up some sort of decent shifts for the ladies, and have your mates wash and mend their clothes. Boats, have the starboard watch clear number one tween deck of their gear – we'll stow all the liberated prisoners there, and the starbowlines can hot–hammock with the larbowlines until we can land our passengers.”
Lieutenant Schofield approached Sam and said, “Captain, the landing party under Lieutenant Kendall accomplished its mission – we have at least two more boatloads of freed captives still ashore to be lifted before we can bring off our hands. I thought we might tow both pulling boats in, to bring more in one trip.”
“Maybe just one boat, Lieutenant,” replied Sam, looking at the sea and sky. “The wind's getting up now, as it generally does in the afternoon, and it may freshen still more as the day wears on. Towing two boatloads of people in a choppy sea could be hazardous. We don't want to drown these folks when they're within sight of salvation.”
“You're right, Skipper – I should have thought of that. One boat it is. Should I go right back in for the rest?”
“Certainly – carry on, Dave”.
“One thing, Skipper – the folks ashore, both the remaining captives and our people, desperately need food and water. And I know we're very short of both, especially water.”
“I know, Dave, and that reminds me of something. Go ahead and get ready for the return, but wait for my word – I need to check on something.
“Gadget, pass the word for the doctor!”
The midshipman of the watch hurried forward to fetch the doctor himself, and soon returned with her.
“Doctor Girard, we have a problem – we're very short of fresh water, because I dumped tons of it over the side to lighten ship during the last battle. Pirate Creek flows fresh at low tide – d'you suppose the water is fit to drink?”
“I'd need a sample to analyze to say for sure – but almost certainly not. At best it would cause dysentery that would be disabling even for healthy young men. It might kill these captives, who are malnourished and dehydrated already.”
“Do you have any means of purifying it?”
“Bringing it to a boil for ten or so minutes will do it.”
“Boiling enough water for the whole crew, plus the captives, would keep the galley too busy to cook for days. Is there anything you can add to the water, to kill the bad bugs?”
“If I used all the bactericides in sick bay, we could treat only enough water for a day – maybe. And then I'd have none for wounds and general antisepsis.”
“What about using rum?”
“Adding enough rum to be sure of purifying the water completely would create a mildly intoxicating drink. The crew would love it, but I don't recommend it, either for the health of the captives – who as I just said are already malnourished and dehydrated, and include many small children – or the safety of operation of the vessel.”
“Merde.” Bill pondered the issue for the moment, then said, “Boiling it will have to be. I'll order strict rationing of drinking water, and we'll just have to eat cold food until we can return to Reunion.”
“That would be satisfactory, Captain. But it would be helpful if your men did a preliminary filtration as they loaded the water – simply stretching some sailcloth over the mouth of the container, for example, to filter out the grosser contaminants.”
“I'll order that done, Doctor. Thanks.”
Doctor Girard took this as dismissal, and turned and walked away without another word, ignoring, as usual, the forms of naval courtesy that were evolving aboard the Albatros. Sam never took offense at this. After all, he had never insisted on deference from his officers and crew beyond the rough and ready forms prevalent on merchant vessels. All these more elaborate behaviors, such as the practice of approaching him when he was on the quarterdeck only through the officer of the watch, originated with the senior officers, and were insisted upon by them. This bothered Sam sometimes, contrasting as it did with the casual, democratic ways of interaction between superior and subordinate typical in Kerguelenian work situations. But Bill insisted that such customs promoted discipline, and discipline, of course, was essential on a fighting ship.
Sam pushed aside considerations of naval etiquette, and focused on more mundane things: notably, providing water for the thirsty mob about to crowd his schooner. He passed the word for the Boatswain, and when he promptly appeared, said, “Mr. Terreblanche, scour the vessel for every decent-sized empty container you can find – those that can be closed or stoppered – and load them into the motor sloop and the pulling boat the sloop will tow ashore. And ask Sails for a few fathoms of sailcloth – clean, new sailcloth – to send ashore, too.” He then sent for Lieutenant Schofield.
“Dave, I'm sending empty containers ashore with you, all we can round up. Kendall can have his men fill them from the creek while you're returning with the rest of the captives. Tell Al to be sure they go far enough upstream to get perfectly fresh water, not brackish.” Sam paused to consider the state of the tide: rising.
“On second thought, tow both pulling boats ashore, after all, but leave one behind for the use of the watering detail; they'll have to go pretty far upstream at this stage of the tide to find fresh water. Include the oars for the boat you'll leave behind.” Sam thought – hoped – that the wind and sea had not yet risen enough to make towing two empty boats risky.
Both the schooner's pulling boats – double-ended ten-oared whaleboats – were launched, and a stream of empty containers of all sorts came up from every corner of the vessel. But most were pretty small, and there were few very big ones.
However, the XO, the Carpenter, and the Sailmaker had put their heads together, and the miscellaneous kegs and cans were supplemented by four big, strange-looking containers: wooden boxes quickly knocked together, in which were fitted square-cornered bags of sail canvas, with doubled flat seams waterproofed with fish oil. They would almost certainly leak some – this had been established by a quick test – but not fast enough to lose a significant amount of water in the passage from creek to schooner. The fish oil wouldn't improve the taste of the water, but neither would it degrade its safety for human consumption.
Sam was impressed by the initiative and ingenuity thus displayed, and especially by the project's speed of execution, and he said so to all three officers, to their satisfaction.
“Get under way as quick as you can, Dave – let's try to get this done by dark, if at all possible.”
“Aye aye, sir.” And very soon the motor sloop was underway at its full speed back to the mouth of the creek, the whaleboats bobbing in her wake.
Sam glanced at the sun, and realized that his goal of completing the evolution by nightfall was overly ambitious; they might be able to lift all the captives by dark, but not the landing party or the water. It struck him that he had failed to ask Schofield for a head count of the captives, and he had not volunteered that information. He began to pace the windward side of the quarterdeck, his invariable habi
t when topsides and not otherwise occupied, switching from port to starboard as the schooner tacked at the end of each lazy reach back and forth off the mouth of the creek, reduced to staysails and mizzen course.
Bill Ennis joined him – the XO was the only man on the ship exempt from the officers' self-imposed requirement that the Captain, when on the quarterdeck, must be approached only through the watch officer.
“I don't think we're going to get it all done by nightfall, Skipper.”
“I'm afraid you're right, Bill. I just hope we can get all the captives aboard. It won't hurt the landing party to spend another night ashore. And that'll give 'em plenty of time to fill all the water containers.”
The two men took a couple of turns in companionable silence. Then Ennis said, “Where to next, Cap'n? After we've gotten everyone back aboard, I mean.”
“It'll have to be Reunion first. We don't have enough food or water – even with the creek water – to make it all the way to Mauritius. I thought we'd cast ourselves upon the hospitality of the Reunionnais for a few days. The hands would appreciate the shore liberty, and the liberated prisoners could recover their health on dry land.
“After that? That will require some thought. We've been very lucky so far – we've survived, and won, fights against odds of two to one. But the last time, a pirate craft escaped. What if the pirates start cruising in squadrons of three or four vessels? That will almost certainly occur to them – they've certainly demonstrated an ability to adapt quickly to what they learn of our capabilities.”
“And if they do that, the Albatros is well and truly baisée”, Bill replied. “Three enemy vessels, armed with those new bronze three-inchers, could overwhelm us.”
“Exactly. Especially with one of our one-inch rifles out of action indefinitely. So we need one or two more armed vessels ourselves, at a minimum, and we need them soon.”
The Cruise of the Albatros: Book Two of the Westerly Gales Saga Page 13