The Cruise of the Albatros: Book Two of the Westerly Gales Saga

by E. C. Williams

  A few minutes before the start of the ebb, Sam ordered “Set the special sea and anchor detail.” Then: “Make to Joan: 'Heave up and tow out.” Protests by the Boatswain and a signal from Joan indicated that neither schooner was ready for sea, but Sam was adamant. The motor-generator set installed during their last visit home now proved its worth again; the anchor was heaved home by the electric winch without too much interruption to the ongoing repairs to the rigging. The motor boats, still in the water, warmed up while the anchors were being weighed, then took the schooners in tow to leave the harbor.

  The squadron towed west-south-west in order to clear the ancient mole, then northeasterly along the island's shore line, standing out toward deep water to avoid the inshore shoals. It was full dark by the time Mr. Mooney estimated that they were off the northern point of Anjouan Island, so they stood on toward the northeast, taking no chances on making the turn to the east-south-east too soon and running full onto the sand bars that fringed almost the entire circumference of the island.

  By the time nightfall brought an end to work on deck, enough repairs to the rigging had been made to allow both schooners to set enough sail to maintain steerage way, so the motor boats were recovered and sea watches set. The hands in the first watch below sprawled gratefully into their hammocks fully dressed and were instantly asleep, while their unfortunate shipmates in the watch on deck blinked bleary eyes and tried to remain alert. They turned out to be the lucky ones, however, since they got a full watch below while their opposite numbers got only a couple of hours sleep. Sam had left orders for all hands to be called at first light, to resume work on the rigging.

  The hands were sleepily resuming the work they had left off at dark the day before when a cry from the stern lookout galvanized everyone into sudden full wakefulness: “Deck, there! Sail on the port quarter.”

  Sam immediately barked a string of orders: “Battle stations. Tack. Signal to Joan: 'Possible enemy vessel to northwest. Pursue under tow'. Launch the motor sloop”. He raised his telescope and stared at the dim shape on the indistinct predawn horizon: a single white triangle.

  The forward lookout now called: “Deck: chase is falling off the wind … chase is running free toward north-east.”

  Furious activity on the decks of both schooners; the motor boats of both were quickly swung out and towed alongside while their engines warmed up. As was standard procedure when action appeared imminent, both boats were armed with a one-inch rifle and manned with a squad of seaman-gunners in addition to their engineers.

  Sam gazed at the strange vessel through his telescope and considered the situation. It was the inter-monsoon season, and winds were light and variable. The weather would remain unsettled until the northeast monsoon began in earnest within the next few weeks. Nevertheless, the squadron could certainly catch a small single-masted dhow by motor-sailing under tow. But Sam was impatient – he wanted this over with quickly.

  He came to a decision, strode to the rail and shouted down to Christie, “Belay towing, Mister Christie. Pursue the chase independently at your full speed, and try to take her … repeat, try to capture the dhow, not sink her, but only if you can accomplish that without endangering the sloop. Joan's motor whaleboat will support you under your command. ”

  “Aye aye, Commodore.”

  Sam then said to the midshipman of the watch, “Gadget, make to Joan: 'Send motor whaleboat in pursuit of chase under command of motor sloop to capture repeat capture if possible'.”

  Sam knew he was taking a tremendous risk. If the dhow pulled the suicide trick successfully, it could deprive the squadron of both its powered vessels – and kill both boats' crews, he added to himself. Never forget – lives are more important than boats.

  But something about the little dhow, something he couldn't quite explain even to himself, was reassuring. And the capture of a Caliphate vessel would be an intelligence coup.

  The motor boats, their engines now up to operating temperature, motored toward the dhow, the motor sloop in the lead. The speed of the two boats was constrained by that of the motor whaleboat but still much greater than that of the dhow. The schooners followed, very slowly, neither able to spread full light-airs canvas due to the punishment to their sails and rigging sustained in the previous day's battle. Only their drifters gave them steerage way; because the drifters had been struck down on deck, yard and all, they escaped damage.

  In spite of the speed advantage of the motor boats, the chase seemed to Sam to last for hours, the relative positions of the three vessels frozen on the gentle swell, its surface hardly ruffled by the barely-perceptible breeze. The dhow, its single great sail spread like a gull's wing, ghosted along, leaving a wake so slight as to be almost invisible.

  Finally, Sam could see that the boats had in fact closed on the dhow. He saw a water spout bloom off the bow of the chase, followed a moment later by the faint crack of the motor sloop's one-inch rifle: a warning shot. The dhow sailed on, regardless. After a decent interval, both boats opened fire on the pirate craft. One round from each boat was enough to bring the dhow's sail down with a rush, followed a moment later by her small, tattered green banner.

  This was the moment of greatest danger. If the pirate dhow was going to blow herself up in a last suicidal blow at the enemy, she would do it now, when the boats had approached near enough to be sunk by the blast. Christie was obviously very conscious of this possibility; Sam saw an exchange of flashing light signals between the two boats, and both stood well off, waiting.

  Long moments passed. Then the dhow attempted to raise her sail again. Both boats fired on her, and numerous holes appeared all along the foot of the sail – both rifles had clearly fired canister. The sail came back down with a rush, and the waiting resumed.

  The standoff continued for another half-hour. Then Sam watched through his telescope as the dhow launched a little cockleshell of a skiff, crowded with men, which then pulled away toward the motor sloop. Sam could see the men in the skiff waving bits of white cloth or holding both hands in the air. They obviously wanted to surrender – a first in the entire history of Kerg-pirate warfare.

  More long delay, frustrating for Sam because he couldn't tell just what was going on. Finally, the motor whaleboat closed with the dhow while the sloop stood well off. The whaleboat stayed alongside the dhow long enough for a couple of men to board her, then quickly pulled away again. More waiting, then the Kerg seamen reappeared on the dhow's deck and waved. Both motor boats now closed with the dhow, and the motor sloop took her under tow, heading back toward the squadron.

  Sam heaved a great sigh of relief. He could guess what had happened: volunteers had searched the dhow and found no explosives, or had rendered any found safe. As the three craft headed his way, Sam watched through his telescope and counted four splashes alongside the dhow as four objects were thrown overboard: dead pirates being given an unceremonious burial at sea. He lowered his telescope and watched with something like joy the motor sloop, dhow in tow, approaching the Albatros. The great weight of depression he had carried since their bloody victory of the day before lifted.

  He met Christie at the pilot ladder as he heaved himself aboard. “Well done, Dave! Oh, well done! My stomach was in knots while I watched, but you did everything right.”

  Christie blushed with pleasure at this praise. “Thanks, Commodore.”

  “Come below and have breakfast with me. I want to hear all the details.”

  Over breakfast in Sam's mess, Christie began. “To tell the truth, Commodore, I was terrified the whole time that the dhow was going to blow and take us with her. That's why we stood well off for so long. The dhow's skipper finally caught on that I wanted him to abandon ship, and he and what was left of his crew – five men, total, out of nine – took to their boat. I still feared that they had left a bomb with a long fuse burning, so we still stood well away to wait it out.

  “Finally, Mike – Lieutenant Schofield – suggested we ask for volunteers to board her. Two of his men
agreed to risk it, and searched the dhow from stem to stern. She had nothing aboard her but bagged rice, several tons of it – her hold is packed with it.”

  “Did they find any weapons?”

  “Only a couple of muskets, and a rusty sword – no cannon. She's clearly just a little cargo carrier, not a raider.”

  “She must have been bound for Anjouan, with food for the settlement there. Well, Cookie will be happy about that rice – she told me yesterday that she's down to the bottom of the last barrel of Kerg potatoes.

  “By the way, where did you stow the prisoners?”

  “The Bill Ennis method, sir – I shackled each one of 'em in a separate corner of the 'tween-decks.” Sam laughed.

  “Why re-invent the wheel, eh? But how will we interrogate them? Can you communicate with them at all?”

  “Dallas compiled a short French-Arabic dictionary for me, as well as the Arabic alphabet. It's only the most elementary terms, but if any of the prisoners are literate, I can possibly question them in writing.”

  “Wonderful! Make it so, Dave.”

  “Commodore, with your permission … can it wait until we're in Hell-ville? With the XO laid up, and us so short-handed...”

  “Of course, Dave, of course. I didn't think of that. We have to proceed directly to Nosy Be now, to repair battle damage and somehow recruit new hands, so we couldn't exploit any intelligence you gained from interrogating them immediately anyway.”

  “And Commodore … we need to bury our dead soon.”

  “Yes. This morning. As soon as you've put a half-dozen hands on the dhow to sail her to Hell-ville. Who should we put in charge of her?”

  “Our last gadget, Tomlinson? It'll be good experience for him.”

  Our last gadget. The phrase dampened Sam's high spirits, and he was quiet for a moment. Then: “Midshipman Tomlinson it is. As soon as you're back on deck, rig the schooner for mourning, and signal Joan to do the same.”

  “Aye aye, sir.” Christie took this for dismissal, and left the captain's – now the commodore's – mess. Sam sat for twenty minutes thinking about what he would say at the funeral for their dead shipmates. Then he found his well-thumbed copy of the KBS Handbook for Masters, which included a brief service for burial at sea, and took it topside with him.

  On deck, he found the rigging of all three vessels – the two schooners plus the captured dhow – in a state of carefully-arranged disarray. Halyards and sheets were slacked off so that the sails hung loosely, luffing in the very slight breeze. The largest ensigns – the battle flags – were hoisted at half-mast. Since the wind was so light, the boatswains had been able to safely rig for mourning as if the vessels were in harbor, with all running gear eased off to give the impression of vessels whose crews were so prostrate with grief that all duty was neglected.

  The crew was mustered for the service, everyone except those essential to the running of the schooner. Sam noticed the medical staff, including Doctor Girard and less one intern to look after the wounded below in sickbay, in a group off to one side. All hands had made an effort to smarten up, most wearing their shore-going rig and showing evidence of having recently washed.

  Two ABs stood by a simple and ancient device for launching dead seamen on their voyage to eternity: a six-foot platform, two planks wide, with handles at the head and two wooden pieces to hook over the rail at the foot, a Kerguelenian flag attached at the head in a way that would allow it to be draped over the body. Three more men were nearby, two to lift the body onto the platform and the third to arrange the flag over the deceased.

  Sam began without preamble. “'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends'.

  “That's what these, our dead shipmates, did: they gave their lives for their friends.

  “We're fighting an implacable, fanatical enemy, who for reasons we can't fathom want to destroy our trade and drive us from the Indian Ocean. Perhaps they want ultimately to kill us all. We don't know why they hate us, what reason they have for attacking us. We only know that we have to fight for our lives.

  “And not just our own lives. Trade is the lifeblood of our civilization. Without trade, everyone on Kerguelen, everyone in every Kerg settlement around the world, is in danger. If the pirates destroy our trade, they destroy us. Our little navy, these two schooners, are all that now stand between them and their goal.

  “Our shipmates died so that we could stand a while longer, have time to gather our strength and ultimately defeat our adversaries.

  “Never, never forget their sacrifice.

  “Let us pray.”

  There followed a brief prayer, and some psalms. Then came the part that never failed to move Sam deeply: “'For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God to take unto himself the souls of our dear brothers here departed, we therefore commit their bodies to the deep, in sure and certain hopes of the Resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ'.

  “Anderson, T., Able Seaman.”

  Two seamen lifted the first body quickly but reverently onto the platform, the flag was arranged over it, and the platform tilted so that the bundle slipped out from underneath the flag and fell into the sea with a slight splash.

  “Arsenault, J ., Petty Officer.

  “Boulanger, G., Able Seaman...

  “Chu, W.., Leading Seaman...”

  The sad roll call went on for far too long, Sam choking up from time to time. From the corner of his eye he could see tears on the faces of some of those present, and not just those of the women.

  A cable's length off the Albatros's port quarter, the same ceremony was being carried out aboard the Joan of Arc.

  At last, the last body had been launched over the rail, and the service concluded with the Lord's Prayer, recited in unison. Sam stood for a moment, head bowed, then closed the book with a snap. “Dismissed,” he said, and the silence and stillness went was broken by a burst of activity. Halyards were led to winch heads, sails two-blocked, sheets heaved in, flags two-blocked then lowered and stowed – the squadron did not routinely fly the national ensign at all times but only when necessary to identify itself to other Kerguelenian vessels.

  “Set a course for Nosy Be, Mister Cameron,” Sam said to the watch officer. “Mister Mooney has laid it out on the chart.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  Christie came aft and approached Sam just as he gave this order. “We're going to refit in Hell-ville, Commodore?”

  “Yes. And recruit new hands to replace our dead and maimed.”

  “What then, Commodore? If you don't mind me asking.”

  “What then, Dave? Then we're going to take this war to the enemy.”

  The End