Assault on Zanzibar: Book Four of the Westerly Gales Saga

by E. C. Williams

  Finally, one day when the wind and seas moderated for a few precious hours, all three officers took the altitude of the sun at local apparent noon, Sam using the late Captain Woodham’s sextant, and their results for once agreed fairly closely. When worked out, even allowing for large error, all their latitudes agreed that the schooner should have the Isles well in sight ahead or even abeam. But a search of the horizon through their telescopes offered not the slightest hint of land.

  Their reluctant consensus: the westerlies had blown the Amour well east of Kerguelen. At about that same time, the lookout reported what seemed to be the glint of ice, dead ahead; this absolutely confirmed their opinion.

  This meant beating up into the westerly wind, tack after tack, laboriously sailing several miles for every mile made good toward Kerguelen. In a brief lull in the gale, making it safe to do so, Sam ordered the directional antenna rigged, and Mister Ely, their one qualified radio operator, embarked on a round-the-clock listening watch for Radio Kerguelen. When it wasn’t broadcasting programming, RK transmitted a continuous tone, enabling radio equipped vessels within range to home on it at any time. After several weary days, he picked up the signal, and Amour began homing in on it.

  Since the directional antenna had only a relative bearing circle, not a compass, doing this involved Ely shouting up course corrections to try and keep the signal strongest when the relative bearing was zero, a tedious business. The wind, mercifully, backed a few points northerly, enabling the schooner to sail on the starboard tack on a steady close reach, reducing some of the strain on the crew.

  At last, to the immense joy of the entire crew, the lookout sighted the gleam of the Mount Ross glacier, the main island’s highest point; they were nearly home! Another half-day’s sailing, and Sam brought her into Norwegian Bay and anchored in the southernmost cove on its eastern shore. As he had on bringing the Kiasu safely home after her brush with a Pirate, which now seemed years ago, he wanted to give his exhausted crew an opportunity to rest before coping with the emotional stress of home-coming. Except for a rotating anchor watch, every man turned in and slept like the dead for near twelve hours, awaking with the sun on the day after arrival.

  Free of exhaustion at last, Sam’s grief returned. A vivid dream of Maddie awakened him, causing him to sit up in his bunk with a smile, until memory came back with a rush that overwhelmed him. He lay in his bunk, weeping into his pillow, until he was out of tears, then rose and resumed his duties. He roused the hands and ordered the cook to prepare a very big, very hot meal for all hands. Everyone but Sam ate voraciously; he had little appetite, but forced himself to eat. For him, food was no longer a pleasure but merely fuel. The fact that it was his first duty to call on Maddie’s parents, acquainting them of the details of her death and begging their forgiveness for having occasioned the loss of their only daughter, only deepened his depression.

  After breakfast, their first such meal in more than a week, Amour raised anchor and rounded Suzanne Point, headed for French Port.

  Sam had hoped for an unobtrusive arrival, assuming no one knew that he was aboard Amour Insouciant. As they steadied up on a heading directly for the port, Sam saw a motor-tug leave the terminal and head their way. Not too surprising: surely someone on shore recognized the schooner on her arrival in Norwegian Bay. Perhaps the owners had ordered the tug; if so it was in fact quite welcome, since the process of docking a schooner without an auxiliary engine was tedious in the extreme, especially on a day when the wind, even in sheltered Morbihan Bay, was treacherously changeable.

  But Sam’s spirit plunged even lower than it already was, if that were possible, when the tug came alongside and her master called up to him, “Welcome home, Commodore. Sincere condolences for your loss.” Sam muttered something conventional in return, and then raised his telescope and studied the dock. As he feared, a large and growing crowd gathered there.

  “Mister Kennedy, take over and see her safely docked. I’ll be below in my cabin if needed.” And with that Sam went quickly to the master’s cabin, which he had taken over along with the schooner – he could not bear to sleep in the stateroom he and Maddie had shared. There he lay on his bunk, staring up at the tell-tale compass in the overhead, gauging the vessel’s progress by its course and the sounds of the crew readying her for final arrival. He stayed there as he heard the thump of the hull against the dock fenders, the sounds of the gangway being rigged, and, finally, unfamiliar voices of people not members of the schooner’s crew. Last came the dreaded deferential knock on the cabin door.

  “Come,” he said resignedly, and Commander (I) Foch, RKNR, the officer in charge of the Navy’s tiny shore establishment in French Port, who juggled these duties with those of a senior police officer on the French Port force.

  “Sorry to intrude, Commodore, but I must. Welcome home. And my most sincere condolences on the loss of Madame Bowditch.”

  “How the hell did the news get out that I was arriving?”

  “Well, the fact that you were ordered home to answer to the Council quickly became a matter of public knowledge. And, once Low was sure the Amour was well into the Forties and safe from raiders, he radioed a complete report on your engagement with a Pirate – and your tragic loss -- to me. Madame Moreau insisted on releasing it to the press, to generate sympathy for you and support for the Navy. The good news of the Navy’s brilliant victory at Dar es Salaam, had preceded this report, and generated much favorable press.

  “There are reporters from all three of the big dailies waiting in the crowd on the dock, but I told them you were not ready to talk to the press…”

  “Te fokken reg!” Sam snapped viciously.

  “…nevertheless, pressure will mount, not least from Mother, for you to give an interview, so you must prepare yourself.”

  “Ross Glacier will melt first!” A Kerguelenian way of saying “never!” Foch tactfully dropped the subject for the time being.

  “At any rate, the political climate for the Navy is very favorable now, perhaps much more than it has ever been. You mustn’t blame Mother for wanting to take full advantage of that – of feeling compelled to strike while the iron is hot.”

  Sam muttered something obscene about Mother Moreau and all politicians and hot irons.

  “You see,” Foch forged on bravely, “A large segment of the public blames the Council for Madame Bowditch’s death, based on the very reasonable belief that it wouldn’t have happened absent the Council’s arbitrary decision to recall you from the theater of war for consultation.” Sam said nothing to this, and there ensued a brief silence.

  “And now Madame Moreau urgently wants to talk with you about the political situation, and how to turn it to the advantage of the Navy,” Foch said eventually.

  Sam’s skin crawled with revulsion at the insinuation that Maddie’s death could be cynically exploited that way. But he swallowed his anger, and replied evenly, “My first duty is the Amour; as acting master, I must account to her owners, and see to paying off the crew. And after that, I will see or speak with no one else until I’ve called on the Campbells.”

  “Of course, yes. Madame Bowditch’s family…”

  “And then, and only then, will I deal with the politicians!”

  Another rap on Sam’s door proved to be the owner’s representative, a notary, and a large, hard-looking man carrying a bulging valise stuffed full of cash: it was time to pay off the crew for the voyage and release them from their shipping articles, or contracts of employment.

  “Goodness, what a mob on the pier!” exclaimed M. Garcia, the owner’s rep. “If Muller, here, had not been along to break a trail for us, we’d still be out there in the cold.” Muller, apparently a guard along to protect the cash, looked eminently capable of “breaking a trail” through a crowd.

  The visitors divested themselves of their parkas and Garcia and the notary took their places on one side of the table in the saloon. After a seemingly-endless interval of unpacking and laying out documents, and counting money
out into piles, they at last announced they were ready.

  Sam called for Kennedy to muster the crew; this took little effort, for every man in the crew, in his best shore-going rig and with sea-bags packed, was on deck, crowded around the ladder-way down to the saloon, anxious to get ashore to loved ones for some men, or to the nearest tavern for others.

  The room, crowded with seamen in parkas, soon became stiflingly hot, and Sam longed to go topside for a breath of cold fresh air. But it was his duty, as acting master to see that every man got his due, correct to the last centime, and arbitrate any disputes about amounts owed. Then, when he had paid the last man and seen him down the gangway, Sam had to go over the log with Garcia, day by day, explaining any anomalies.

  And then came the accounting for the personal belongings of the members of the crew who had died in the battle. The tradition of mariners was to auction off the property of dead shipmates buried at sea, and surviving crew, aware that the monies would go to the families of the dead, bid generously for it; Sam had made a detailed list of each item, the amount garnered for it at the auction, for each of the dead, and went over it line by line with Garcia. And after that came the inventory of stores remaining, and accounting for stores consumed.

  Sam had forgotten just how tedious these end-of-voyage chores could be. As captain, and later commodore, in the Navy, he had always delegated such administrative tasks, having only to sign off on paperwork.

  After he had given the owner’s rep, the notary, and the muscle-man coffee and a shot of rum and seen them down the gangway (ignoring as he did the shouted questions of the reporters still waiting on the dock) he called Kennedy and Ely together for one last officers’ meeting. He praised their performance, and then gave Kennedy a scribbled order seconding him to the shore establishment for an indefinite period as “…required by the needs of the service.” He had previously told Foch to allow him whatever time he needed to prepare for and take the master’s exam.

  Once he sent Kennedy on his way, he reiterated his approval of Ely’s performance, and sought to recruit him as a midshipman. However, when Ely learned that he would not be eligible for promotion to Lieutenant until he had passed the master’s exam, and that (as Sam reluctantly admitted) it could take longer in the Navy than in the merchant marine to get the watch-standing time required to sit, he thanked Sam for his confidence in him, but decided to achieve his master’s ticket in the private sector, and then consider a direct commission.

  Sam was, in fairness, forced to concede that this was probably in Ely’s best interests, and they parted ways amiably. Ely agreed, as his final duty to the Amour Insouciant, to call on the families of their dead shipmates; all except that of Captain Woodham, which Sam saw as his duty, not to be delegated.

  Sam now faced the emotional ordeal he had been dreading: a call on M. and Mde. Campbell, Maddie’s parents. He dressed in the best clothing he had on board the Amour – not much choice, given his limited wardrobe – and set off by taxi to the Campbell’s.

  It was, in many ways, even worse than he had expected. All three wept as he told them of the circumstances of Maddie’s death, some of which they already knew from news reports. As was customary, he presented them with a black-bordered document embossed with the Amour’s seal, briefly stating how she died and the latitude and longitude of her burial at sea.

  But when he begged their forgiveness for his culpability for her death, in not sending her below, by force, if necessary, in the moment of greatest danger, when the Pirates were on the brink of boarding, they absolutely refused to accept that he bore any responsibility.

  “Maddie was stubborn, like all Campbells, but she had the hardest head of any of us once her mind was made up: you would have needed to tie her up and carry her below and you would have needed help to do it … impossible during a battle. No, Sam, we refuse to forgive you because you have done nothing to forgive. Let’s hear no more about your survivor’s guilt.”

  Their attitude eased Sam’s conscience somewhat, but did nothing to alleviate his grief. When he at last left their home, he felt completely drained of tears and emotion alike, and had never felt lower in his life. It took all the will-power he could muster to go ahead directly to call on Captain Woodham’s widow.

  He found her pale, dressed all in black, but determined to maintain what was clearly a high standard of hospitality even in her grief; Sam refused repeated offers of coffee, cake, vodka; finally, he told her the circumstances of her late husband’s death, presented her with the certificate of burial at sea, and praised his qualities both as a master mariner and a man. She wept a little at that point; Sam had no more tears left to shed, but he consoled her in her grief as best he could.

  Sam felt a certain relief at the completion of these two sad duties. He now wanted with all his heart to go directly to the ferry pier and buy a ticket to Long Island for a long-overdue visit to his large extended family there, whom he greatly missed. In a moment of defiance, he determined to do just that: to let the politicians and reporters stew while he enjoyed a leisurely holiday from all of it – politics, the Navy, the war, and everything.

  But his stern sense of duty would not allow him even this indulgence. He reluctantly turned his steps toward Navy House, where he had engaged to meet Foch after he had completed his visits of condolence. Although it was a good two miles from the Woodham residence to Navy House, which was next door to the main French Port police station for Foch’s convenience, Sam decided to walk rather than take a cab. He felt he needed the exercise, and besides, it allowed him a period of solitude, something he had come to prize highly.

  He pulled the hood of his parka well up over his head, for anonymity as well as warmth, and set out. It was a typical winter day on Kerguelen: windy, temperature hovering around the freezing mark, and snow flurries.

  There was the usual number of people and vehicles on the streets: if Kerguelenians stayed indoors when the weather was unpleasant, they would never venture forth from their homes. There seemed to be fewer of the low-slung delivery tricycles, but more and larger four-wheeled freight trucks powered by compressed air. The freight trikes had prospered after the city fathers banned motor vehicles fueled by the slurry of fish oil and powdered lignite that had once made the streets unpleasant by their stench. But the taxi companies had then introduced cabs powered by the quiet and efficient compressed-air motor, and local delivery firms had quickly followed suit. The city skyline was now more than ever dominated by windmills, with the addition of many compressed-air recharging stations for these vehicles.

  As much to prolong his walk as to warm up, he stepped into a small coffee shop. However, he had forgotten about his notoriety. Once he had thrown back the hood of his parka and unbuttoned it – the shop was busy and very hot from all those bodies in a small space -- a silence fell over the shop, then much whispering, followed by shy approaches offering praise and condolences. It was more than Sam could stand. He muttered the conventionally polite acknowledgements, then abandoned his half-drunk coffee and fled. He began to wish he were back at sea.

  Once recognized, it now seemed that everyone on the street knew who he was, including one obnoxious young reporter who followed him for blocks, peppering him with questions. Sam simply ignored him, and stepped up his pace until the newshound – or news puppy – finally gave up. He heaved a sigh of relief when Navy House came into view.

  This modest building, a small residence leased to the Navy for a below-market rent by a patriotic ship owner, housed the growing Navy shore establishment. It was distinguished only by the display of the national ensign, and, invisible from the street, a small sign on the front door that read “RKNS FRENCH PORT. Sam knew of its existence only through correspondence; he had never been there in person.

  Somewhat to his surprise, he found the front room set up somewhat like the quarterdeck of a warship in port. There was a podium with log book, manned by a reedy young RKNVR clerical rating wearing a version in blue wool of the Navy at-sea working rig. B
ehind him was a stand holding two flags, one the flag of the Republic, the other a white banner bearing the Navy crest. The seaman came to a rigid attention and saluted Sam; who, not being sure whether it was quite proper to return a salute while in civilian clothes, answered with a tentative wave.

  The rating then took two steps to his right, to a small brass bell mounted on a stand, which he rang four times, in two distinct groups of two strokes each. He then shouted at the top of his lungs, “Commodore, RKN, arriving!” This brought Commander (I) Foch through a doorway off the front room. He welcomed a somewhat bemused Sam “…aboard.” and ushered him through the door from which he had emerged into what had obviously been a bedroom but now set up as an office.

  “Foch, what in the hell was all that folderol out there?”

  Foch gave a somewhat embarrassed grin, and replied, “Well, what was once the parlor is now the ‘quarterdeck’. We pretend that Navy House is a commissioned warship – we call it the ‘Stone Schooner’.

  “In God se naam, wat vir? Why this fantasy?”

  “It was Captain Ennis’s idea. We’re manned by unpaid volunteer reservists, who pay for their own uniforms and take time from their work and family to be part-time sailors. None of them are likely to ever go to sea on a Navy vessel. He thought this pretense would be an effective way to imbue them with a feeling of being part of the Navy, of sharing in its customs and traditions.”