Featured Article » Fiction

A Friend in Need

Written by Jack Carroll

Autumn 1635

Haro Blaser started up the ladder and reached overhead to slide the hatch back. From long habit his gaze swept the deck and then the horizon the instant he could see over the cabin skylight. There was already a faint glow in the sky to starboard, just forward of the beam. This time of year, that would be east-southeast. Good, they were on course. Nobody was by the wheel, though; where had Berry gone? In a moment the sound of a line running through a block up forward answered that question.

"I'm easing the sheets a bit, sir. The wind's shifted a little."

"Very well." It was, literally. The young petty officer wasn't leaning on him for advice or permission any more, he was taking responsibility for what happened on his watch. Good.

Berry belayed the foresheet and came back to unlock the wheel. "What do you think, Skipper? Are we gonna find a good station site on the island?"

"Well, that's what we're here to find out, isn't it? We should know in a day or two. But let me remind you not to talk about radio in front of the Irish, so we don't start any rumors. Officially, we're here to see if there's any possibility of making a deal for provisions and repairs when our ships start passing this way regularly. Which happens to be the truth. Just not all of it."

"Sure. Let the French and the Spanish find out about the Atlantic net when they see the towers from forty miles out to sea, huh?"

"There's that. More to the point, the government doesn't want Boyle getting a hint of our interest before they do their diplomatic dance. Convincing him and Charles that leaving us alone off the Irish coast is better than the alternatives will be a delicate enough business, even without them knowing all of our reasons. So we visit, we write our report, and we don't do anything to make people notice us. You want to be a naval officer? Learn the meaning of Top Secret."

Blaser swung onto the weather ratlines and started up. It was time for a look around. They weren't all that far from land, now, and anything could be out there. Too bad these courier schooners didn't carry crow's nests like the old fluyt did—hard to see where you could put one, though, without fouling the sails—but nearly everything could be done from the deck. It pretty well had to be, in a vessel so small there was room for only one man to a watch. He hooked one elbow around the shrouds and raised the binoculars to his eyes. Nothing out there. Wait a minute. There was a speck four or five miles off, almost dead ahead. Couldn't tell what it was, but it would soon be lighter. He climbed higher and continued scanning. Further off the starboard bow, silhouetted on the horizon . . . sails. Lateen, looked like. Two masts. That's a Mediterranean rig. What's it doing in Irish waters? He finished looking the rest of the way around. Nothing else in sight. He went back to the first sighting—still couldn't make out what it was.

"Berry, will you come up here and take a look at this? You've got sharp eyes."

Haro grinned at the way Berry came swarming aloft for a look. He stepped around to the lee shrouds, passed over the binoculars, and pointed at the nearer sighting.

Berry steadied his wrist against the mast and fiddled with the focus. He stared for a good half-minute. "I can make out a little movement, lieutenant. Looks like . . . two men. I think. Can't see anything of their boat—has to be pretty small. I think they're hauling a net. Local fishermen, maybe. Pretty far out to sea, though." He shifted position, to point the binoculars at the sails silhouetted against the brightening dawn. "Now, the other one, that's plain weird. I think they call that rig a xebec. I don't see what it could be but a North African pirate. But even they sail regular ships, this far north."

"So they do. Somebody new at it, then. A young Turk who hasn't captured anything more suitable for these waters."

"Could be, sir. Oh-oh. Sails are shifting. Spotted the fishermen, I'll bet. Doesn't look like the locals have seen the lateener so far, though."

Blaser made up his mind. "Well, we've got the wind to get to them fast on this tack. Let's snatch them out of the claws of those devils. Those two can tell us a lot about what's ahead of us."

Berry looked once more, estimating angles and distances, then scrambled down the ratlines. "Aye, aye, sir, I'll get the topsails up. The sooner we get there, the sooner we're out of there." He slid the hatch open and hissed to Edelstein to come on deck.

Blaser was happy to have Lothar Edelstein along on the mission. The warrant officer was smart and curious. His profession was charting and mapping, but just the same, if you weren't a sailor when you went to sea with Blaser, you were when you came home.

As soon as Berry and Edelstein got the maintopsail clear of the locker, Blaser grabbed for the foretopsail. They must have made more noise than he'd thought, because another head popped out of the hatch. "Ah, Corporal Ó Houlihan, you're just in time to give me a hand. Tend the topsail halyard and sheet for me." Haro didn't need to point out the proper lines or even look up as the army translator stepped to the pinrail. Not after three weeks at sea. He started sliding the clips into the track. Now there was something SSIM Bjorn Svedberg's legendary Canadian ancestor never had—pole masts with topsail tracks running all the way down to shoulder height.

Presently she heeled over a little further and the hiss of the bow wave rose and steadied. What a sweet sailer! What a swift little jewel!

****

Haro hoisted the ensign himself. Maybe it would warn off the Moors or whoever they were. No. They were still coming. Either they didn't know enough to steer clear of the USE's navy, or they were just bull-headed. Or desperate for some reason. The fishermen were rowing hard now, in the general direction of the distant land. Looks like those two aren't the kind to give up easily. Must be hoping for a sail to blow out, or something. Haro was on the point of warning Berry against running over that bundle of sticks and hides ahead of them, when the petty officer twitched the wheel a hair. Good, they'd pass safely to leeward. "Sergeant Ó Carroll, you know what to say?"

"That I do, Captain, all set."

Edelstein was back on deck too. He and Ó Houlihan didn't need to be told what orders were coming. They took station by the jib and staysail sheets. For the present, Haro left Dirck Goosens to his cooking; this really wasn't an all-hands maneuver.

At the last moment Berry called, "Un-belay headsail sheets and hold . . . off headsails!"

He whipped the wheel hard over to port, then back the other way to stop the swing. The schooner spun in her own length, came up into the wind, and lay bobbing in the swell.

Ó Carroll leaned over the port rail and shouted in Irish, "Do you need help? Do you want us to tow you out of here?"

One of the men shouted back, "Tow? To where? Where are you going?"

"Clear Island. If we leave you there, can you get home all right?"

A look of astonishment came over the fisherman's face. "That we can, for Cape Clear is our home."

Ó Carroll gestured thumbs-up. Haro tossed the heaving line. While the fisherman was still making it fast, Berry called, "Back the outer jib." The schooner started turning away from the oncoming lateener, now only a couple of miles away. The booms swung over to port and the sails filled with a thump. "Sheet home!"

Blaser watched the fishermen's boat as it fell in behind at the end of the towline. The Irish currach was just a light frame of tough, springy wood, covered with hides and waterproofed. Hard to believe anyone had ever crossed the ocean in one of those and survived, even if St. Brendan was supposed to have done it. But it was starting to whip around in the wake. It got worse as the fast courier hit its stride in the stiff wind. Clearly, as seaworthy as the little boat undoubtedly was, it had never been designed for the speed Bjorn Svedberg was making. The fishermen recognized the problem, and got down as low as they could. It helped, but not enough.

"Berry, this isn't working. Heave to. Sergeant, translate for me again.

"We're going to stop so you can come aboard. Otherwise you'd be thrown into the sea."

"Leave the boat and the catch to those heathen? Well, better than leaving ourselves."

"No, there's just room enough to stow it on the foredeck. We'll help you get it aboard. But be quick. Haul yourselves up to us as soon the line goes slack."

Berry was already turning into the wind. In seconds the currach was alongside and the men were passing a couple of baskets of fish over the rail while Edelstein led the towline forward of the shrouds.

Haro ran forward to lend a hand himself while Ó Carroll translated. "It should fit right there, keel-up over the dories." With Haro, both soldiers, and the two fishermen hauling, the boat came up over the rail with a rush.

Before they could even start to secure the boat, the booms swung around and the sails caught the wind, close-hauled on the starboard tack and driving hard. Berry needed no prompting on the quickest way to leave their pursuer behind. Nothing with sails could keep up with a schooner beating to windward. Especially this kind of schooner.

"Welcome aboard. I am Lieutenant Haro Blaser, of the United States Navy."

"I thank you, indeed. I am Dermot Cadogan, and this is my cousin Conor. A fine big ship you have here, Captain."

Ó Houlihan grinned. "A big ship, is it? According to Petty Officer Berry—him with the black boots, there—fifty-three feet is about the smallest anybody's ever built a schooner. And he's fussy about what you call it. He says it's only a ship if the sails go crossways."

****

Ian Berry had his hands full. The wind had dropped off to a light breeze and wandered around as the sun came up. Even with every scrap of canvas set and drawing, the speed was sedate and the steering was mushy. A wave rolled across the bow, a little bigger one than usual, and nudged it a trifle to one side. It took him a couple of seconds to overcome the sudden yaw and get straightened out again.

"Quit dreaming about your girl friend, Berry, and watch your course!"

A round blue cap with a fouled-anchor badge above the bill rose out of the hatch, followed by the rest of Chief Petty Officer Hugo Gellert.

"Huh? You mean Else? She's not my girl friend. She isn't anybody's girl friend."

The old walrus grinned at him underneath his gray mustache. "Well, she kissed you, didn't she? That's what you said."

"Oh, yeah. Last time I was in town on leave she let me walk her home from the radio club picnic. She kissed me, all right, with one hand on the doorknob while she was doing it. Before I even got to the sidewalk, she was upstairs with her desk light on, writing something in one of her engineering notebooks."

"Ja? You sure it wasn't her diary?"

"Else Berding? Are you kidding? That's the last thing in the world she'd ever spend time on. She's so scared of what could happen if we can't build radio gear fast enough, I don't think she'll slow down and have a normal life until we get radar. I think she was just trying to get me to come to work at GE."

The chief left off the joking. "It surprises me that you didn't join your family's business."

"RCE? You've never spent all day around Pop. Besides, I'm not that deep into electronics; we weren't an all-ham family until after the Ring of Fire. Engines are more my speed."

"And here you are standing watch in a windjammer! Heh, heh. That's the navy for you. Well, would you hold onto my coffee for a minute? I just want to go aloft and get a look at that thing following us, then I'll relieve you." He stepped up on the rail and swung onto the ratlines. "You're going to enjoy breakfast this morning. It's the best one since we sailed out of Bergen."

"I smell something good, all right. What have we got?"

"Well, those Irishmen have the charming custom of repaying a favor with a big helping of fresh fish. I think Goosens is showing off in the galley. He and the corporal fried them up with a little butter. Lemon juice and hash brown potatoes to go with them. And those two always make good coffee."

Gellert steadied himself and focused the binoculars. "Plague and damnation! Do you know what that thing is? It's a sailing galley. The whole deck is covered with benches. There must be thirty or forty men aboard."

"Yeah. The skipper got a better look, after it got light, and told me."

"Not good, not good at all, if they ever get close. They must outnumber us five to one. Not to mention that damn bow gun."

"We've been drawing away pretty steadily, though."

"Yes, well and good, if nothing goes wrong. I've got to think about this." He stepped down and took back his coffee cup. "All right, I've got the deck."

****

Their guests had shown themselves to be true sailors. Conor had come on deck without being asked, to give Dattler a hand with the morning chores. Like the two soldiers, Eugen Dattler wasn't in the navy—the medical service had detailed him for the mission. Dermot was still below, talking with Ó Carroll and the lieutenant. Speaking of fishermen and fish, though . . .

"Eugen, before you swab down, better stow that catch. I think the cook has just finished off a cask of something or other. You can lash it to the foremast and fill it with sea water to keep them cool."

"Okay, Chief, but wouldn't it be easier to just take them below?"

Gellert snorted. "Certainly, if you don't mind a couple of basketfuls draining on the deck, down where we sleep. And if you don't mind stripping out everything down to the bilge to get it cleaned up again."

"Oh."

"Ja, oh." He indulged in a chuckle.

He looked alee at the other vessel. If they didn't get a decent wind soon it could take all day to get out of sight and lose them. Until then, they were headed a little west of north. Haro was right, there was no sense revealing their true destination. Let them think we're going to Bantry, or Galway, or someplace obvious.

All in all, this would have been a perfect morning for easy sailing, if it weren't for that pack of barbarians dogging their heels. Still, the distance kept growing.

****

"All right, Hugo, I have the deck."

"All yours, Captain." Gellert stepped away from the wheel.

Blaser lowered his voice a little. "What do you think of the way Ian's shaping up?"

"He learns, and willingly. Something seems to have shaken into place, this trip." Gellert paused. "You know who he reminds me of? You, about ten years ago."

"Oh? That's an interesting observation. Well, I got through it all without sinking the ship."

"So you did. I think we even kept her going a couple of years past her time. Well, I'm going to take a good hard look at the sails and rigging. A paranoid look, as Ian would say. This would be a bad time for something to come apart." He went forward and set to inspecting the gear, inch by inch.

****

In any normal vessel, the commanding officer wouldn't have needed to take a watch. But the Svedberg was not only small, she was fine-lined. She was as close as you could get to a racing yacht and still stand up to the worst weather the Grand Banks could dish out. With so little space for people and stores, everybody had to wear more than one hat. Blaser was profoundly grateful that none of the specialists this trip were acting like prima donnas—he'd had to clamp down on that kind of behavior on a few occasions.

A gray curtain appeared to windward. About time, for a season of supposedly changeable weather. Haro called Edelstein and Ó Houlihan to come on deck, and bring foul weather gear for the three of them. In a couple of minutes a blast of rain hit, and the wind started coming in bursts, blowing hard and shifting around. Blaser went off the wind a little so the headsails wouldn't bring them about spontaneously, and kept working the wheel to hold course while shouting sail trimming orders. He had them haul down the topsails first thing. Start reefing? No, not yet. Keep up as much speed to windward as possible. Keep writing down course changes and times for the dead-reckoning fix later on. Up-time weekend sailors were supposed to have done this for sport. He shook his head.

The squall passed. The wind dropped. It kept on dropping. Up to windward the whitecaps were falling away, and the sea was settling down to a smooth swell. The last of the wind blew alee, and the sails went slack.

Gellert was on deck in seconds, with the binoculars slung around his neck. Berry was right behind him. Gellert looked over the port quarter, then went part way up the main shrouds for a better view. He growled something under his breath.

"What are they doing, Chief? Do they still have wind?"

"No, Captain. Their sails are flapping . . . Scheist! A whole lot of men are running out on deck. They're picking up oars!"

If anything can go wrong . . . Haro spun to the hatch. "Ó Carroll, ask Dermot if this calm is likely to last long."

"Oh, no, Captain, not this time of year. A quarter of an hour, maybe. Half an hour at the most."

"I see. Thank you." Haro's stomach turned to ice. Half an hour. Three, three and a half miles distance. Galleys are built for speed. How fast with forty men rowing that thing, six knots? More? Less, with this leftover swell? If the corsairs weren't actually upon them in that time, it was an even bet they'd be in gun range. No good. All right, what do I do? Think . . .

"Berry! You're our best engine hand. Get the tender running, quick as you can. Take whoever you want to help."

"Aye, aye, Captain. Mister Edelstein! With me!"

****

Over the stern rail and into the boat hanging in the davits. Drive in the drain plug. Edelstein put his foot wrong getting aboard and jostled him. Ian ignored it.

"Intake and exhaust covers."

"They're off."

"Oil, coolant, and fuel levels."

"Checking . . . All okay."

Magneto on. Two strokes of the throttle to prime it, and leave it wide open. Choke? Try half, in this weather. Somebody was lowering them away, he didn't look to see who.

"Crank it."

Lothar reached down and spun the crank. Nothing. Ian pulled the throttle closed, then gave it another stroke while Edelstein kept cranking. Nothing. He flicked his eyes toward the pursuing galley. The oars rose and fell. Just wonderful.

"Leave off. Break out the pusher rig and hook us up. I'll keep at this."

In harbor the tender would have just pushed the schooner's stern directly. At sea, they needed a connection that would let the schooner's stern dip in the swells without driving the boat's bow under. The Lawrence Wild's boatswain had come up with a solution, a simple arrangement of poles and quick-release swivel joints. Edelstein swung the tender into position with a boathook, then started methodically connecting the fittings.

Full choke. Crank with one hand, work the throttle with the other. Pop. Keep going. A couple of strangled-sounding pops. Flooded? Close the throttle, open the choke, crank it a couple of times. He glanced toward the schooner. The chief was at the stern rail, tense as hell, obviously resisting the urge to shout at him to hurry up.

Okay, full throttle, start cranking, slowly close the choke. Fired a couple times. All the way closed. Bupbupbupbup . . . Running on its own, but short of breath. Open the choke a little. RPMs coming up. Play the throttle to control the speed. Starting to stall. Pump the throttle a little. Running a little better, keep babying it. He flicked his eyes at the galley again—closer, and the stroke was fast.

Lothar finished the hookup and secured the boat's rudder amidships, then hoisted himself back over the rail.

"Full power, as quick as you can."

"She'll be warm enough to push in another minute, sir."

Okay. Put it in gear. Let the clutch out 'til it starts to take hold. Engine bogging down, pump the throttle, just a little, just enough. Keep easing the clutch out. Temp gauge coming off the pin, running smoother now. Move the throttle smoothly to full and open the choke all the way, and here we go. Scramble back on board.

"How'd we do, sir?"

"They gained a mile on us."

"Damn."

The chief was on the wheel, bringing them around to head directly away from the pirate. As the saying went, a stern chase is a long chase.

Lieutenant Blaser was looking at the pirate vessel. "Can you get any more power out of that engine?"

"No, sir, and I don't think it would help if I could. The problem is the tender's hull speed. One thing we could do is lower the sails to cut drag."

"You all heard. Do it. Don't bother furling, we'll want those sails again. Soon, I hope."

****

...