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Storm Signals

Written by Jack Carroll

Vlissingen, Netherlands

1636

The wind off the North Sea howled through the antenna wires outside, blasting rain sideways at the shack's windows, driving droplets through the chinks in the double-hung sash. The occasional snap from the speakers told of faraway lightning bolts striking the sea. Inside, the electric lights fed from the little turbine at the transmitter site cast a warm glow over the log sheets. The coal stove in the corner and the coffee pot softly bubbling away on its top were a mercy to the three operators on watch.

BzhzhzhzhzhzhzhzhzhzhzhZHZHZHZHZH . . .

The raucous whine erupted from all three receivers at the two megahertz desk, never mind that they were tuned to three different frequencies spread halfway across the band. There'd been some message traffic earlier in the day about a Swedish coaster in-bound for the Harlingen base; that was probably him tuning up—into a live antenna, of course. Frankel half-muttered, "I will be so happy when spark goes away!" He picked up a pencil and waited, ready to copy. The watch supervisor looked across in sympathy.

SOS SOS SOS DE FV FV FV

It just stopped. No procedure signal to go ahead, no nothing. It took him a second to gather his wits. "What the hell, Breuning? Is that some kind of a French call sign for a ship, but only two letters? We answer?"

"Ja, Frankel, we answer a distress call from anybody. Find out where they are and what's happening."

It came again, and stopped. Frankel fired off a quick request across the telegraph wire to the transmitter site, tone modulation on and high power amplifier in line—a station with a spark transmitter was probably receiving with a stone-deaf crystal set—then hit the key.

SOS FV FV FV DE PBN PBN PBN R R R QTH? K

—Distress transmission. FV, this is PBN. Received your transmission. What is your position? Go ahead.

PBN DE FV QUE SIGNIFE QTH?

—PBN, this is FV. What does QTH mean?

Breuning stared for a second. "Oh, Jesus, he doesn't know Q signals. Bet he doesn't know Dutch or German either. Try sending 'Quel est votre position?' I hope to hell position is a French word. Ellegoot, I'll cover for you. Go wake up Courriveau, tell him to get in here on the double." He reached over Frankel's shoulder and patched one of the receivers into a direction-finding antenna.

Frankel's mouth was suddenly dry. He didn't even notice the burst of rain that blew in during the second and a half Ellegoot had the door open. He started sending again. This was not going to get done by the book. Whatever happened, it was going to be a long night.

Trouville-sur-Mer, France

Some weeks earlier

It was such a beautiful, bright blue morning. The waves whispered upon the sand, retreated, advanced again. Overhead, the white gulls cried incessantly as they searched for things to eat. The kite fluttered and swung from side to side in the offshore breeze, as Professeur Lebrun finished his preparations at his table full of indescribable apparatus. Through a decent glass, Henri Fourchet could just make out the other kite, across the bay at Sainte-Adresse.

"Do you suppose your assistant is ready, Professeur?"

"We shall soon see. Our clocks are now synchronized, therefore he knows when to connect the antenna to listen and when to send to us. There, now, I have the wire wedged in place on the transmitter's terminal. I shall check the tuning—yes, the screw is at the proper mark. On the minute I shall try."

"This seems an awkward arrangement. How would we manage this when one of my ships is to give us notice of its arrival, hours before or even a day before? We could never maintain such timing."

"Ah, that's a different thing. This is only a crude affair, to determine what will work. I have seen pictures of a thing called a knife switch, which Charcoutier the coppersmith can make for us. I will draw it. Then we would leave the antenna connected to the receiver at most times, and in the merest instant move it to the transmitter when we wish to send."

"But could you not keep it connected to both, and avoid this? I speak as a layman in these matters, of course."

"Sadly, no, for the power of the transmitter would instantly ruin the delicate receiving crystal. So we shall have the knife switch. Excuse me, I see it's time." He bent to the key, and began tapping out a series of long and short buzzes. As he did, an iron piece rattled on the side of the "induction coil," whatever that was, and long purplish-blue sparks came and went between the two small brass balls on top. A pungent metallic odor assaulted Fourchet's nostrils. After a minute Lebrun stopped. "The patterns of long and short bursts of sound stand for the letters of the alphabet. It's called Morse code; it was in the books I studied in the Grantville libraries. I was forced to make up patterns for our accented letters; the books said they existed, but did not have them. Now we shall listen."

He unfastened the wire and secured it to another collection of outlandish-looking contrivances of wood and metal. He picked up one bulky cylindrical affair trailing a pair of linen-covered wires and held it to his ear, took up a pen in his other hand, dipped it, and waited poised over a scrap of paper. Fourchet heard faint sounds coming from the thing. Success? Lebrun began writing, a letter at a time, on the paper. What was the message? A passage from the Bible? No, it was a verse from that rowdy university student's drinking song, "Gaudeamus Igitur." He left off writing, and began making painstaking adjustments, an expression of intense concentration on his face. The sound came and went, but did seem to grow stronger after some effort. "There, that's easily audible now. Clearly, we can make this work over a greater distance."

"All very well, but can it allow my ships to send word to me here, so that I can arrange to have buyers ready to bid for my goods when they arrive, and have day workers on hand to unload promptly? That is the heart of the matter."

"True. Well, then, we must find out, not so? We shall need to take this on board, and move about on the water to see what happens. How shall we proceed?"

"I expect the arrival of La Fleur de Villerville at any time. She will need to have some of her rigging renewed before she sails again, not to mention collecting the rest of her outbound cargo, and so will be here for perhaps a few weeks. Will that serve?"

"Admirably, and perhaps while the apparatus is being improved, we could arrange for a more durable support for an antenna at your establishment. An old ship's mast, perhaps."

****

Michel Pouliot had a few minutes free before beginning the day's work, and so he paused by the Seine to admire the sun shimmering on the ripples. Freneau's ship Petrel had evidently come to anchor in the last hour or two; one of her boats was grounding on the strand. Suddenly a crowd formed around the three men who had just stepped ashore; arms moved excitedly. Pouliot went to listen. When the news sank in, he hurried to the warehouse of Henri Fourchet.

****

"Michel, what is it? Have you seen the devil?"

"No, Monsieur. The Petrel is here. Their mate says he saw La Fleur de Berville, four days ago. She was headed southwest, past Quessant, into the open ocean, with strangers on her deck."

"Mon dieu! Are you certain?"

"I wasn't there to see it, but I have no doubt those who did will tell you all they know, over a glass."

Fourchet's closed hand pounded softly on the desk. "Pirates. And not from our coast. Even if we had anything powerful enough to take her back, she's beyond reach by now. This is disastrous."

"I'm sorry to bring such news. Still, I must ask what I'm to do today."

"Keep the shop open, I suppose. We're likely to see buyers for some of what we have here. I must make a few calls regarding cargo for La Fleur de Villerville. I'll be thinking, on the problem of what to do next."

****

The children were long since asleep. Spread out in front of the candles on the dining table were the account books, the latest inventories, and a sheet of hastily written figures. The warm evening and the chirping outside brought little comfort. "I see, Henri, but what are we to make of all this?"

"Anne, I see only penury slowly closing around us, if we stay here and try to carry on. Things have been precarious for a considerable time; this loss pushes us over the cliff. Everyone around here is worried at what's going on in the world, nobody spends more than they must, and some of the most desirable imports are becoming expensive at the source. We cannot expect profits enough to sustain us, let alone regain our old fortunes."

She drew in a breath. "Are you saying we'll be cast out? Lose our home and go on the roads? Starve?"

"No, not if we act while we still can. In the east, there's opportunity. The new rulers in the Netherlands value commerce, and protect it. The United States, more so. We have funds on deposit in Amsterdam, commercial contacts as well. In Copenhagen they know us. We still have La Fleur de Villerville. If we load her with what we can take, sell what we can't, we should have enough to establish ourselves."

She looked around the familiar room, the old pewter ranked on the shelves. "To lose all this? Everything we've known all our lives? Our relatives? The friends of Claire and Jules? I can hardly imagine it."

He nodded, and laid his hand atop hers. "Yes, and all the people we know, who speak our language. We can expect no more than a letter from them at long intervals. But others have borne much worse. We will be able to live, and God willing, prosper again. Especially for Claire and Jules; for their sakes alone, we must go. If there's an alternative, it eludes me."

"So. This is so much to take in, so suddenly. We must leave as soon as the cargo is assembled?"

"No, ma cherie. I see no point in waiting for that. We would only drain our funds further. It's best that we load what we have and go as soon as we can. I'll begin closing our affairs here in the morning."

****

La Fleur de Villerville was crowded, even though only half-loaded with salable goods. Besides the crew and the Fourchet family, Michel Pouliot, his young wife, and their three children had elected to follow his master, as had two of the warehousemen. Professeur Lebrun, as well, saw better opportunities in the Netherlands, and accepted Fourchet's offer of passage. Perhaps he would teach at Leiden.

They'd had a following wind much of the way. They'd passed through the narrowest part of the Channel in the dark, sailing by the compass, and not been seen. Food and water, well, there was enough to last his crammed-in multitude until Amsterdam, with a little care. It wasn't too far, now.

As evening came on, an overcast crept in from the west, and the sky slowly became darker and grayer. Captain Bouclet studied it for a time. "All hands on deck! Aloft, and furl the topsails."

He went below to the cabin and busied himself with the charts for a few minutes. Back on deck, he gave the helmsman a new course to steer. Fourchet looked at him, a question in his eyes. "Knowing where we are, Monsieur, by seeing the shoreline, is good. But if those clouds mean what I suspect, it will be better to be far away from land. Never mind that we'll have further to sail afterward."

Fourchet nodded, and said nothing. He knew when to let a man do his job. Especially a man as experienced as Joseph Bouclet.

****

The last of the daylight faded; the only light on deck now was the binnacle lamp and a couple of lanterns. Emile Giscard had the watch. Over the hours the wind swung around to the northwest and strengthened; rain came at times. He and the hands on deck covered themselves with what protective clothing they owned; at least the coldest time of year wasn't yet at hand. So far, they'd been able to swing the yards and shift the sheets little by little to hold their course and still keep driving ahead, but Giscard could see that they would soon reach the limit of what was possible in that regard. Evidently, Captain Bouclet could tell the same by the ship's motion, even below. Though the watch wasn't yet at an end, he came on deck, listened, felt the tension on the various lines, and reached the decision Giscard would have made in another few minutes. The wind was too strong to continue sailing. It was time to lie-to under bare poles, until the worst of the storm passed. "All hands on deck! Clew up and furl."

Giscard moved to the mainmast's running rigging, his usual place during all-hands maneuvers. Suddenly a strong gust hit like a giant's fist. The ship heeled over hard. Miraculously, the weather shrouds held, but from aft came the terrible sound of wood splintering and then canvas tearing out. A thundering impact shook the deck. The hands froze in shock. Giscard felt the bow begin to swing down to leeward as the balancing force of the great lateen mizzen sail was lost. In seconds, the fore and main would belly out, taking the full force of the wind broadside, and blow out from the strain, if the masts didn't go first. No time to form any of this into words in his mind, only time to roar out the one vital order. "Obey the captain! Cast off sheets and clew up! Helm hard alee!" He already had his hand on the port mainsheet.

****

With the fore and main sails hauled up to the yards, the high poop and whatever there now was of the mizzen sail had turned the bow to face into the wind. Ships had ridden out storms that way for hundreds of years. That took care of one danger, but whatever had crashed down on deck was liable to go over the side at any moment and drag the ship down onto her beam ends. Yet no orders were coming from the captain. Giscard took his lantern and went to look.

"Lord, take his soul into Heaven!"

The huge yard must have broken in half just above the midpoint. The whole upper yardarm and half the sail had come flying down with the wind behind it to the main deck. The captain had evidently tried to take shelter in front of the break of the poop, a sensible enough move in the dark, but luck had gone against him. The broken spar must have been pivoting as it fell. But Giscard couldn't stay to look, there was immediate danger to deal with. The upper end of the yardarm thrashed back and forth along the remnants of the poop rail with the roll of the ship. If it didn't go over, it could batter away the shrouds.

"Buisson! Garrier! To the poop and help me secure the wreckage to the mast. The rest, aloft and furl."

Finally, with the remaining part of the mizzen yard and sail lowered to the deck and roughly secured, there was a moment to take stock of the situation, and to make a proper report to their employer. The immediate danger of foundering, or further damage to the rigging, was past. The great concern now was their position. Did they have enough sea room to just wait out the blow, while they determined what sort of repair was possible? Not that they could even find out the condition of the spars and standing rigging before first light. Giscard went below and brought the navigational calculations up to date. The answer was not to his liking. If nothing changed, they had only hours. Perhaps ten, perhaps fifteen. The storm could easily last that long, and the way it was blowing, nearly from the northwest, they were embayed. There was land further to windward, whatever direction they sailed. If they could sail. Well, that would become possible, with just the mainsail and the fore and mizzen topsails, once the wind moderated. But slowed down by the effective loss of the largest sails on two of the masts, they'd make leeway almost as quickly as lying-to, so that would be useless unless the wind direction shifted as well. Well, it usually did, when a storm finally passed. In any case, all that was for later. What was left for now? Anchor and buy time? Giscard called for the lead to be cast. There was a bottom, within reach of the cable.

"Rig the anchor. We shall drop it."

Fourchet said, "That's heavy work, I understand. Will it help if my warehousemen and I lend our strength?"

"No, Monsieur, I cannot permit landsmen on deck while we do this. You wouldn't know where to stand or when to move. Later, there may very well be occasion to accept your offer."

They got the exhausting, dangerous job done. But the motion of the ship was wrong. Giscard put his hand on the cable, to feel it. Yes.

"Monsieur, the anchor is dragging. I must order it hoisted again; we can use your men's help now to get this done quickly, and the women under Buisson's direction to lay it in proper order in the cable tier so it will run freely again."

"Even dragging, does it not slow our leeward drift and gain us more time for the storm to pass?"

"A little, but if it drags on the bottom for long, the cable will chafe and we'll lose the anchor and be worse off. No, we must take other measures. Boatswain Tissot, if I set everyone you can use to help you, can you turn the wreckage of the mizzen yard and sail into a sea anchor?"

"Certainly, mon capitaine."

Mon capitaine. Was this what it felt like to be a captain? It was an honor he could have cheerfully forgone at this moment.

****

With the ship finally riding to the crude drogue, Emile Giscard paced back and forth, thinking of alternatives. There were a couple of spare spars, but nothing the size of that yard. They could perhaps hoist something like a square topsail on the lower mast. That would be worth something. The mizzen topsail itself would be worth something; they still had it.

Before they could do anything like that, however, it would be necessary to inspect the mizzenmast and all its rigging for further damage—he knew already that at least two of the mizzen shrouds had parted. They could splice, but rope once broken in such a way wasn't to be trusted. They would have to rig preventer stays before putting any strain on that mast; fortunately, they had a spare length of anchor cable.

So, then. There was no way to move against the wind while it remained too strong to set topsails, but once it moderated enough, or changed direction, they could head up and get past the Texel, or at least turn the other way and move somewhat back the way they'd come, but out to sea, and then wear round to take up their course again. But setting any sail while the wind kept on at anything like this strength would require great caution and constant vigilance. Not to be attempted in the dark. If anything else blew out, they would be done.

Other ideas passed through his mind, to be instantly discarded as useless or impractical. In the end, it all came down to two conclusions. Everything depended on some sort of a change in the wind, before they were finally driven onto the Dutch coast, and it was impossible to determine the true condition of the rigging or make workable repairs before first light. For now, set a small anchor watch and rest the crew for the work to come.

****

Anne was below, alternately calming the children and praying, first for poor Captain Bouclet's soul, then for their own safety. Several others, those who were awake, had joined her in prayer. Henri, after comforting her for a time as well as he could, returned to the deck.

"Well, Giscard, how do we stand?"

"We wait and keep watch. When the wind moderates, we set course again."

"And if it does not? We're driving closer toward shore, are we not?"

"Yes. If it does not, we'll be coming into well-traveled waters. There's a good chance we'll encounter local shipping or fishing boats ...