Read Online Seagulls in My Soup by Tristan Jones - Free Book Online Page A

The only thin thread of hope for us was to go along with him, at least until we were on our own ground—way out at sea.
Then we would see.
    â€œWe’re going to check the engine—lube oil and fuel levels,” replied Reynaud. “There’s no point in your trying to get ashore. If you do, the sentries will know what to do . . .”
    â€œI’ve no intention of doing that,” I replied. “All I want to do is check the wheelhouse and the charts and then get the hell out of here.”
    â€œGood. Naturally.” Reynaud, with Tony in tow, passed aft from the wheelhouse.
    I quickly scanned through the navigation desk, noting that the charts for the western Mediterranean and the Gulf of Lions were lying atop a pile of other charts, and drew off a course from Algiers to Marseilles direct. The course passed very close to the island of Menorca. Then I studied a chart of Algiers harbor, which was lying on the desk, and noted that the position of
Aries’
berth had been marked. Also drawn in was the line of a barrier chain which was strung across the small-craft harbor every night to prevent entry and exit. All this was done by the dim light of a tiny torch which had been lying on the navigation table.
    Soon Reynaud was back in the wheelhouse, with Tony behind him looking nonplused. “How is it?” he asked in a low voice.
    â€œOK. The best thing we can do is unshackle the mooring cables fore and aft, push her right off from that next bloody scow, and let her go. Hopefully the engines run . . .”
    Reynaud smiled. “No problem,” he said.
    â€œÂ . . . and there’s enough fuel to get us at least to Menorca.”
    â€œThere’s enough to take us to Paris, if need be,” he replied.
    â€œRight, let’s go then. I’ve got the line of the barrier chain. Slip the mooring lines.”
    Soon we were clear of the other boats, floating free in the dead calm harbor under the pale moonlight. Reynaud came into the wheelhouse. I watched both him and the heading of the boat as he pushed the engine starter buttons. From below there was the low rumble of power restrained.
    â€œBrace yourselves,” I said. “Here goes bugger-all!”
    I slipped the engine gear lever into “Ahead.” As the boat started to move I rammed the speed lever to “Full.” The roar from the engines was deafening. The stern dropped suddenly, the bow lifted, and we were speeding at twenty knots, straight for the barrier cable. We were about thirty yards off the barrier, which I could now dimly see, when the machine guns opened up.
    There were two lofty ships from old England came,
    Chorus:
Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we!
    One was
Prince of Luther
and the other
Prince of Wales,
    Chorus:
All a cruising down the coasts of the High Barbaree!
    Aloft there, aloft, our bully bosun cried,
    Look ahead, look astern, look to weather and a-lee!
    There’s naught upon the stern, sir, and naught upon our lee,
    But there’s a lofty ship to windward and she’s sailing fast and free.
    O hail her, O hail her! our gallant captain cried,
    Are you a man o’ war or privateer? cried he.
    O, no I’m not a man o’ war, nor privateer, cried he,
    But I’m a salt-sea pirate, all a-looking for my fee!
    For broadside, for broadside, a long time we lay,
    Till at last the
Prince of Luther
shot the pirates’ mast away.
    O quarter, O quarter! those pirates they did cry,
    But the quarter that we gave ’em was to sink ’em in the sea.
    â€œHigh Barbaree” is a capstan or halyard chantey. It is very old, probably dating from the early seventeenth century. High Barbaree was the old name for the Riff Coast—specifically the coast of what is now Algeria.

4. High Barbaree!
    I never knew whether
Aries
went
through
the barrier cable or
over
it. In the several minutes of chaos that followed the first splattering zing of bullets on