Victory at Sebastopol Read online

  Of course, if he did so, he would be committed to dealing in the same manner with any others he might encounter in the channel, with the added risk of their proximity to the shore, but he had little choice, he thought glumly. The bombs could not be destroyed silently, the infernal things had to be exploded, unless … he drew in his breath sharply. Unless he could devise a means of puncturing the outer casing, so as to flood the charge with water. Undoubtedly this would deprive the bomb of its menace as silently and effectively as he could possibly wish … but was the idea feasible?

  His questing fingers moved over the casing, seeking a flaw and finding none. The wood was smooth, tightly held by two iron hoops and at least three inches thick—too thick, the devil take it! Even with the top held securely in its specially designed rack, it would take time to bore through a three-inch thickness of hardwood. When the bomb was afloat and largely submerged—as it would be in the channel—the task would take much longer and a single hole might not suffice.

  Nevertheless it might work, Phillip told himself, and was tempted to try. The bomb would have to be lowered very carefully into the water, with the net still enveloping it, so that he could keep it under control—in fact, he would probably have to go down with it to make sure that its descent was not impeded. Once in the water, he would need a boat to take the heavy cone in tow and remove it to a safe distance from the brig … he glanced round. The Constantine carried two boats on her starboard side, one a small, four-oared gig, which would serve his purpose admirably, and he would have to take two men with him, one to hold the boat steady, the other to assist him to dispose of the bomb. Thompson was the obvious choice as his assistant; he was accustomed to dealing with explosives and he would not lose his head. Besides, the big gunner’s mate was an intelligent man—shown the diagrams, he might come up with some more practical solution to the problem than his own.

  And there was Kirkoff … Phillip’s mouth twisted into a grim little smile. Captain Kirkoff had earned the right to join the bomb disposal party, if anyone had, he thought cynically … and the experience might loosen his tongue. Lowering the lantern, he vaulted down from the paddle-box and, taking out his watch, saw to his relief that it was not yet eight o’clock. He had told O’Hara that he would need ten minutes for his inspection of the bomb and he hadn’t taken much more than that but, in another fifteen minutes or so, Ferrikale Point and the first of the Kertch batteries would loom up through the foggy darkness, and all his attention would have to be concentrated on getting the brig safely past.

  He needed more time and he would have to take it, he decided; more haste, in this case, was liable to result in less speed. He could not enter the Strait with that infernal bomb hanging from its davits above the deck, it would be asking for trouble. The bomb had to be destroyed and a delay of an hour or so would not make much difference—he could be into and out of the channel before dawn, given a modicum of luck. Given a little more, he could be in and out without the enemy being aware of his presence …

  “Mr O’Hara!” His mind made up, Phillip called O’Hara over and instructed him to stop engines and bring-to. “And pass the word for Gunner’s Mate Thompson,” he added.

  “Aye, aye, sir.” O’Hara’s round, cherubic face was the picture of astonishment but he was too well trained to ask questions. Even when, the order to the engine-room passed on smartly, Phillip told him to stand by to lower the four-oared gig, he expressed no more surprise than could be conveyed in a dutiful acknowledgement. When Thompson came running aft in response to the summons and the steady throb of the engines ceased, Phillip motioned them both to follow him and crossed to the bomb rack. He said, gesturing to it, “That bomb is set to explode. I’m going to jettison and destroy it before we proceed any further but the question is how. Take a good look at these, Gunner’s Mate.” He unfolded the sheet of diagrams and set the lantern beside it on the deck. Thompson obediently dropped to one knee in order to examine them, his expression as puzzled as O’Hara’s had been a few minutes before.

  “Take your time,” Phillip bade him. “And you can inspect the bomb itself, from the paddle-box, if you want to—but have a care how you handle it. Then tell me what you think is the best way to render it harmless, having regard for the fact that this probably won’t be the only one we shall have to get rid of … and that some may be too close to the shore batteries for comfort.”

  “You mean you don’t just want to blow it up, sir?” Thompson suggested.

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “It’s a tall order, sir,” the big gunner’s mate demurred.

  “I’m aware of that,” Phillip admitted. “As a last resort, we’ll have to blow them up—the channel has got to be cleared for our attack flotilla tomorrow morning and there may be half a dozen of the things floating about there now.” He explained briefly and O’Hara, who had been leaning over Thompson’s shoulder, straightened up to meet his gaze in shocked understanding.

  “Was it one of these bombs that did for Mr Grey’s boat, sir?”

  “Yes, almost certainly it was, Mr O’Hara,” Phillip answered. The boy, too, must have glimpsed the body of Grey’s unfortunate coxswain, he thought, and it did not take very much imagination to conjure up a horrifying vision of the damage which half a dozen of Kirkoff’s floating bombs could cause, among the boats of a flotilla putting ashore. Midshipman O’Hara, he was aware, possessed a lively imagination and he said, with intentional sharpness, “See to the gig for me, if you please. I want a fender rigged over the stern and one pair of oars will suffice—you can remove the others. Oh, and I shall require a lantern. Stand by to lower when I give the word.”

  The horror faded from the youngster’s eyes. “Aye, aye, sir. But …” he hesitated. “Sir—”

  “Well?” His mind busy with details which had yet to be attended to, Phillip’s tone was still sharp. “What is it, O’Hara? And where’s Captain Kirkoff, where’s the prisoner, do you know?”

  “On the fo’c’sle, sir, with the forward gun’s crew, I think. Shall I send for him?”

  “No, I’ll get him myself. What did you want to ask me?” Phillip waited, concealing his impatience.

  O’Hara avoided his gaze. “Well, I … are you going in the boat, sir? I mean, are you going to blow up the bomb yourself?”

  He could hardly delegate a responsibility of this kind to his second-in-command, Phillip reflected, reminded of Graham’s obstinate insistence on leading the boarding party. “Yes,” he asserted, “I am, Mr O’Hara. I shall take Thompson and one other man with me. You will remain in command of this ship and, if anything should go wrong or if for any reason I should fail to get back, you are to rejoin the Huntress and hand over your command to the First Lieutenant—is that clear? He’s gone to report to the Vesuvius but he should be back here within a couple of hours.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s clear. But, sir … I—“He was still looking anxious, Phillip realized, and he said reassuringly, “Don’t worry, youngster, I intend to handle that bomb with kid gloves. And I shall probably take Captain Kirkoff with me, to ensure that nothing goes wrong. He hasn’t been exactly co-operative so far concerning his bombs and I have it in mind to try and loosen his tongue, if I can. So …” he smiled and, after a moment’s uncertainty, O’Hara grinned back at him.

  “Now I see, sir. Thank you for telling me. I’ll go and attend to the gig, sir.”

  Phillip made his way forward. The wind, he noted, had freshened a little and was still backing—another point or two and the fog might start to disperse. He looked at his watch, hoping that it would not lift too soon, and returned the timepiece to his pocket with a wry grimace. He had seldom, if ever, wanted a fog to persist but tonight he wanted it badly, for just a few more hours …

  CHAPTER THREE

  Phillip ascended the companion-ladder to the forecastle and, at the sound of his approach, the men squatting round the long, Russian thirty-two pounder broke off their desultory conversation and scrambled to their feet.


  “All right, carry on,” he bade the gun captain and they squatted down again, eyeing him with a curiosity which discipline precluded them from putting into words. “We’re going to get rid of an encumbrance we shall be better without,” he offered in explanation, sensing that their curiosity was mingled with a certain anxiety. “It ought not to take very long. If the gunner’s mate and I can’t put it out of action between us, you may have an opportunity for some target practice with that gun—so keep on your toes, my lads.”

  The gun’s crew exchanged knowing glances. “It’s a bomb, sir, ain’t it?” one of them asked. “A new kind of floating wooden bomb them Ruskies have invented?”

  “That’s about the size of it,” Phillip admitted. “And when we get it into the water, you’d better make yourselves familiar with the look of it afloat, because there may be more of the same sort where we’re going. They’re not too easy to spot when nine-tenths of the casing is submerged.” He left them to digest this warning and crossed to where the squat figure of the brig’s Commander stood, shoulders hunched against the dank chill of the night, watching his approach with illconcealed resentment, which found explosive expression as soon as he was within earshot. He listened in silence to the spate of words, flung at him in fluent but gutteral French, from which he learnt that his prisoner found the company of common sailors distasteful and that of the insolent oaf detailed to stand guard over him particularly so.

  “I am an Officer of the Imperial Russian Navy, monsieur,” the Captain reminded him furiously. “You have taken possession of my ship and made me your prisoner, for what purpose I do not know. But the usages of war demand that you treat me with the respect and consideration due to my rank. These men are animals! If you have no Officer to whom you can entrust my care, then permit me to retire to the privacy of my cabin where I may, at least, be spared the foul-mouthed insults of your men.”

  When the tirade at last petered out, a Cockney voice observed dryly, from the shadows at his back. “’E don’t arf rant on, do he, sir? Bin at me this past arf hour to take ’im below, out o’ the cold. But I told ’im ’e’d ’ave ter wait until you give me the word.”

  Recognizing the voice of his steward, Phillip asked curtly, “Higgins, what are you doing here? I told the First Lieutenant I did not need you. In fact I sent an order by Mr O’Hara for you to return to the Huntress.”

  “Yessir,” Higgins agreed. He limped forward, slapping the butt of his Minié rifle in smart salute. “I volunteered to stand sentry on ’is Nibs—beg pardon, sir, the Captain, seeing as you didn’t need me. But I wasn’t given no order to go back to the ’Untress, sir, and when the First Loo’tenant called for volunteers, I stepped forward, thinking I could make meself useful, like.”

  “I see.” There was no reason to doubt his word. Like O’Leary and Treveyan, Able-Seaman Higgins was a long service man, who knew exactly what liberties he could take within the strict disciplinary limits of the lower deck and was careful never to exceed them. His limp was a relic of his service ashore with the Naval Brigade, when a shell-burst in the Diamond Battery had wounded him severely, but he was otherwise perfectly fit and, in the six months since he had joined the Huntress, he had become a first-rate steward, conscientious in the performance of his duties, cheerful and even tempered—the last man to behave insolently to any Officer. All the same, Kirkoff’s charges were serious ones and they could not lightly be dismissed. The Russian was cold and out of temper; almost certainly, he had exaggerated the affront to his dignity but, equally certainly, all chance of gaining his cooperation would be lost if he were offered no redress. Pressed for time though he was, Phillip knew that he would have to investigate the prisoner’s complaints and, if necessary, punish the offenders.

  “Shall I carry on, sir?” Higgins ventured.

  “No, not yet. Captain Kirkoff tells me that you’ve insulted him, Higgins.” Phillip eyed him sternly. “What have you to say to that, pray?”

  “Me, sir—insulted ’im? Oh, no, sir!” The steward’s expression was one of honest bewilderment. “I ain’t said nor done nuffink to ’im—nuffink like that, I give you me word. I just carried out me orders and kept ’im ’ere, nice an’ quiet, like the First Loo’tenant said.”

  “And the others?” Phillip demanded. “The gun’s crew? The Captain is not impressed by their discipline or their language.” Which, he thought, was a rather toned-down translation of Kirkoff’s actual words but the slur on his men still rankled. “I want the truth, Higgins, because I cannot permit a prisonerof-war to be abused by men under my command. Come on, now, I’ve no time to waste—have any of you been disrespectful or used foul language to this Officer?”

  Higgins headshake was emphatic. “No, sir,” he answered gravely. “As Gawd’s me witness—we was yarning a bit, me and the gun’s crew, just passing the time. But not to ’im, sir. No one’s shown ’im no disrespect. In any case, sir, the prisoner don’t understand English, so ’ow can ’e accuse me of insulting ’im? ’Ow can ’e say as any of us was using foul language? It took me all me time to make ’im understand why I couldn’t take ’im below and …” he broke off with a smothered gasp, as the Russian Captain spun round to strike him a stinging blow across the face with the flat of his hand.

  If the blow was unexpected, so too was the stream of vituperation which followed it, in a confused mixture of French, English, and Russian. To Phillip’s relief and his own infinite credit, Higgins offered no retaliation. A thin trickle of blood ran down his chin from his bruised and battered mouth but he said nothing and, in a telling demonstration of the British naval discipline his accuser had questioned, he remained rigidly at attention, staring through the angry Russian as if unaware of his existence.

  Two of the gun’s crew, who had been watching, started towards them but Phillip waved them back to their gun. What little sympathy and respect he had felt for the Constantine’s Commander swiftly evaporated and he said coldly, “I regret that it will not be possible to send you below, Captain. I require your assistance in disposing of the unpleasant object which formed part of your cargo, so perhaps you will be good enough to accompany me.” To Higgins, he said, lowering his voice, “Good lad, you behaved admirably … now escort the prisoner aft, if you please. And if he should strike you again, you have my permission to ground your rifle on his foot.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Higgins acknowledged, a gleam in his dark eyes. “Thank you, sir.” He gripped his rifle purposefully and Captain Kirkoff, recognizing defeat, moved sullenly towards the companion-ladder. “It’s my belief, sir,” the steward added in a hoarse whisper, “that the Captain understands a mite more English than ’e’s bin letting on—and they do say as listeners never ’ear good of themselves, don’t they, sir? Maybe ’e took exception to summat me and the gun’s crew was saying about the Ruskies, when we was yarning, sir.”

  “Yes,” Phillip agreed. “He probably did. So oblige me by keeping a guard on your tongue in future.”

  “I will indeed, sir,” Higgins assured him contritely. This was the nearest to an admission he was likely to get from his steward and, he thought, the nearest he wanted to get, in the circumstances. Higgins had taken his punishment and had deserved to, since it now seemed improbable that the Russian Captain would co-operate willingly with his captors … but clearly the alleged insults had been unintentional and the incident was best forgotten. Remembering Graham’s parting words, Phillip sighed. “All right, my lad—we’ve wasted enough time. Escort your prisoner aft and look lively,” he ordered and strode briskly over to where Thompson was standing beside the bomb rack. “Well, Thompson, what about it?”

  The gunner’s mate shook his head despondently. “It’ll have to be blown up, sir—there’s no other way that I can see …” he went into technicalities, to which Phillip listened, frowning.

  “I don’t want to risk using the guns,” he objected. “The bomb will be a small target in this fog, as you don’t need me to tell you. Several shots might be needed to sink it and that
would reveal our position to the batteries. Even rifle shots would be heard, you know.”

  “Yes, sir, I thought of that, so I prepared a small charge and a slow match.” Thompson displayed an oilskin-wrapped package for his inspection. “If we tow the bomb to a safe distance, I can set this charge on the lid, sir, clear of the water and she’ll go up about ten minutes after the fuse is lit—longer, if you want, I can adjust the length of the fuse. The percussion wires will snap when the lid blows but we’ll be out of the way by then.”

  “And how do you propose to tow the bomb to a safe distance?” Phillip asked.

  “I can rig a couple of towlines to the net, sir,” Thompson answered promptly. He pointed to the bomb rack. “The release-gear is designed to drop the bomb clear of the net but I think I can fix that. Then, if the boat’s lowered first, we can haul the lines taut so as to keep the bomb well away from our hull. It shouldn’t be too difficult to shift, sir, if we take it slowly.”

  “Well done, Thompson,” Phillip approved. It was a compromise but, he supposed, it would have to do—he was running out of time. “You’re quite sure there’s no way to put the damned thing out of action without exploding it? No way of sinking it or of letting water into the inner chamber, by boring holes in the casing or through the lid? There’ll be others, remember, that we shall almost certainly have to deal with when we’re buoying the channel.”