Victory at Sebastopol Page 9

  Dear God, Phillip wondered, his heart sinking at the prospect, could Thompson’s charges have failed, after all, to do their work? Had water seeped into the oilskin covers in which they had been wrapped or the fuses spluttered into extinction for the same reason? Perhaps Kirkoff was right, perhaps the only way to destroy his infernal machines was by gunfire. Perhaps … oh, to the devil with Kirkoff! Had not O’Hara’s death proved, beyond all doubt, that these bombs required only a touch to set them off? And Thompson was a reliable man, he would have seen to it that his charges were watertight. It was a pity he’d had no Bickford fuses but …

  “And a quarter three, sir!” The messenger whispered the words as if he, too, were listening with bated breath for the sound that did not come and feared that his own raised voice might preclude his hearing it.

  He ought to relieve Jackson on the leadline, Phillip thought and opened his mouth to bid the messenger exchange places with him when, muted by distance, he heard the dull crump of an explosion. It was followed, seconds later, by another and, from what seemed a long way astern, he witnessed the now sickeningly familiar spectacle of blazing particles of wood hurtling into the air, to descend as smouldering flotsam on the dark, heaving surface of the water. This time, however, he welcomed both sight and sound and it required a conscious effort to stop himself joining in the triumphant cheers of his men. The cheers were subdued and he let them relieve their pent-up feelings before issuing a mild reproof.

  “All right, that’ll do, lads—remember where you are. We’ll be for it if you don’t watch out.”

  The cheering ceased but even the phlegmatic Trevelyan’s lined brown face wore a boyish grin, which widened when a cannon spoke from Ferrikale, echoed by a second and a third, and several shells burst in the region of the sandbank on which the wreck had lain.

  “Thikee ’aven’t ’arf wakened en up, sir,” he said derisively. “Oi reckon as them bastards think they’ve caught one o’ our ships in that auld booby trap o’ thern. Well, let en waste ammunition—they be shuttin’ the stable door after the ’orse ’as gone an’ no mistake!”

  They would also alert their comrades in the Yenikale batteries, Phillip thought ruefully, as the firing continued unabated and, now that they were roused, might be expected to stand to their guns for what remained of the night. He sighed and thrust the thought of the probable consequences to the back of his mind. At least the abortive cannonade would help to raise the morale of his own men, at a time when they needed it most—the crucial test was about to come, he was only too well aware, when the last buoy went over the stern and the Constantine prepared to make her escape from under the muzzles of the Yenikale guns.

  They would need luck—even more luck than they had had already, he told himself and repeated his sigh, as the moon broke through a bank of cloud to spread a silvery carpet on the deck at his feet. Whilst in semi-darkness and low lying fog, the true nature of the brig’s activities might not have been apparent to any watchers on shore, in this damnably revealing moonlight, he could not hope to conceal her presence or her purpose for very much longer. Lights were springing to life from end to end of the squat, stone-built fort; men crowded on to the ramparts, others ran across to the floating battery on the foreshore and Phillip watched through his glass as a cavalry patrol galloped off towards Ferrikale, presumably to ascertain the cause of the commotion.

  “And a half two, sir!” the messenger sang out, his voice restored to its normal pitch and sounding incongruously cheerful. His next call gave a depth of only two fathoms—the channel was shoaling again.

  “Slow ahead engines,” Phillip ordered. He consulted the chart; the last of Kirkoff’s two red-ink circles lay ahead and to starboard, if his memory was not at fault … yes, there they were, clearly marked and within range of the fort. Too close for him to attempt to deal with yet, he decided regretfully, because all hell would break loose if he did. He would have to drop a buoy, when he sighted the accursed things, and sink them with the brig’s stern gun when he came about, depending on the resultant confusion to aid his escape. As yet there had been no challenge; the garrison of the fort appeared to be too occupied with what was going on down channel to notice or concern themselves with the Constantine’s unobtrusive arrival.

  “By the mark two, sir … and shoaling!” He heard Jackson’s call, before the messenger could relay it. The chart indicated the shoal and he snapped a correction of course to Trevelyan.

  “Ease your wheel a point to starb’d, Quartermaster—ease it, mind! Bo’sun’s Mate, let go a buoy there!” He glanced back, over his shoulder, at Driver and his sweating crew. There were only four of the marker-buoys left now. Thank God, this—the essential—part of his mission was all but completed, and a sixteen-foot-wide channel buoyed as far as Yenikale. But where the devil were those bombs? Thompson had made no report—with the moonlight to help him, surely he …

  “Ship fine on the port bow, sir!” The masthead look-out’s hail took Phillip by surprise and he spun round, fumbling for his glass as he made for the port-side shrouds. “She’s a steamer, sir,” the look-out amplified. “About half a mile away and approaching fast. Looks like a gun-vessel, sir!”

  He was right, Phillip saw, when he focused the Dollond on her. She was a steam-sloop, of a type which had been observed frequently in the Strait, flush-decked and mounting six guns, and she was coming at full speed, evidently from her anchorage off Cape Fanar, at the entrance to the Sea of Azoff. As he watched her approach, he saw a light flash from her upper deck, vanish and flash again and the look-out called excitedly, “She’s making a signal, sir … and the fort is acknowledging!”

  Was she making her number, Phillip wondered, or the general recognition signal? There had been no challenge from the fort but … glass to his eye, he noted the number and duration of the flashing light signals. Two short, a long and a short from the gunboat … one long and three short flashes from the fort. The signals could mean anything; the Russian naval code, as far as he knew, bore no resemblance to the British. He considered sending for Captain Kirkoff and then decided against it, as the gunboat doused her lamp—Kirkoff, judging by his past performance, would not interpret the signals for him and might even deliberately misinterpret them. But he had gained something, perhaps, from what he had seen—if the fort should make a belated challenge, he would reply as the approaching gunboat had done, in the hope that she had made the recognition signal. If his hopes were unfounded, he would be no worse off than he had been before.

  “Masthead, there!” he hailed. “Report any change of course by the enemy steamer!”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” the look-out acknowledged. “She seems to be reducing speed, sir, but she’s still on the same course.”

  The Ferrikale guns had ceased fire now—no doubt it was on this account that she had reduced speed, Phillip reasoned, as he descended again to the deck. She was probably a watchdog, there to guard the channel against intruders but this time her services were not being called upon and it was to be hoped that she would return to her anchorage.

  “And a half three, sir!” the messenger shouted.

  “Last buoy but one away, sir!” Driver’s voice sounded relieved.

  “Avast heaving, Bo’sun’s Mate … hold that last buoy,” Phillip ordered. They were clear of the shoal now and too close to the fort for comfort; every instinct he possessed warned him to turn and run while there was still time. He had carried out his orders but … there were still those two floating bombs unaccounted for, those two ominous red circles on the captured Russian chart and he could not, in all conscience, make his escape until they were located. “Gunner’s Mate …” He cupped his hands about his mouth but Thompson, forestalling the question, gave him a prompt and puzzled assurance that he had seen nothing. He checked the chart again … could the infernal machines have drifted? Or had Kirkoff failed to drop them, had he, perhaps, intended to do so when the fog lifted and he was on his way back to the gunboat anchorage? This was a distinct possibility but
… Phillip swore softly and wearily to himself. He had to be sure, he would have to circle the area to make sure—damn it, in this moonlight, if the bombs were there, they must be visible. Feeling the palms of his hands clammy, he crossed to the wheel and gave Trevelyan his instructions in a flat voice that successfully hid his own misgivings. Then, after a brief word of praise to Driver and his crew, he despatched the two seamen aloft to act as additional look-outs, with orders to report anything suspicious they might sight floating on the surface of the water.

  “Stand by with the signal lamp, Bo’sun’s Mate,” he added. “Our change of course may well bring a challenge from the fort, if they’re keeping a vigilant watch. If it should—make two short and a long and a short, when I give the word. But remember, you’re a poor hand at signalling. And keep the lamp well down.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Driver mopped his damp face. He had scarcely picked up the lamp when, as Phillip had feared, a light flashed from the fort. He waited until the signal had been repeated and then said, “Right, Driver—do your worst!”

  The boatswain’s mate obeyed. He made a commendably awkward job of it and the light from the fort flashed a third time.

  “Deck there!” The masthead look-out’s hail was urgent. “Enemy steamer’s flashing now, sir. A succession of short flashes. I think she’s making to us, sir.”

  Was she, Phillip asked himself, training his glass on her, or was she signalling the fort? She hadn’t altered course yet but … he saw her head come round, an instant before the masthead look-out confirmed his observation. Perdition take her, the gunboat was coming to investigate!

  “Driver!” he called sharply. “Make one long and two short flashes to her—but wait till she’s completed her turn. And pass the word to Jackson to get back on deck right away.”

  He would have to alter course himself in a minute or two, he thought. Alter course and run for it … the little Constantine would be no match for a six-gun sloop-of-war and, with his depleted crew, he could not hope to use her two guns to much effect, particularly if the fort joined in the hunt. He raised his glass to his eye again, as the fort—still seemingly dissatisfied with Driver’s signals—sent at some length. They were evidently suspicious but they could not be sure that there was anything wrong as yet, so probably they would leave things to the gunboat. Probably but not certainly; he knew he could not bank on their doing so once he started running, although they would be reluctant to fire on a ship they must recognize as their own, however eccentric her movements. Lowering the glass, he glanced up at the Russian ensign fluttering limply in the breeze and wondered for how much longer it would protect him.

  “Enemy steamer’s increasing speed, sir,” the masthead look-out warned.

  She was definitely setting course to intercept him, Phillip saw, although she had not run out her guns, which suggested that she did not expect to meet an enemy. He thrust the Dollond into his breast pocket and, hands clenched at his sides, deliberately turned his back on her as he considered the alternatives open to him.

  Every second he delayed would add to the danger of discovery, he was aware. His best, if not his only chance was to get away at full speed now, at once, before the gunboat closed him and before either fort or gunboat realized that there was an enemy, sailing under false colours, in their midst. With a start of almost a quarter of a mile and the element of surprise to help him, the odds would be in his favour—as far as Ferrikale, at all events—and he owed that much, surely, to his men? Kirkoff’s thrice-damned bombs would have to be abandoned, it was too late to hunt for them now. If they were there at all, they must have drifted but the newly-buoyed channel was clear for Jack Lyons’s flotilla in the morning and for his own ship now—and he could count on a fast run down it, perhaps even on out-distancing his pursuer.

  Only … he expelled his breath in a pent up sigh, sick with the realization that he could not use the channel. If he did so and the gunboat came after him, her Commander would undoubtedly see the buoys, would see and understand their purpose, and his night’s work would all have been for nothing.

  What the devil could he do, then? Run, clear of the buoys and take the risk of going aground on a shoal … no, for God’s sake, that was out of the question, the risk was too great. If he ran, it was the channel or nothing and, if the gunboat gave chase, he would have to engage and stop her, because she could not be allowed to return to Yenikale with intelligence of the buoyed channel.

  The only other course of action left to him was to endeavour to bluff his way out—to head towards the enemy ship, as if he had nothing to fear from her and depend on her sheering off, her curiosity satisfied. But would she sheer off, would that satisfy her Commander’s curiosity? Phillip shook his head in frustration. It wouldn’t, damn it—if he were in the other Commander’s place, it wouldn’t satisfy him. He could, he supposed, send for Kirkoff if he had to, he could hold a pistol to the fellow’s obstinate head and try to force him to co-operate, either by disclosing the correct recognition signal or by speaking to the gunboat but … Kirkoff wasn’t to be trusted. He …

  “Deck there!” The masthead look-out yelled. “The enemy steamer’s running out her for’ard gun, sir! And she’s making again with her signal lamp—continuous long flashes, sir!”

  She was calling on him to stop, Phillip knew. It was no use attempting to bluff, he must either obey the command or run … the decision had been made for him and the knowledge that it had came almost as a relief.

  “Messenger!” The young seaman was at his side, white faced, a flicker of fear in his eyes. “Tell Mr Curtis I want all the speed he can give me,” Phillip bade him. He smiled reassuringly into the boy’s frightened eyes. “Then you can stand to your gun. That’s what you came for, is it not—a chance of some gun practice at the enemy’s expense? Well, you may get it, lad, if you look lively with that message to the engine-room, so off with you!”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” The seaman echoed his smile a trifle uncertainly before scurrying off on his errand. Phillip turned to Treveyan. “Hard a-starb’d, Quartermaster. Steer by the buoys when you sight them.” Driver, he saw, was signalling to the gunboat which, significantly, made no reply. “Belay that, Bo’sun’s Mate, and take charge of the after-gun. I want all gun’s crews to close up and …” he was interrupted by a stentorian bellow from Thompson.

  “Bomb, sir—dead ahead!”

  Phillip’s reaction was instinctive rather than reasoned, as his hands joined Trevelyan’s on the wheel. The brig responded to her helm but, with so little way on her still, her response was slow and the bomb perilously close. Both he and the quartermaster stood as if turned to stone, waiting for the inevitable explosion and the jarring crash against the Constantine’s hull which would follow but—incredibly—nothing happened. She must have avoided disaster by a matter of inches, Phillip thought, scarcely able to take in the fact that they were safe. Then he heard the throbbing rhythm of the engines change as Curtis, all unaware of what was going on outside the dark, oily confines of his engine-room, gave him the increase in speed for which—a very long time ago, it seemed—he had asked. Forcing his numb limbs to obey him, he crossed to the rail but the bomb had vanished in the churned-up water astern.

  “Channel up ahead, sir,” Trevelyan observed, when he returned to the wheel. Lifting a brown hand, the quartermaster pointed to where the last buoy they had dropped bobbed gently in the moonlight, forty or fifty yards ahead and to port. “Steer along o’ them buoys, you said, sir.”

  “Yes,” Phillip affirmed. “Steer by the buoys. We’ll give that gunboat a run for her money, if she comes after us.”

  The Cornishman gave vent to a low, amused chuckle. “If’n she does, sir, mabbe she won’t clear thikee auld bomb as tidy as we done. We was mortal lucky to ’ave missed ’er.”

  His words and the hope they held out raised Phillip’s flagging spirits. Perhaps it was a faint hope but the bomb had undoubtedly drifted—the gunboat’s Commander would have no more idea of its position than h
e had had, a few minutes ago. If his ship hit it, the foul thing might not stop him but it would certainly slow him down, and there was one way to make sure that he gave chase. Phillip’s gaze went again to the ensign staff—he could haul down the Russian colours and hoist his own.

  Eyes narrowed, he measured the distance between himself and the fort and reluctantly dismissed the idea. Had the gunners on shore been in their earlier state of lethargy, the gamble might have been worth taking; as things were, however, it would be madness, an act of bravado which he could not possibly justify. If he were to have even a fighting chance of bringing the Constantine and her crew past Ferrikale unscathed, he dared not risk anything in the nature of an invitation to the Yenikale gunners to fire on her. As it was, they would have telescopes trained on her, watching her every movement and her sudden, precipitate departure—when the gunboat had signalled her to stop—would no doubt be causing considerable speculation. The fact that they hadn’t yet opened fire on her could only mean that, as he had calculated, the flag she was flying was her protection.

  “Deck there!” The masthead look-out hailed. “Enemy steamer is making a succession of long flashes, as before, sir!”

  Phillip picked up the signal lamp. Aware that it was probably useless, he made one long and three short flashes—a repetition of the fort’s first signal. The reply was not slow in coming and it, too, was a repetition, whose meaning left him in no doubt.

  He said grimly to Jackson, who was standing a few yards away, coiling down his lead-line, “Pass the word for the gunner’s mate, will you, and then go below and tell my steward to bring the prisoner on deck. You’d better lend a hand with him—he may not be too keen to come and I don’t want him running amuck again.”