The canoes then slipped in amongst some very sleepy vessels. All that could be heard was the creaking and groaning of timbers disturbed by the currents. Crossman now began a patient search amongst the ships with their forest of masts and booms. Each likely craft, one that matched the silhouette imbedded on Crossman’s mind, had to be approached and studied in the poor light coming from the ships themselves, and from the port, to discover their names.
It was a long and painstaking task, fraught with the possibility of discovery at any moment. All it took was one sailor with insomnia to lean over the rail and look down into the water at the right time.
Finally their seeking was successful and they found their quarry: two large ships anchored together, one either side of a wharf.
Crossman motioned for Ali and Clancy to take the St Petersburg, which was furthest away, while he and Devlin took the Yalta.
The Yalta looked alarmingly high in the water. Crossman suspected that at least some of the ship’s cargo had already been unloaded and was stored somewhere nearby. It was a hopeless task to go searching the warehouses, for the explosives could be anywhere, not necessarily on the quayside. He had to hope that there was enough ammunition and gunpowder left on board to make a bang worthwhile.
Devlin made ready a small charge first, to be fitted to the hull just under the waterline of the bows. This was what Devlin called the ‘mercy bomb’ which would explode first and allow any sailors on board to evacuate the ship. Crossman had ordered this little device himself at the instigation of his men: Lovelace had no knowledge of it. The men – and Crossman had to admit, he himself – had a horror of blowing up mariners still asleep in their hammocks and bunks, who would otherwise have no chance whatsoever of surviving a night blast.
The ‘mercy bomb’ would merely blow a hole in the bows and start the ship sinking. If they had any sense at all the Russians would disembark from a ship full of explosives on which bombs were being detonated. Ten minutes afterwards the main charges would detonate and the vessel would be matchwood floating through the skies.
Of course, Devlin had argued, they might be foolish enough to stay around and look for further bombs, but that was their business, and at least they would be wide-eyed and awake when they were sent to kingdom come. It was highly unlikely they would look outside the ship for the cause of the explosion. It was more likely they would believe it to be accidental and would simply evacuate until there were no signs of further blasts.
They lit the Beckford fuse of the first bomb and tried to screw it into the ship’s hull. Despite the sharp threaded point on the bomb’s spike, it was not as easy as they had imagined. The wood was hard and the spike would not penetrate at first. Eventually, with the help of some silent swearing, the first bomb was in position.
Now they went a quarter of the way along the ship and placed the second, and a little further along, the third charge. Then they went around to the other side, away from the jetty, with no protective screen above their heads. Finally, all four charges were lit and in position. Just as they were about to paddle out into the harbour, to meet up with Ali and Clancy, they heard voices above. A lit cheroot end came floating down to hit the water near them and sizzle to extinction.
Crossman immediately eased the canoe under the belly of the tall ship, out of sight of anyone above.
There were low voices. Clearly two or more men were leaning on the rail, talking about something: their sweethearts, their wives, or perhaps even the war? It appeared to be one of those earnest discussions that men have in the early hours of the morning when they believe their minds are functioning best. In fact most ideas formed at these times are likely to be less than reasonable, but such chats are cosy and enjoyable for men who have nothing to do except wait for the world to wake.
Crossman looked at Devlin and the Irish corporal’s eyes told him that the other soldier was wondering the same thing: the fuses had been set for fifteen minutes. Both men had had talks like this on sentry duty and knew that such a discussion as the one above was likely to go on for an hour or more. The sailors on the deck had all the time in the world.
They had spent nearly ten minutes putting the other four charges around the ship, after planting the ‘mercy bomb’. In just a few minutes that first bomb would explode, smashing a hole in the bows of the Yalta. If the garrulous mariners above had not moved away from the rail by that time, Crossman and Devlin would have to make a dash for it across the harbour, hoping there would be too much confusion and chaos on board to spot them canoeing away.
They waited in apprehension, the sweat visible on Devlin’s brow in the lamplight from the ship.
Crossman could see Ali and Clancy in their canoe, crossing the harbour. Suddenly, one of the men above let out a yell. He had seen them too.
‘Let’s go!’ said Crossman. ‘Paddle for all you’re worth, corporal.’
They shot out from under the ship, just as a Russian sailor came to the rail with a musket. Something was shouted, the musket was fired. A ‘plop’ sounded in the water near the front of the canoe. Then came a second shot, presumably from another musket, which sang past Crossman’s ear. Devlin reached for his carbine, already loaded, and before Crossman could stop him, aimed and squeezed the trigger.
The powder was damp from seawater and the carbine failed to go off.
‘Thank God it didn’t fire – you’d have had us over with the recoil, corporal,’ said Crossman. ‘We were side on. We’d have rolled and capsized.’
‘Forgot about that,’ Devlin acknowledged. ‘Sorry, sergeant.’
‘Let’s just get out of here. Follow the two in front. As fast as you can.’
A bell was going ten to the dozen on the deck of the Yalta now and some sailors were launching a longboat. When the boat was half-way down to the water, the first of the charges exploded. The Yalta shuddered from stem to stern and rocked violently in the water. The bowline of the longboat was released and the small craft tipped over, spilling men into the sea.
Fortunately for the Russian mariners, the water was so cold they wanted to get out of it as soon as possible and began swimming for the quayside, some helping others.
A half-a-minute after the first mercy bomb had exploded, the one attached to the bows of the St Petersburg went up.
More shots were fired from the deck of the Yalta, but these fell short of the canoe. The harbour currents had helped to take the British soldiers beyond the range of shipboard muskets. On board the Yalta someone was screaming orders in an incomprehensible voice. Crossman and Devlin paddled like mad, hoping to put a good distance between themselves and the two craft which were soon to go sky-high.
The Yalta was now listing badly and going down at the bows.
11
When the bombs around the Yalta finally exploded, the effect was relatively disappointing. The ship was destroyed, but no secondary explosions took place. Clearly the Russian explosives which had been on board had been unloaded. The 88th had blown up an empty ship.
Still, the blasts were impressive, and sent timber and other debris flying through the air. A series of large waves was created which came rushing towards the two canoes. Crossman saw with alarm that if they did not point the front of the canoe at the oncoming wash they would be overturned. Clancy and Ali had already assumed that position.
‘Get the canoe round, Devlin,’ he yelled. ‘Copy Ali’s manoeuvre!’
They managed to get the craft in line just as the first wave hit. Riding it with difficulty, they took some water in the bomb hatch which had a chilling effect on their thighs. The next wave was slightly smaller, and so on, and finally they were able to relax a little. They were near to a stone quay now. Ali and Clancy had climbed out of their canoe and were standing on some steps. Crossman and Devlin joined them.
Crossman was anxious. Where was the second series of explosions? Surely they should have been detonated by now?
He did not have to wait long. He had just managed to disembark and take their canoe out of
the water, when the whole harbour area was ripped apart by a deafening set of blasts which were so close together they were almost one. This time the distant wharf, jetty, the Yalta, the St Petersburg and several other ships, vanished amid a storm of wood, water and flying metal.
Crossman instantly dropped down alongside Clancy and Ali. Devlin, a little slower in his thinking, was blown off the quayside by the blast, and into the harbour. He managed to grab a mooring post and cling on, waiting for the aftershock.
A hot wave of choking air buffeted the soldiers, sweeping over them. This was followed by a downpour of pieces of lumber, bits of iron and a deluge of water. Despite being fashioned mostly of stone, the quay on which they lay rocked violently. Monstrous waves swept through the harbour, carrying timber on their crests. Devlin had to shelter behind the thick mooring post, clinging on to the iron mooring ring to avoid being struck by wayward beams and other ships’ trappings.
A pretty display of pyrotechnics was now cascading over the harbour area. Rockets flared away into the night like mad fireflies. Shells burst and whizz-bangs were shooting here, there and everywhere. Secondary fires were being started by these wayward explosives. Shed roofs were catching alight. Stores of hay and straw were going up in flames. Frightened livestock was charging around, colliding with people and objects, scattering bales and boxes over the waterfront.
For at least two minutes afterwards timber was still raining from the skies, falling into a choppy harbour. Buildings around the harbour were being pelted too. During this time, immediately following the firework display, there was relative silence. Stunned and bewildered Russians tried to gather their shattered wits.
Then there was pandemonium again. Bells began ringing, people began shouting, and there were the cries of the wounded and dying. Loose horses and oxen were rounded up. Carts were pulled out of the way of raging fires, and goods were being dragged free of the flames. At first there were only a few night owls to deal with the situation. Then the rest of the population began to emerge, somewhat confused at first.
To give credit to the garrison, these people were soon organised by the soldiers and sailors on night watch. Many of those who came out of their houses and billets were still in their nightshirts. They looked like ghosts as they ran back and forth with buckets of water, their night clothes billowing, their faces pale with the shock of a disturbed night.
No one took very much notice of three men on a jetty, who were trying to rescue a fourth from the water.
Devlin swam through the rubbish to the quay and was hauled up by the other three soldiers. They quickly relaunched their canoes. Still no one paid the slightest bit of attention to them. The populace was still in a state of shock and was too busy with the tasks in hand. Many were intent on kicking or sorting through debris with their hands, as if they expected to find lost comrades there.
‘That was pure murder,’ murmured Devlin, just as shocked as any of his Russian victims. ‘I hope I’ll never be doing the likes of that again.’
Crossman said nothing, but in his own mind he agreed with the corporal. The hold of the St Petersburg must have been full of explosives and ammunition. It had devastated the harbour and its surrounds. God only knew how many dead and injured there were. The damage they had caused was astonishing, considering they were but four men in two canoes. The Royal Navy could not have done worse with a dozen men o’ war. Crossman’s instinct was to pitch in and help try to save the casualties from further injury, but of course that would have been pure stupidity.
‘Let’s get away from here. If they catch us they’ll hang us from the nearest post, and I can’t say I would blame them.’
The two canoes paddled along the coastline toward and out of the straits. Their journey was made all that much more difficult at first due to the amount of debris in the water. The canoes kept striking logs and platters of wood. Once they were round the first headland, they found themselves clear of this rubbish and were able to make better progress. The currents that had hampered them so much going into the straits, were now assisting them in their escape, and very glad they were to have them.
Soon they were well on their way. They ached in every part of their bodies, but they were heading back now. Return journeys are never as bad as outward ones. There is the promise of a warm bed and a sleep at the end.
Devlin was soaked through to the skin and shivered constantly, but the others were not much better. They had a good few inches of water in the bottoms of their canoes, and the constant spray over the bows made sure their upper halves remained wet too. Even after the light of dawn was in the sky it was still bitterly cold. They crept along the coast, their arms paddling mechanically, desperate for sight of the ship.
Two hours after the explosion in the Russian harbour, they sighted the Antigone. They were two miles away from the craft when a strong wind began sweeping across the water. The deep darkened and white horses appeared on the waves. Ali pointed and shouted with alarm, his finger indicating that something was coming from the south, a weather front moving up swiftly. It was clear the two canoes were going to be caught in a squall.
To make matters worse, the Antigone had obviously seen the squall coming too and had upped anchor and was moving closer to the shore, to take refuge in a wide bay with curving headlands shaped like two cow horns at either end.
‘They’re leaving us,’ cried Clancy, paddling furiously. ‘They’re leaving us to die.’
‘Head for the shore,’ Crossman ordered.
They raced for the coast, which was at least half a mile away. Before they could get very far the squall hit them with great force. At first Crossman and Devlin were carried on the crest of a wave, on its surf, like a piece of flotsam.
Then Crossman felt himself being lifted up and thrown down hard. It went black and cold, freezing cold, as he found himself surrounded by water. The night air had suddenly turned liquid. He tried to breathe and took in seawater. He gagged and choked, his eyes starting from his head in pain and fear. Which way was up and which was down? The stars had gone, the wind had gone, there was no spray on his face. He dared not breathe again even though his lungs burned with a horrible yearning pain.
The pain became a blinding white agony in his breast, searing all from his brain but sheer demented terror. There was no thinking straight, no sensible survival thoughts. The pain took all his concentration for a few moments. Then, fortuitously perhaps, secondary pain came from his legs, as his muscles constricted with cramp. It was this secondary pain which shook him out of his funk. It jolted his attention into focus again. A conscious thought penetrated the unreasoning fear. He realised if he did not get oxygen soon he would be dead.
Panic continued to rush through him as he thrashed and fought to get out of the canoe. He had lost all orientation, seeing nothing, feeling only freezing water and that terrible increasing pain in his chest. Finally he managed to struggle out of his cockpit. Once free he battled his way to the surface of the sea. Fortunately he went the right way, by pure instinct or luck, for there was nothing to guide him.
He was surprised to find the sea was still in turmoil.
He clung to the side of the canoe, coughing and spluttering, warm salty water coming up from deep in his lungs.
Only after a minute or two did he start wondering whether Devlin was still underneath the canoe.
Then he saw the Irish corporal, a few yards away, his right hand gripping the line which ran out from the stern. The canoe had been literally upended, the stern going up and over, and the canoe coming down the wrong way up in the raging sea.
‘Pull yourself in,’ croaked Crossman with great effort. ‘Get to the canoe.’
Devlin’s eyes were wide with terror. It was obvious he thought he was going to drown. But with supreme labour he began hauling on the line, either pulling the upturned canoe towards himself, or himself towards it, Crossman was not sure.
The waves were reaching mountainous proportions now. One minute the pair would be at the bottom of
a deep trough of water, the next they would be lifted up high into the air and carried towards the land. Crossman was concerned that they would be sucked into the maw of a wave, once the great rollers began hitting the shoreline and curling into booming surf. Rocks were the greatest fear. They would be smashed and ripped apart by the teeth of any jagged rocks they might encounter.
Finally, the exhausted Devlin managed to reach the canoe and Crossman gripped the corporal’s sleeve. There was no sign of the other two men. The air and the sea were one frothing mass of white water and spume. Wind screamed around them, whipping the waves to a fury, creating forces that not only carried them up and down, but spun and twisted them round like a twig in a whirlpool.
‘Sergeant,’ screamed Devlin. ‘I touched bottom – I did – I did.’
But Crossman’s flailing feet found no purchase below.
The trouble was, they might be a hundred yards nearer shore one moment, then be back where they started the next. The shifting waters of the ocean moved alarmingly swiftly. There were storm-formed eddies and currents now, erratic and unpredictable, not like the strong but gentle currents created by a stormless ocean. They took men and canoe and played with them like toys, throwing them this way and that, sweeping them down rushing channels in the flood, tossing them in the air, then rushing off again perhaps in a different direction.
The canoe began breaking up. It had never been anything but a home-made and necessarily very light craft. The nails that held it were wrenched from their beds, squealing and squeaking. Joints were torn apart. The deck went first, was ripped away and shredded by the savage waves. Then the whole length began to break in half.
Soldiers in the Mist Page 9
