Victory at Sebastopol

by V. A. Stuart

  More heads appeared from the now pitch-black darkness: Phillip yelled to the cutter to aid in rescuing them and Cochrane, who had appeared from nowhere like the bobbing heads, needed no urging. Leaving him to pick up the nearest survivors, Phillip took the gig to where an oar floated, miraculously intact and, to his stunned amazement, recognized the white, unconscious face of Ordinary-Seaman Wright, the seriously injured man, of whose chances of survival young Robin Grey had earlier despaired. He was wrapped in a tarpaulin, with two oars secured to either side of his broken body—evidently to protect him from further injury when he was being lowered into the boat—and these had kept him from sinking.

  Grey himself trod water beside him and, although he looked shocked and was bleeding from a cut on the head, he responded cheerfully to O’Hara’s shrill cry of recognition, as the gig drew alongside him and willing hands reached out to assist him from the water. “I’m all r-right, sir,” he insisted, making a valiant effort to still his chattering teeth. “The water’s rather cold, that’s all. Have a care, Cox’n, as you bring that poor young devil Wright aboard,” he added. “I d-don’t think he can take much more.”

  “He’s dead, sir,” the coxswain told him, his tone apologetic. He glanced enquiringly at Phillip who, tight-lipped, confirmed his assertion. “We’ll transfer his body to the cutter. You, too, Mr Grey—the sooner you get back to the Huntress and into some dry clothes the better. You did all you possibly could for poor young Wright,” he added, sensing Grey’s anguished disappointment.

  Robin Grey gulped. He was just seventeen, Phillip reflected pityingly and, although he had met with violent death all too often in his short naval career and had himself been severely wounded the previous year, when serving with the Naval Brigade on shore, this was probably the first time that he had ever felt personally responsible for the death of a man under his command. Removing his boatcloak, Phillip draped it round the boy’s dripping shoulders and said gently, “It wasn’t your fault, Mr Grey. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “No, sir,” the mate responded flatly. “But he … poor little devil, sir, he took a blow from a marline-spike that was meant for me, when we were boarding the brig, and it knocked him back into the boat. It would have done for me, sir, if it had landed—I’d have had my head split in two if Wright hadn’t flung himself in front of me.” He drew a long, shuddering breath and then asked, frowning in perplexity, “What caused the explosion, sir, do you know? I suppose we must have hit something … but what do you think it was, sir?”

  “I don’t know,” Phillip admitted truthfully. “But I intend to find out, if I can.” There had been rumours, he was aware, that the Russians had perfected an explosive device, designed to be left floating in channels and harbours open to Allied naval attack and containing a charge of powder which—rendered by some means impervious to sea water—blew up on impact. But these were only rumours; he had paid little attention to them until now. Now, he thought grimly, it would behove him to give the matter his urgent attention since, if the channel he had been ordered to survey should prove to be blocked by any of the infernal things, the Allied fleets would be unable to use it until they were found and removed. And that might take days and jeopardize the success of the troop landings …

  An almost naked body drifted slowly into sight and Phillip recognized the white, lifeless face of Grey’s coxswain. He leaned over into the icy water, impelled by an instinct stronger than reason to try to recover Leading-Seaman Ryan’s mortal remains, so that the Christian funeral, to which the man was entitled, might be performed on board the ship in which he had served. But, even as his numb fingers closed about the seaman’s shoulder, he drew back, appalled by the glimpse he had caught of the hideously mutilated body. It was better not to inflict this horror on the crew of the gig, he told himself, and murmured a few words of the Burial Service before relinquishing his hold and allowing the corpse to drift away. O’Hara and his own coxswain crossed themselves and then hastily looked ahead, to where the cutter was approaching them.

  Lieutenant Cochrane hailed him with the news that, aided by the second boat, which had been sent from the brig to join him, he had picked up twelve survivors and Phillip’s anxiety eased a little. “Four Russian wounded are missing, sir,” Cochrane reported. “I spotted a couple of them, swimming as hard as they could for the shore, but I doubt if they’ll make it. We tried to pick them up but they vanished in the fog. Five of our men are badly hurt—shall I take them to the ship, sir?”

  “I have Mr Grey and a Russian to transfer to you,” Phillip called back. “And the body of Ordinary-Seaman Wright. Come alongside, if you please.” The transfer was effected without mishap and, when both rescue boats were pulling across to the Huntress, Phillip told Midshipman O’Hara to take him to the brig. He found his brother anxiously awaiting him, with the unwounded Russian prisoners lined up under guard on the forecastle.

  “Thank God you’re all right, Phillip,” Graham said. “I was really worried for a while, until I heard Cochrane say he’d picked up most of our fellows, so I take it that it might have been worse.”

  “We lost two men and five are badly hurt,” Phillip told him, with conscious bitterness. “Grey’s boat was blown to pieces.” He supplied what details he could but, when he started to describe the mysterious object which had apparently caused the explosion, he saw his brother’s mouth tighten ominously.

  “Come and take a look at this, Phillip.” Graham picked up a lantern and led the way to the starboard side of the brig’s upper deck. Holding the lantern high, he pointed to a coneshaped wooden container, with a flat top some three feet in circumference, which was suspended from what appeared to be a specially constructed rack, slung well clear of the ship’s side, just forward of her paddle-box. “Well?” he demanded. “Does this contraption bear any resemblance to the object you saw strike Grey’s boat?”

  Phillip gingerly inspected the four-foot-high cone, careful to avoid contact with any of the wires protruding from beneath the flat iron-bound and bolted top. So the rumours had not been exaggerated, he thought grimly—this was the so-called Russian “infernal machine” concerning which there had been considerable speculation among the ships of the Baltic Fleet, which had encountered them off Cronstadt and in the Gulf of Finland. The Merlin had been struck by one and suffered some damage, he recalled, although she had not been put out of action. Nothing of the kind had, as yet, been reported in the Black Sea theatre to the best of his knowledge but he was conscious of a bleak feeling of dismay as he turned to answer his brother’s question with an affirmative nod.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, “I fancy this must have been very like the object I saw. Most of it was submerged but the shape and the flat top are similar—I noticed the flat top particularly. I imagine that there’s an inner watertight casing to house the charge and that it’s detonated by means of those wires … they’ll be attached to some sort of firing mechanism inside the casing, no doubt. A pretty diabolical contraption, is it not?” He glanced about him with narrowed, searching eyes. “Do you know if this is the only one on board?”

  “It’s the only one left on board,” Graham told him. “The one that blew up Grey’s boat was dropped over the side—I rather think in the hope that the Huntress might run on to it—when the Captain realized that he’d been boarded. The others, according to him, have all been dropped and left floating in the approaches to Yenikale and—”

  “In both channels?” Phillip put in, his mouth suddenly dry. “Did he tell you how many have been dropped, for God’s sake?”

  Graham shook his head regretfully. “The Captain is not very communicative, I’m afraid. All I was able to get from him was the boast that there are now enough obstructions of various kinds to bar the Sea of Azoff to our ships. But I take leave to doubt that there can be all that many floating bombs, Phillip. The Highflyer and the Vesuvius have had the Strait under constant observation and they’ve reported nothing unusual. Besides, these are new weapons and damned dangerous to h
andle—they’d have to be carried in launching-racks, rigged for the purpose, like that one there. There’s another on the port side and each can hold three bombs, so …” he shrugged. “Even if she’s made two trips, this brig can only have dropped eleven of the things and one’s accounted for.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Phillip frowned. This was a most unwelcome complication but … “Where is the Captain now?”

  “I sent him below, to his cabin, with Gunner’s Mate Thompson on guard. I thought you’d want a word with him.”

  “I do indeed.” Phillip’s voice had an edge to it. “And I’m going to keep him on board, Graham, until we’ve cleared every last one of his infernal machines from the Kertch side of the Strait. If he can’t or won’t tell me where he dropped them, then by heaven I’ll run his ship through the channel regardless, until he cracks!”

  “He’s a tough customer,” Graham warned. “He won’t crack easily. But”—he led the way below—“see for yourself.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Graham’s assessment of the Constantine’s Commander was amply borne out when Phillip attempted to question him. He was a tall, thickset man of about forty, with closecropped black hair and heavy beard, whose expression of sullen indifference gave nothing away and whose answers, in thickly accented French, were defiantly uninformative. Even when Graham addressed him in his own language, he responded with shrugs and headshakes and, beyond admitting that his name was Kirkoff, he refused to be drawn.

  “Tell him,” Phillip said at last, losing patience, “what I intend to do, if he won’t give me the information I require. And make him believe I mean it, if you can.”

  Graham translated and, for the first time, the brig Commander’s deep-set dark eyes betrayed a hint of uneasiness, as he replied at some length. “He says,” Graham repeated, “that he is a prisoner-of-war and he demands to be transferred to the Huntress with his men and accommodated in accordance with his rank, until an exchange of prisoners can be arranged. He also wishes you to …” Exasperated, Phillip cut him short. Time was passing and many lives might be lost, he thought angrily, if the infernal machines this man had dropped in the channel were not removed—or rendered harmless—before the Allied flotilla under Jack Lyons’s command passed through it on the way to Yenikale and the Sea of Azoff. If Kirkoff would not talk willingly, then he would have to be coerced into doing so, whatever his rights as a prisoner-of-war. He … there was a tap on the door and Midshipman O’Hara entered, cap in hand.

  “Yes, Mr O’Hara?”

  “Mr Cochrane’s compliments, sir, and all wounded and the prisoners have been transferred to the Huntress,” the boy announced. His gaze strayed with unconcealed curiosity to the glum-faced Russian Captain and Phillip said quietly, “One moment, Mr O’Hara. Thompson, escort Captain Kirkoff on deck, will you, and mount a guard on him. I’m keeping him with us and I’d like to keep you in charge of the guns, if you’re willing to stay. There’s no compulsion—the prize-crew will all be volunteers.”

  “I’ll stay, sir,” the gunner’s mate answered promptly. He grasped his prisoner’s arm none too gently and started to propel him towards the open cabin door.

  “Look over the brig’s guns when you’ve detailed a guard,” Phillip called after him. “They’re long thirty-twos, I fancy, and we may need them. Check the magazine, too, while you’re about it.” Hearing Thompson’s acknowledgement, he turned back to the waiting midshipman. “Now, Mr O’Hara—you say Mr Cochrane has returned aboard?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m to tell you that he’s brought an ensign and the marker-buoys, on instructions from the master, and he’s loading them aboard this ship. He has also brought Jackson, sir, with a lead-line, and the second engineer and two of his fellows, as you ordered. Bo’sun’s Mate Driver is with them and your steward, sir. Mr Burnaby said you were to be informed that they all volunteered to join your prize-crew.”

  Burnaby, a good man that he was, had forgotten nothing, Phillip’s mind registered, although he had left no instructions concerning his steward, Higgins.

  “Thank you, Mr O’Hara,” he said formally. “Ask Mr Cochrane to have the marker-buoys stowed on the after part of the upper deck, if you please, and say that I’ll want a towline rigged astern for the cutter—he can take off the cutter’s crew in the quarter-boat. And, if he hasn’t already gone below, perhaps you’d better tell Mr Curtis that I shall require engines within the next fifteen or twenty minutes, so he would be as well to inspect them before we part company with the Huntress. Then you can stand by to take off the First Lieutenant and my steward—I shan’t be needing a steward. Have you got all that?”

  “Yes, sir. But I …” O’Hara shuffled his feet nervously, making no attempt to depart on his errand and Phillip prompted, with a hint of impatience, “Carry on, Mr O’Hara. The First Lieutenant will not be long.”

  “Sir, I …” the boy’s cheeks were pink but he held his ground. “If you please, sir, may I volunteer for the prize-crew? You’ll need an Officer, surely, sir, and I am your gig’s midshipman, after all …” and a rattling good young Officer into the bargain, Phillip reminded himself, in spite of his lack of inches. He had intended to keep Grey with him, as the senior, but in the circumstances … he hesitated and then inclined his head. “Very well, Mr O’Hara. In that case, tell your cox’n to stand by to take off the First Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Thank you very much indeed, sir.” O’Hara sped off, as pleased and excited as if he had been given promotion, instead of the chance to risk his neck, Phillip thought ruefully. But in time of war, fourteen-year-old midshipmen could not be treated as boys; they were naval Officers, with the duties and liabilities, as well as the privileges of their rank and, he supposed, he had reason to be thankful that Cadet Lightfoot, who had recently celebrated his twelfth birthday, hadn’t also offered himself as a volunteer. He swore under his breath and Graham observed, as if he had voiced his thoughts on the subject of O’Hara audibly, “You’d have broken the poor little devil’s heart if you hadn’t let him stay.”

  “I know that. But—”

  “But it hurts, does it not?”

  “Like the devil,” Phillip admitted. “He’s a mite too keen to chance his arm for my liking but—“he shrugged. “He’ll go a long way in the Service, if he’s given the opportunity.”

  “If he survives to be given it, you mean,” his brother countered shrewdly. “And so will you, my dear Phillip! This is a risky enterprise. I wish you’d permit me to—”

  “No!” Phillip retorted, an edge to his voice. “This risky enterprise, as you are pleased to call it, is my responsibility. You’ve done your share.”

  Graham sighed. “Very good. But you know perfectly well that I shall never make flag-rank, whereas you may one of these days if, like young Paddy O’Hara, you live long enough! But there it is, I suppose.” He reached for his cap and asked, with a swift change of tone, “How many men do you intend to keep with you, Phillip? Shall I call for volunteers before I return to the Huntress?”

  “I’d be grateful if you would.” Phillip considered the question. “Curtis has his complement for the engine-room, but Thompson will need six gunners and, with Jackson on the lead, I’ll need a reliable quartermaster and a couple of hefty lads to heave those marker-buoys over the stern. They can double as look-outs, at a pinch, and I’d better have a man to keep an eye on Captain Kirkoff, I suppose.”

  “Another ten men, then. You’re whittling your crew down rather drastically, aren’t you?”

  “I want no more than I can take off in the cutter.”

  “Very well.” Graham’s expression was carefully blank but a small muscle twitched at the angle of his jaw as he said, “And my orders? You’ll permit me to stand by, will you not, in case you need assistance?”

  “At the entrance to the channel and out of range of the batteries,” Phillip told him uncompromisingly. “Don’t take any risks with the Huntress, Graham, whatever happens to the brig. You understand, I—”

>   “Am I to let you drown?” Graham protested. “Or be blown sky-high by one of Kirkoff’s infernal machines, without lifting a finger to help you?”

  “You can send a boat if necessary. I’ll soon let you know if I need assistance, don’t worry,” Phillip assured him. “If the fog’s too thick for a rocket to be seen, I’ll give you a succession of long blasts on the steam whistle.” He laid a placatory hand on his brother’s arm. “For heaven’s sake we’ll have the cutter, and those infernal machines don’t carry a big charge. Even if we have the misfortune to strike one head on, we should have ample time to abandon ship before it sinks us.”

  “I trust you will, Phillip.”

  “Of course we will. But if I do ask for help, send in the quarter-boat, under Cochrane’s command. Don’t bring the ship in or engage the batteries without specific instructions. That channel has to be buoyed and, if we fail, it will be up to you to see that it’s done, you understand?”

  “I understand.” Graham’s voice was flat but, to Phillip’s relief, he did not argue, although it was evident that he did not find these instructions particularly palatable. He moved towards the door of the cabin and added, his voice still without expression, “Kirkoff was attempting to destroy his confidential papers when I interrupted him. He got rid of a number but there are some charts next door, which you might care to examine before you come on deck. I only glanced at them but there’s a chance you might find them better than ours.”

  “Thanks—I’ll have a look at them.” There was a small chartroom opening off the main cabin and, entering this, Phillip turned up the lantern which was hanging there. By its light, he saw that the table was littered with an untidy mass of books and papers and seating himself, he started to make a careful search for anything which might prove useful or informative. All were in Russian and therefore incomprehensible to him; some bore official seals and appeared to be orders, a few probably current but most, judging by their faded appearance, long outdated. A battered signal manual caught his eye and he opened it, to find a thick sheet of folded draught paper thrust between its pages, as if in a clumsy attempt to use the manual as a hiding place. His interest aroused, he spread the sheet out in front of him, to purse his lips in a silent whistle of pleased astonishment, for there could be no mistaking the neatly executed series of diagrams at which he was now looking.