by V. A. Stuart
Despite their Russian text, they were easily comprehensible in their step by step illustration of the design and construction of the floating bomb that had blown Grey’s boat to pieces, the counterpart of which he had seen hanging from a rack attached to the brig’s upper deck. There was the coneshaped container, there the flat wooden top, with the three iron bolts by which it was secured to its base. Each part had been given a distinguishing letter or figure, so that he was able to see that the charge was housed in an inner casing—as he had supposed—held in place by a thick ring of gutta-percha which, in turn, was fitted to an iron ring above it.
The firing mechanism appeared simple but ingenious. A primer of some kind—probably fulminate of mercury, Phillip decided, unable to decipher the Russian text—was placed in a small flush container above the charge, with a rigidly held percussion nipple at one end. The percussion hammer, for setting off the explosion, was operated by two wires, which acted as trigger-lines. These, he saw, passed inside the central ring and, to enable the bomb to be transported safely, their ends were brought through to the outer side of the casing where, in order to render it active, they had to be joined under tension. On impact—that was to say when the flat top of the bomb was struck by a passing vessel—the wires parted, releasing the trigger-lines and, the charge being ignited, the infernal thing exploded. The diagram illustrated the tools required for the purpose of connecting the wires but offered no guidance as to what method to employ when reversing the process. Once activated, it seemed, the bomb remained dangerous for as long as … he frowned. For as long as the outer casing remained water-tight and he could only guess at how long that would be. For some hours, certainly, but more probably for several days.
His excitement at his unexpected discovery somewhat dampened, Phillip hunted among the scattered objects on the chartroom floor and finally found the tool-kit for which he had been looking, in a leather case, half-hidden behind a pile of books. The case contained some strips of gutta-percha—presumably to provide insulation or protection for the wires—an auger, two pairs of pliers and a small, oddly shaped wrench; the latter, he supposed, for removing the bolts which held the flat top of the bomb in place.
He slid the case into his pocket and, returning to the table, swiftly thumbed through the signal manual in the hope of learning the enemy’s current recognition signals but without success, for the manual was long outdated. There were, however, several charts of the Straits and of the Sea of Azoff itself, including the one by which Captain Kirkoff had evidently been navigating. In addition to the usual symbols, this was marked with a number of inked-in circles and annotations, some in black and others in red ink and Phillip stared at them for several minutes, in an effort to decide whether they were intended to indicate recently constructed artificial obstructions or the presence of floating bombs. They could be either or both; he had no means of knowing for certain, unless the Russian Captain could be prevailed upon to tell him or unless Graham could decipher the notes. He reached for dividers and a ruler and started to make a few rapid calculations, when there was a tap on the door of the main cabin and O’Hara’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Sir!”
“Well, Mr O’Hara?”
As always, O’Hara had run with his message and was out of breath.
“First Lieutenant’s compliments, sir, and I’m to tell you that he has selected the prize-crew and embarked the rest of the boarding party in the quarter-boat. He asks, sir, if he may have a word with you before he returns to the Huntress.”
Phillip nodded. “Ask the First Lieutenant to step down here, please.” He looked at his watch. “Have you a report from the engine-room?”
“Yes, sir—Mr Curtis is ready with engines and the coalbunkers are two-thirds full, sir. And the gunner’s mate has reported both guns serviceable. He’s brought up ammunition from the magazine—it’s all shell, he says, sir—and the guns are run out and loaded, on the First Lieutenant’s instructions. We’re ready to get under way, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr O’Hara. We’ll get under way as soon as I’ve had a word with the First Lieutenant.” Phillip gave his orders with deliberate lack of haste, detailing the members of his depleted crew to the stations at which, for the time being, they could be most usefully employed. “See that the boarding party leave their rifles with us,” he added. “We may need them.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The midshipman was off, his new status as second-in-command of the brig Constantine belied by the undignified speed of his departure.
“No reason to run, Mr O’Hara,” Phillip called after him in mild reproof. “I shall be at least ten minutes with the First Lieutenant.”
Graham joined him in the chartroom a few moments later. “I’ve been trying to pump our prisoner again,” he announced, before Phillip could speak. “But the damned fellow has shut up like a clam. I’ve been thinking, though, in the light of his refusal to co-operate, could you not wait for an hour or so, Phillip, and let me go and find the Vesuvius? If I report the situation to Captain Osborn, he may be able to procure you some technical help. The Army will have explosives experts, even if we haven’t and—”
“They won’t be necessary,” Phillip put in impatiently.
“Not necessary? What about those infernal bombs?”
“I think I can deal with them. You see, I—”
“For God’s sake, how?” Graham demanded harshly. “O’Hara’s just told me you want our rifles but you’ll certainly risk the batteries opening up on you if you attempt to blow them up with rifle or gunfire—flying the Russian flag won’t protect you. And it will be a devilish tricky business if you try to tow the accursed things clear of the channel. Even securing a line to one is liable to explode it—you saw what happened to Grey’s boat.”
He sounded so deeply and genuinely concerned that Phillip made an effort to hide his impatience. “You may certainly go and find the Vesuvius, my dear fellow, whenever you’ve a mind to—there are some charts here that Jack Lyons will find extremely useful, especially if Sherard Osborn can deliver them to him before he leaves the Fleet rendezvous. You were right about their being an improvement on ours … but look at these diagrams, will you, before you say any more?” Relinquishing his seat at the table, he offered the purloined Russian diagrams for his brother’s inspection. “They show exactly how the charge is stowed in those bombs and how it’s detonated, do you see? I found them stuffed into an old signal manual, by a stroke of luck—Kirkoff must have tried to hide them there. Obviously he didn’t want them to fall into our hands.”
“No, obviously he didn’t.” Graham examined the drawings, his expression relaxing visibly as he did so. “I’m relieved, for your sake, that you found these, Phillip. At least you will not be working completely in the dark, although it still isn’t going to be easy to disconnect the trigger-lines in the water, you know, with most of the bomb submerged. In fact, I doubt if it can be done …” he started to go into technical details but Phillip cut him short.
“There must be a way of doing it. If Kirkoff cannot or will not help—well, we have one of his bombs on board. I can test my theories on that, before we enter the Strait.” He spoke with more confidence than he felt and, uneasily conscious that time was passing, drew his brother’s attention to the marked chart. “What do you make of these inked-in circles, Graham? Do you suppose they’re meant to indicate where the bombs have been dropped? I’m aware, of course, that they may have drifted but if we know where Kirkoff set them in position initially, it might offer a rough guide to where they are now.”
“Very rough, I fear, unless the Russians have some means of anchoring them. There’s nothing shown on the drawings, is there?”
“No. But presumably they’ve only been in the water for a few hours—Kirkoff must have been dropping them when we came up with him.”
“Yes, I should imagine he was … and others, too, perhaps. With no tides, they won’t have drifted far, of course.” Graham bent over the chart, studying it with furrowed brows. �
��If these circular markings do indicate where the bombs were dropped, it looks as if most of them are in the deep water channel off Taman, to the eastward, doesn’t it? But they could be sunken ships or artificial barriers—particularly this line here, look, where Captain Moore reported a great deal of coming and going by steamers, towing laden boats. Didn’t he say that they were heaving stones and piles of timber into the Taman side of the channel, nearly a month ago?”
“Yes,” Phillip confirmed. “He said they were hard at it—damn, I’d forgotten about that, Graham!”
“But you need not concern yourself with the deep water channel,” Graham pointed out. “If these are floating bombs, then—provided the squadron is warned of their presence—the damned things can be blown up easily enough in daylight, after our troops have landed and occupied the batteries. If these black circles are meant to represent obstructions of some other kind, it will still be useful to know exactly where they are located. And talking of warning the squadron, shall I make a fair copy, on one of the other charts, so that it can be delivered to the Miranda? It won’t take me long.”
“Make the copy for me,” Phillip suggested. “And omit the notes, because I can’t make head or tail of them. I take it they’re in Russian—can you make any sense of them?”
Graham shook his head regretfully. “I should need a dictionary and more time than we have now, I’m afraid. I can make myself understood in Russian but I can’t read or write it.” He picked up a pen. “Pass me that bottle of red ink, Phillip, would you? Thanks …” he worked with deft speed. “These charts are more accurate than any we’ve got, you know, and they give a depth of at least two fathoms, right up to Yenikale … even four, in places. You should have little trouble getting through the channel on this side, Phillip, because look … whatever these mysterious circles are supposed to signify, there are only five—no, six of them. It seems evident that the enemy aren’t expecting our attack flotilla to attempt the western channel, although there’s no doubt that it is navigable for light draught vessels. If they were expecting anything of the kind, they would have dropped more of their infernal machines on this side of the Cheska Bank, don’t you think?”
“They probably consider the batteries a sufficient deterrent,” Phillip answered. “Or perhaps Kirkoff was supposed to replenish his supply.” He glanced anxiously at his watch. “Have you nearly done?”
“Very nearly.” Graham’s pen moved rapidly, the nib squeaking under the pressure he put on it. “There, that’s it, I think, when the ink dries. Phillip, if I may, I’d suggest you steer nor’ by east until you sight Ferrikale and then stand out into mid-channel. It will be safer, for one thing and for another, if these markings do indicate floating bombs and they’re not secured, the current will carry them inshore.”
Peering over his brother’s shoulder as he traced the course to be followed, Phillip’s earlier optimism returned. The channel was narrow, it was true, but it existed. He would go straight through, he decided, as Graham advised, setting the markerbuoys out as he went, and postponing his search for the bombs until he had carried out his orders and was on his way back. The brig would be less likely to arouse the suspicion of the gunners on shore if she made a bold, direct run up to Yenikale and, thanks to Kirkoff’s excellent charts, he could dispense with a survey boat, sounding ahead of him. On the return run, he would have to make a careful search for any bombs or other obstructions which constituted a danger to the passage of Jack Lyons’s flotilla through the channel and deal with these as best he might. It would probably be impossible to avoid arousing suspicion when he was thus engaged … unless Captain Kirkoff could be persuaded to tell him how the bombs could be defused, he would have to blow them up and the resulting explosion would undoubtedly bring the batteries’ fire down on him. But … he sighed. Time enough to cross that hurdle when he came to it. There was always the possibility that Kirkoff might be prepared to reveal the brig’s recognition signal; even the taciturn Russian might become more amenable, he thought grimly, were failure to reply to the batteries’ challenge to result in his ship coming under fire.
Graham rose, rolled up the marked chart he had been copying and tucked it under his arm. He asked, as they left the chartroom, “I imagine you’ll wish me to report with this to the Vesuvius right away, Phillip? Or am I still to be permitted to stand by in case you require assistance?”
Phillip’s hesitation was momentary. “Right away, if you please. If anything should go wrong, it will be when we’re on our way out of the channel, I fancy—but you’ll hear if we’re fired on.”
“Very good.” Graham did not attempt to question his decision. Reaching the deck, he looked about him, observed that the fog was as thick as ever and then held out his hand.
“Au revoir and the best of luck, Phillip, my dear fellow. I’ll be standing by to pick you up in a couple of hours—sooner, if the fog lifts. And be careful how you handle Kirkoff—he’s an ugly customer, if ever I saw one, and he knows his rights as a prisoner-of-war.”
“I’ll be careful,” Phillip said lightly. He waited until the gig cast-off and then turned to his youthful second-in-command, who was standing expectantly at his elbow. “Very well, Mr O’Hara, let us get under way. Inform Mr Curtis that I am ready for engines, if you please.” He crossed to the binnacle and, when the steady throb of the brig’s engines heralded O’Hara’s return, gave his orders with crisp brevity.
“Aye, aye, sir.” The boy hesitated, eyeing him uncertainly. “Shall we dowse lights, sir?”
Phillips smiled down at him. “A Russian ship, approaching Russian guns, would do so openly, showing her deck and navigation lights, would she not? To all intents and purposes, we are a Russian ship, Mr O’Hara, so we shall do precisely that, you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” O’Hara acknowledged. “I understand, sir.”
It was to be hoped he did, Phillip thought, his smile fading as he peered once more into the illuminated compass bowl in front of him. The Constantine’s paddle-wheels gained momentum, churning the water to foam and the dark silhouette of his own ship vanished into the fog.
“Steer nor’ by east, Quartermaster,” he ordered.
“Nor’ by east—aye, aye, sir,” came the answer. A tall, blackbrowed Cornishman named Trevelyan was at the wheel, he noted approvingly, a man with nearly eighteen years’ service and—until Ambrose Quinn had had him flogged on some trumped-up charge the previous year—an exemplary record. It was typical of Trevelyan to volunteer for both boarding party and prize-crew; the flogging had not embittered him, as such harsh punishment frequently did. He was a good choice, an excellent helmsman, especially under sail … the brig responded a trifle sluggishly to her helm and, his lined brown face twisting into a grin, the quartermaster compared her, with good humoured blasphemy, to a mulatto woman with whom, it seemed, he had once co-habited.
Eyes on the compass bowl, Phillip affected not to hear the witticism but the corners of his mouth twitched as he ordered a correction of course. Turning again to the alert O’Hara, he said, “I have a matter to attend to which will take me ten or fifteen minutes, Mr O’Hara, but it need not concern you. You will be in charge of the deck. Maintain this course and speed—I shall have finished what I have to do before we’re likely to close the north side of the bay but inform me at once if you sight any other ship. And keep a sharp look-out … here, take my glass, I shan’t be requiring it.”
The midshipman gave him a pleased “Aye, aye, sir,” and, the Dollond in the crook of his arm, started to pace the narrow confines of the brig’s quarterdeck with the slow, measured tread of a seasoned watchkeeper. Satisfied that his keen young eyes would miss nothing, Phillip picked up a lantern and, crossing to the rack from which the cone-shaped bomb was suspended, he swung himself up into the mainmast shrouds in order to make a second and more careful examination of the flat wooden top and the wires running from beneath it.
From this vantage point and in the light of his newly acquired knowledge of the firing
mechanism, he saw, to his dismay, that the trigger-lines had been connected. The bomb, therefore, was no longer in a state when it could be moved without risk. Conscious of an unreasonable feeling of disappointment, he descended to the deck and, stepping to the forward side of the bomb rack, levered himself on to the top of the paddle-box. By lowering the bomb a foot or two in the net which held it, he could, from where he was now positioned, alter or adjust the wires. By the same token, he could probably unbolt the top casing and lift it right off, so as to expose the inner chamber but … he swore under his breath, realizing that it was out of the question to attempt anything of the kind once the trigger-lines had been set. The smallest error and the charge would explode, with disastrous consequences, not only to the brig but to any man within range of the blast, including himself. He had a mental vision of poor Ryan’s mangled body and felt the sweat break out over his own.
Damn Kirkoff for having activated those trigger-lines, damn his treacherous Russian soul to perdition! Scowling at the tautly stretched wires, Phillip forced himself to make a cautious fingertip exploration of the thick wooden sides of the bomb’s barrel-like outer casing. In a spirit of optimism induced by his possession of the diagrams, he had counted on his ability to work out some simple way in which the bomb could be rendered harmless. He had been prepared, if necessary, to strip this one down in order to find a method that would serve equally well when he had to deal with one of its counterparts, floating in the waters of the channel but … he sighed in frustration. If he could not test his theories on the only example of the foul contraption that he was likely to find high and dry, then his chances of success were slight, if they existed at all. As it now was, this bomb was useless for his purpose; indeed it was dangerous and his best course would probably be to jettison and blow it up, even at the risk of alerting the batteries.
