by V. A. Stuart
Thompson shook his head. “I wouldn’t care to try boring holes in it, sir,” he said positively, backing up his statement with further technicalities. “I had thought of attaching a weight, heavy enough to send the whole contraption to the bottom but them trigger-lines only need a touch to release them—the weight of water would do it. Come to that, sir, I wouldn’t altogether fancy dropping bombs like this off, even with the ship under way, like the Russians have been doing, seemingly. In anything like a sea or when she’s at anchor, it’d be downright dangerous because—“from behind him, Captain Kirkoff growled something unintelligible. Eluding Higgins’ attempt to restrain him, he thrust the threatening rifle barrel contemptuously aside and pushed past Thompson to confront Phillip, his bearded face dark with rage.
“You intend to buoy the western channel, Captain?” he accused, in fluent English. “In my ship, so that your fleet may attack Kertch and Yenikale?”
Phillip motioned the indignant Higgins to come to a halt at his prisoner’s back. Facing the Russian, he answered quietly, “Yes, sir, that is my intention.”
“You will not pass our shore batteries unchallenged,” Kirkoff warned. “Or the obstacles we have placed in the channel.”
“With your assistance, Captain, I am confident that we shall,” Phillip countered, smiling. “Should the batteries challenge us, you know the correct recognition signal and it will save time—and the possibility of damage to your ship, as well as loss of life—if you will reveal it.”
“I shall reveal nothing,” the Russian told him sullenly. “Your suggestion is an insult, sir. I am a prisoner-of-war, I cannot be coerced into assisting you.”
“As you wish.” Watching him closely in the dim light of the deck lantern, Phillip shrugged with well simulated indifference. “Your ship is, I am sure, familiar to all your gunners and, in this fog, our failure to reply to their challenge may well pass unnoticed. That is a chance we shall have to take.” Again he saw a flicker of uneasiness in the prisoner’s angry dark eyes and hastened to follow up his momentary advantage. “I’ve examined your charts, Captain, and even without your aid, I anticipate no difficulty in negotiating the obstacles, which are clearly marked. Some of them are floating bombs, are they not, similar to the one we are about to dispose of?” He gestured to the bomb rack and added, in explanation, “To safeguard my crew, I propose to scuttle that one, as you probably heard, before we enter the channel.”
“Scuttle?” Kirkoff’s heavy black brows met in a faintly puzzled scowl but beneath them, his eyes were bright with malice. “Do you mean that you will jettison the bomb?” he enquired. “And sink it by gunfire?”
Phillip shook his head. “Oh, no, Captain—that would alert the batteries, would it not? And they would be certain to challenge us. We are going to tow your bomb to a safe distance and set a small charge on top of it, timed to go off when we are clear of the area.”
Captain Kirkoff stared at him in shocked dismay. “By the Holy Virgin!” he exclaimed. “That is not the way to destroy so dangerous a weapon! You will blow yourselves up if you attempt to take it in tow—these bombs can only be destroyed by gunfire.”
His words and the vehemence with which they were uttered almost carried conviction—almost but not quite—and Phillip hesitated, uncertain whether or not to believe him. It would suit his book, undoubtedly, if the shore batteries were alerted and a prolonged burst of gunfire—even from what appeared to be one of their own ships—could not fail to send every gunner in the forts to his post, to peer, portfire in hand, into the murky darkness. On the other hand, the Russian might be telling the truth. He knew more about his infernal bombs than anyone else, although Thompson was no fool when it came to handling explosives and he had given careful thought to the problem of their disposal. It was possible, of course, that he might have erred in his reckoning, even with the diagrams to help him and, if he had, the consequences would be appalling … but had he?
Still undecided, Phillip turned, intending to consult the gunner’s mate again, but instead he found Midshipman O’Hara at his elbow and was reminded of his earlier decision to take the prisoner in the gig with him, in the hope of loosening his tongue. The mere threat of this might do so now, he thought, in view of Kirkoff’s real or pretended alarm at the suggestion that his bomb might be taken in tow and it would do no harm, surely, to force the truth from him?
Glancing aft, he saw that the gig had been hoisted out, with men attending the falls, and his hesitation ended. “Ah, Mr O’Hara,” he said. “Are you ready to lower?”
The midshipman touched his cap. “Yes, sir,” he answered eagerly. “Fenders rigged, as you instructed. Ready to lower, sir.” An impish grin spread over his small, pink-cheeked face as he looked at the prisoner. “Shall I carry on, sir?”
“Lower away, Mr O’Hara, and secure amidships until I’m ready to relieve you.” The boy scurried off to take his place in the stern of the gig, his shrill commands to his crew of two to perform their task handsomely rising about the creak of the lowering tackle.
Phillip smiled to himself. There were few more efficient junior Officers in the Service than this youngster, he reflected and, as he had told Graham, O’Hara would go a long way, once he had overcome the habit of doing everything at breakneck speed. Then, meeting Kirkoff’s baleful gaze as the gig splashed into the water, his smile faded and he said, with icy courtesy, “I’d be obliged if you would accompany me to the boat, sir, to assist in the disposal of that bomb before we proceed. I’ll accept your parole if you are willing to give it and—”
“My parole?”
“Your word that you will not try to escape, sir. Escort the Captain, Higgins, if you please. Thompson, I want you to rig towlines and take charge of—”
The Russian Captain’s reaction was swift and violent.
“You are mad!” he shouted. “All the English are mad! I shall give you no assistance!” He spat his contempt at Phillip’s feet. Both Higgins and Thompson, incensed by the insult to their Commander, attempted to close on him and drag him forcibly away but the stocky Russian resisted their efforts. White with rage, powerful arms flailing, he hurled abuse at them in any language that came to his tongue. “Do not lay hands on me, you misbegotten curs! Verminous animals! I am an Officer, lately in command of this ship, and a prisoner-of-war—you have no right to violate my person! Call off these men, Captain,” he appealed wrathfully to Phillip. “Under the usages of war I demand protection from them!”
Mindful that there was some justice in his claim, even if there had been none for his earlier outburst, Phillip snapped an order and the two seamen, breathing hard, obediently stood back. “I offered to accept your parole, sir,” he pointed out, at pains to speak without heat. “If you will give it, then—”
“I will give you nothing.” Kirkoff spun round, his expression suddenly ugly. Without warning, he struck the unsuspecting Thompson across the back of the neck, felling him instantly and, when Higgins hesitated before trying to grapple with him, he robbed the man of his rifle as if it were a plaything in the hands of a child and drove the butt of it hard into his stomach. The steward crumpled gasping to his knees, impeding Phillip’s ill-timed lunge and, moving with astonishing agility for one of his bulk, Kirkoff broke free and made for the paddle-box.
He vaulted on to it and, expecting him to dive overboard in a bid to escape, Phillip yelled a warning to the boat below and grabbed him by the ankle, only to receive a savage kick in the face which sent him reeling. When he recovered his balance, he saw through a bloodstained haze that the Russian had an axe in his left hand. With this—kept, no doubt, for emergency in case the release-gear jammed—he started to hack at the ropes from which the bomb-net was suspended, dropping the rifle in order to use both hands to more effect. His purpose was now all too clear … fool that he was not to have realized it before, Phillip reproached himself and, in a despairing attempt to prevent him from achieving it, he made a leap for Kirkoff’s straining back.
He was second
s too late. The first rope was already severed when he gained a precarious foothold on the paddle-box top and, in the brief struggle that ensued, he found himself out-matched and out-manoeuvred by a heavier and more powerful opponent, who paid no heed to the Queensberry Rules and seemed possessed of a maniac’s strength. Twice the Russian broke from him to slash at the remaining release-rope; once he managed to wrest the axe from him but lost it again when Higgins endeavoured bravely, if clumsily, to come to his aid. The second time, the rope parted under a frenzied assault and, watching helplessly from the prone position into which he had been flung, Phillip saw the bomb drop into the water.
It sank, rose to the surface almost immediately and was carried by the momentum of its fall to within a foot or two of the starboard paddle-wheel. There, with its tautly stretched trigger-lines awash, the deadly thing floated on the slight, oily swell, needing only a puff of wind or the chance pull of the current to drive it against the paddles … that or a well aimed rifle shot to explode it.
Dear God, the rifle! Higgins’s Minié lay between them, within his reach, and Phillip stretched out a hand but Kirkoff was before him, kicking his hand away and swearing as he stooped to pick up the weapon. He followed the kick with another, which connected painfully with Phillip’s face but now there were half a dozen men milling about the paddle-box, with Thompson and the quartermaster, Trevelyan, making determined efforts to mount it, and the Russian had to fend them off with the butt of his weapon before he could take aim. In spite of this, he contrived to keep them at bay and had the rifle to his shoulder when Phillip forced his bruised and battered body to a final effort and, in a parody of a Rugby tackle, sent him flying into the waiting arms of the men on the deck below.
As he fell, the Minié went off, almost unheard in the confused clamour of voices, to discharge its single ball harmlessly into the air. Kirkoff continued to battle furiously with his captors but even his incredible strength was to no avail against so many with scores to settle and Phillip, staggering dazedly to the edge of the paddle-box, was compelled to intervene, in order to save him from serious injury.
“All right, my lads, that’s enough,” he bade them thickly, fumbling for a handkerchief with which to wipe the blood and sweat from his face. One eye was rapidly closing and it was an effort to hold himself upright but somehow he managed to do so and his vision started to clear a little when he returned the stained scrap of linen to his pocket.
“What shall we do with the bastard, sir?” Higgins asked truculently, as he and Jackson dragged the prisoner, none too gently, to his feet. “If I ’ad my way, I’d tear ’is ruddy guts out and—”
“Belay that, Higgins!” Phillip’s tone was curt. “Take him below to his cabin and don’t let him out of your sight until we’re able to deliver him to the Admiral—but keep your hands off him, understand? Thompson, up here and see how much of the net you can salvage—we shall need it to tow that bomb away. The rest of you … back to your stations and keep your eyes skinned. Look lively, now, we’re not out of trouble yet. I’ll be in the boat, Thompson.”
“You’re in no state, sir,” Thompson ventured. He vaulted on to the paddle-box, eyeing his Commander with concern. “Why, you can’t hardly stand and your face … that Russian bastard made a proper mess of your face, sir.”
“I’m fully aware of that,” Phillip assured him irritably. “But that infernal bomb is of more concern to me at the moment, so for pity’s sake, get to work on the net, will you, so that we can get the blasted thing out of the way of the paddles before it does any damage. It’s lying too close for us to risk warping the ship astern, I’m afraid, so we’ll have to tow it clear. However, we can count ourselves lucky that it didn’t blow up when it hit the water.”
“That we can, sir,” Thompson agreed feelingly. Taking his knife from his belt, he swung himself on to the empty bomb rack, whistling tunelessly under his breath. Phillip was about to descend to the deck when the whistling abruptly ceased and he heard the seaman call his name in sudden alarm.
“What the devil’s the matter, Gunner’s Mate? You sound as if—”
“It’s Mr O’Hara, sir … he’s pulling across to the bomb, in the gig, sir, alone as far as I can make out …” Thompson broke off, muttering blasphemies. “It looks as if he’s got a boathook and he’s backing up, stern-first. My God, sir, I do believe he’s aiming to tow the bomb away by himself!”
Phillip’s first reaction was one of impotent anger. Confound O’Hara, he thought, confound him for a scattered-brained young idiot! Surely he must have overheard enough of the earlier discussions with Thompson to realize with what care that bomb had to be handled? Yet here he was, with complete disregard for the orders he had been given, apparently about to take a boathook to it!
The sweat cold on his temples, Phillip peered downwards, praying that he would be in time to stop the boy before he attempted any such act of madness. His vision was still blurred but he could just make out the gig, with O’Hara bareheaded and in his shirtsleeves, crouching in the stern, the boathook gripped firmly in both hands. He had shipped his oars and his elbows were resting on the matting fender for support but the bomb was barely inches away and Phillip knew that it would be inviting disaster to do or say anything which might break his concentration or startle him into making a sudden movement.
“Boat there!” he hailed softly, no trace of anger in his voice. “Don’t look up, Mr O’Hara, but listen to me, if you please.”
O’Hara’s fair head lifted a fraction but did not turn.
“I’m listening, sir. Don’t worry, though—everything’s all right and I know what I’m doing.” He sounded resolute, if a trifle apprehensive but this, Phillip reflected wryly, was more likely to be because his unauthorized action had been discovered than because he feared the consequences of it. O’Hara had never lacked courage, had never shrunk from doing his duty, as he saw it, and no doubt imagined, in his innocence, that by risking his life in this quixotic, single-handed venture, he was sparing others from having to risk theirs. “I’m taking every care, sir,” the boy added, in a burst of confidence.
“Good.” Phillip knelt, unbuttoning his watch-coat. “But I’d rather you didn’t do any more on your own. Can you haul off, without touching the bomb?”
There was a brief hesitation. “No, sir, I don’t think so. I have the boathook attached, you see. If I let go, I may send it into the paddles … it’s yawing a bit, sir. Must be the current.”
“Then hold fast, Mr O’Hara,” Phillip ordered, conscious of a sick sensation in the pit of his stomach at the thought of what might happen should the youngster fail to do so. He heard Thompson jump down beside him and asked, lowering his voice, “Did you get the net?”
“I have it here, sir.”
“Good man! Off with you now and tell the bo’sun’s mate to lower a second boat as fast as he knows how—from the port side. Tell him he’s to pull round, under our counter, and stand off until I call him in … right? Then come back here. I’m going down to Mr O’Hara with the net and I’ll need your help, because it will take two of us.” Phillip shrugged off his coat, shaking his head impatiently to Thompson’s offer to exchange their roles. “Jump to it, man! But don’t shout any orders or let the boat’s crew kick up a shindy—if that boy loses his head, it’ll be all up with him.”
“Sir!” O’Hara’s voice floated up from the darkness, sounding less confident, as if the realization of what he was up against had become suddenly and alarmingly apparent to him. “The bomb’s yawing an awful lot, sir … I—I don’t think I can hold it. I’ll have to fend it off or—or try to take it in tow, because the gig’s drifting too, sir. You see, I—”
“Wait, lad!” Phillip besought him, working at frantic speed to complete the preparations for his own descent. He secured a stout line to the frame of the bomb rack, attached the end of the net to its extremity and let both snake down into the water a few yards ahead of the gig. There was no time for finesse now, he told himself, kicking off h
is boots—whatever he did carried an element of risk but O’Hara’s situation would brook no delay. His original plan had been to encompass the sunken portion of the bomb-casing in the salvaged net, using a boat to haul the net into position from a safe distance by means of long towlines, paid out as the net was let down from the brig’s paddle-box. But now he knew the distance would have to be shortened and a swimmer would have to do what the boat should have done … “Hang on for another couple of minutes,” he told O’Hara. “I’m coming down to you.”
“I’ll try, sir,” the boy promised breathlessly and lapsed into silence, fighting his lonely battle against panic. Phillip glanced down, unable to suppress a shiver when he saw how far round both bomb and gig had drifted. Then Thompson rejoined him, with the news that the second boat was being lowered and he steadied himself, making an effort to speak calmly and without haste as he explained what he intended to do.
“Right, Mr O’Hara,” he warned. “I’m coming now. If you can—”
“There’s no need, sir,” the midshipman called back, his shrill young voice unexpectedly cheerful and unafraid. “I’ve got the hang of it, honestly I have. The Russian Captain was talking through his hat when he said you couldn’t tow these bombs, because you can, sir. This one’s coming quite easily. All you have to do is hold it steady. You—“his voice was lost in the dull boom of an explosion.
As its predecessor had done, the bursting bomb shed a bright, glowing radiance over the dark water on which it had been floating, a glow that was reflected in all its hideous clarity by the shifting banks of vapour overhead. The brig shuddered, as shock-waves struck her hull and rebounded, to lose themselves in the foaming maelstrom from whence they had arisen. Phillip was knocked off balance, when Thompson cannoned into him; regaining his feet, he stumbled to the edge of the paddle-box, the blood pounding in his ears, to stare about him in shocked disbelief. Where, on the previous occasion, there had been the bobbing heads of one or two swimmers to offer hope, now—apart from a few smouldering scraps of shapeless wreckage—there was nothing to be seen, no sign to indicate that either the gig or the boy who had been crouching in its stern had ever existed.
