“Chief, I have an idea,” he said.
Uh oh.
The most fleeting grin passed over his face despite being quickly suppressed. It was nothing more than a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but I knew the Lieutenant.
Not good. Very, very not good. Whatever this is, he thinks it’s a good idea. No, a really good idea. Oh hell. If we survive this, he better be buying my drinks for years.
“Get up there and take a look,” he said.
I did.
Looking down the shallow slope we were a mile or two from the port area on the western edge of Port Stanley, where the wealth of the former shipyard stood tall next to empty piers. The line of the inlet’s shore curved towards us with a whale carcass and a dotting of storage buildings along the coast. Directly ahead, the radio tower rose high into the sky ahead of us with a small almost shed like building at its base. Off to the right, more scrub grass and rocks meandered along the shoreline all the way to the lighthouse at Cape Pembroke.
The cold ground seeped the warmth out of me and replaced it with damp. With no trees, the ever-present wind howled unabated over the barren landscape of the island. The thick grey clouds raced eastward across the sky above us while intermittently releasing a fine mist to ensure we stayed wet and cold.
I gave Wicklow back the glass. He collapsed it and returned it to a brown leather case as we scooted backwards below the crest of Sapper Hill. Wicklow had three sailors positioned and watching our flanks to ensure we weren’t surprised by a wandering islander. Those scouts were far enough away that we could speak without being overheard. The rest of our group huddled back in an upcropping of rocks to stay out of sight while we decided where to lay our explosives.
Lieutenant Marshall huddled over a sketch in the dirt. He’d made a map of the area with a groove in the sand to mark the shoreline, another thin line for the path running from the lighthouse to Port Stanley, and a third for the crest line of Sapper Hill. Rocks marked the lighthouse, the town, and the whale carcass.
“Did you see all those barrels down at the coast?” He pointed at the whale rock.
Uh, those dark splotches behind the rotting bones? I wondered.
“Of course, sir.” Wicklow said, “The whalers won’t fill their holds with the oil barrels when they’re doing the flensing on land and sending the boat right out again to get another one before the season ends.”
“Worth a lot, do you think?” Lieutenant Marshall said.
“Yes, sir,” Petty Office Wicklow said. “The whale oil’s good for lots of things. Soap and lamp oil, it used to be. But these days, mostly cordite and whatnot.”
Where are you going with this, boss? We need to have that wireless tower down or a nice thick haze of black smoke around it soon so the Denny gets the signal to come get us.
“Exactly. Far too much whatnot, we can’t just leave those barrels.”
No time for that, sir! I protested mentally. Petty Officer Wicklow leaned in, delighted. “You want we change the objectives, boss?”
“I’m thinking so.” He pointed up at the radio tower. “If we take that down, how long do you suppose it’d take them to get the wireless back up and running?”
“At least a couple months,” I said, determined to be the voice of reason. “The papers said it was a Marconi crew brought in special that installed it a few years ago, back in 1911. They’d need another one down to repair or rebuild it.”
“But they would repair it. Or maybe even decide they didn’t need a wireless station here after all.” Marshall held up a hand to delay more objections from me, “But, any whale oil we destroy, stays gone.”
Stabbing a finger at the map he said, “There is the port and here nearer to us are the barrels.” Pointing to another location slightly south of the piers. “If we trot along here and come up from the south, we can get a good look and make sure they aren’t just empty and waiting for the next whale or something.”
“Won’t be empty,” Wicklow said with confidence. “The empties will be back with the barrel wright waiting for a ship’s purser to buy them.”
“Um, sir, we need to signal the Denny. The lookouts will be watching the radio tower. We didn’t pack enough explosives to take it down and blow up some rotting whale bits.”
Wicklow pressed his lips together.
Lieutenant Marshall grinned. “Good thing oil burns on its own then, isn’t it, Chief?”
“Ah. Yes, sir,” I acknowledged.
We made quick arrangements for Wicklow to take a team in to secure the radio communications shed and wire our explosives to bring it down while the lieutenant and I did our own scouting of the new secondary objective with a couple of the sailors sent along with us to carry a spare detonator, some wire, and a bit of coal to get a nice big fire going.
We jogged along a footpath in the direction of Port Stanley, making good time on the relatively flat path with clear moonlight to guide us. We’d be running back this way after to rejoin Wicklow and the rest of the men, so I kept a keen eye out for anything that might trip us up on the way back.
Two scouts waited for us at a bend in the path with one flat on his belly watching the way to Port Stanley and another down slope, signaling us to keep coming while he watched the other man for any sign to tell us to scamper off the path and take cover on the other side of Sapper Hill.
We reached the beached whale carcass and Lieutenant Marshall gathered us round. I had to stop myself from doing a circuit of the neatly lined barrels myself. The scouts had already checked for guards and found not a soul left behind.
Where the hell is everyone? I wondered.
“Okay boys,” Lieutenant Marshall said. “We need to get one of these cracked open and slopped around on the others to be good and sure they all burn. Once the fire gets going here, it’ll draw attention and we don’t have time to stay and mind the fires.” He scratched a quick map of the island in the dirt and pointed out where to go if anything went wrong. “Any questions?”
There were none, but Lieutenant Marshall made eye contact with every man and got a nod of acknowledgment from each anyway. Allen and a couple other sailors produced marlinspikes from their packs and punched holes in the closest barrel. I splayed out the detonator wire to full length and was getting ready to position a secondary charge in an oil-wetted cranny between four barrels, when, CRACK!
I leapt back and spun in a circle looking for attackers.
A couple more spurts of rifle fire rang out and Seaman Allen pointed behind us at the radio tower.
Oh no. “Petty Officer Wicklow’s team found trouble,” I said.
“We’ll show them trouble,” said the lieutenant.
He whistled sharply, making no effort to be quiet any longer and we all pulled back from the shoreline. With no time for anything else, I tossed the secondary charge into the middle of the barrels and hoped for the best.
At a nod from the lieutenant, Allen plunged down the detonator and we ran for the wireless station.
A whoomph went up behind us and the fire lit our way through the first bend in the path.
A look over my shoulder showed little flames racing over the tracings of spilled oil and quickly turning back to blackness without the dark red char of the barrels themselves catching fire.
Too late now.
We sprinted and waited in a maddeningly slow leapfrog. The lieutenant and two sailors running to the next bend and stopping to peer ahead while Allen and I watched our rear and then charged on past Lieutenant Marshall’s group to the next point while they took our role.
We were almost on top of the disturbingly not-burning radio shed when more shots rang out.
I dove to the ground immediately as the gunfire reverberated over the sound of the wind. At least one of those bullets ricocheted uncomfortable close. I pulled my rifle close to my chest and rolled to the right to get behind some rocks.
A figure stood up from the other side of the rock and bellowed: “Ceasefire! You idiots, ceasefire!”
&n
bsp; Petty Officer Wicklow pulled me to my feet and dusted me off. “Sorry, Chief,” he whispered. “Everyone’s nervous.”
Davis peered, white-faced from the side of the radio shed. “Oh! It’s you, Lieutenant!” he called out with obvious relief.
“Anyone hit?” Marshall asked in an urgent undertone.
A grumbled murmur of responses came back with a negative.
“Guess it’s a good thing the lieutenant didn’t ask for any Marines to come along,” Seaman Allen said to Wicklow. “Marines probably wouldn’t have missed.”
The petty officer shrugged.
“Yeah,” Seaman Davis said. “But Marines wouldn’t’ve gotten spooked by rats and sheep! I figured they must have had some reasons for not bringing ‘em.”
Lieutenant Marshall and I exchanged a look.
I had no idea we could’ve asked for Marines.
His raised eyebrows back seemed to say, Me either, but I’m glad we aren’t dead.
The sailors with us advanced on Seaman Davis with hands starting to ball into fists.
I cleared my throat, and they paused.
“I, I, I’m…sss,” Seaman Davis stammered nervously looking from his fellow sailor’s grim faces to mine and Lieutenant Marshall’s.
A little late for apologies.
“Forget it,” the lieutenant snapped. “We don’t have time for a court-martial right now.” Turning to me, he said, “Someone may have heard that shot.” And then looking at Petty Officer Wicklow, “Or all those other shots.”
“Ah. Sir.” The petty officer turned a shade of red visible even in the predawn light. “We, um, secured the radio tower and took a prisoner.”
“There were guards?” I asked.
“Yes.” He shifted back and forth. “We took him prisoner.”
“One guard,” Lieutenant Marshall noted. “And all those shots were at sheep?” Lieutenant Marshall exchanged another look with me.
What is going on?
“And then some rats came out.” Davis volunteered. “Spooked Petty Officer Wicklow something fierce, so he shot at them, and then we all thought we must be under attack, so we shot at things too. Harry freaked out and dropped down onto the floor with his hands over his head and jus’ said, ‘Don’t kill me, don’t kill me,’ over and over like.”
Davis shook his head as if this were a completely unreasonable response. Then he brightened after a moment, remembering one success worth noting.
“And we killed a sheep!” He nodded with pride at a small mound of dirty fleece, I’d not noticed earlier.
“Seaman Williams shot the sheep.” Wicklow corrected. “You missed.”
Lieutenant Marshall scrubbed his face with his hand.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ve got a tower to bring down.”
“But who is Harry?” Marshall said.
“Our prisoner.” Petty Officer Wicklow answered as if that were perfectly obvious. “He’s been extremely compliant. Seems to think we’re likely to shoot him if he even looks at us sideways.”
“Can’t imagine where he’d get that idea,” Lieutenant Marshall said.
Me neither, sir, I thought, not even bothering to hide my annoyance. Me neither.
“Right. Petty Officer, let’s get everything wired and see to moving the prisoner to somewhere he doesn’t get roasted alive, alright?”
Wicklow seized the opportunity to redeem himself and set the sailors to completing our demolition project. The shed itself at the base of the tower was a simple wood thing but a steady damp rain had started to fall and thoroughly soaked the timbers. I wished for a couple barrels of whale oil to get the fire good and smoky in case the tower survived the blast, but I couldn’t even see a glow over the rise for the oil barrels anymore. Full dawn had broken and sunlight burned brighter than any flickering flames that might have remained from our attempt at adding a secondary target.
We’d packed charges specifically for this task and wasted some of it, but hopefully we still had enough. Wicklow had three different detonator lines running from charges around the communications shed and at the base of the tower. The wires snaked along the ground over a slight rise up to that very rock outcropping where I’d ducked our welcome bullet volley.
Williams unspooled the third and final wire. Using his knife, he scraped the insulation off and wrapped the bare metal onto a knob on the detonator box.
The lieutenant watched as some of the men made the final preparations while Petty Officer Wicklow checked to make sure Harry stayed back over the next rise a little further down the path with about half of our sailors set to guard him. Mostly I wanted them there to keep any curious sailors from wandering back into the radio shed to check the charges one last time and getting themselves blown up. But I could only use so many for scouts without them getting in each other’s way. We had a full circle of lookouts now with everyone being very, very clear on not shooting at our own people, ensuring no more nasty surprises.
“Sir, the charges are all ready to blow,” Williams reported to the lieutenant.
I peered back at Wicklow’s group. He lifted his head just over the rise and gave me a thumbs up. My lookouts crouched and lay on rises and behind outcroppings all around us in pairs with one looking out and one signaling back to me. Each pair gave me the ‘everything fine’ sign.
“If you’d like to do the honors, Lieutenant?” Williams finished and gestured to the detonator box with the handle fully extended upward.
Kneeling next to the detonator box, Lieutenant Marshall put both hands on the handle. Looking around at all of us he said, “Everyone down.” Williams and I ducked down and covered our ears. When he was satisfied that everyone was behind some cover, Marshall slammed down the handle.
A boom flattened the shed into kindling. The tower still stood.
Williams mouthed something that seemed apologetic. He looked at the two remaining wires, and seemingly at random selected another to attach next.
The western sky flared suddenly bright as a million oil lamps. Then a fraction of a second later, a deep roar of the explosion swept over us, everyone instinctively winced at the deep, reverberating sound. Williams stared in slack-jawed awe at the billowing smoke.
I stayed down and twisted back and forth to check on each of my lookout teams. They caught my glares and turned back to their work.
A steady ringing of church bells echoed over the bay. Port Stanley was awake.
Lieutenant Marshall snatched the wires from Williams’ hands and finished unhooking the first set of wires and hooked up the next set to the detonator box. With the new set of wires hooked up, the Lieutenant dropped the handle.
Nothing happened. He looked back at me. I expected another explosion at any moment. He looked at the wires, then, satisfied that they were hooked up correctly, he raised then lowed handle again, and again, nothing.
“Shit!” He exclaimed. Two more tries produced the same lack of results.
Williams grabbed the remaining end and set to switching it out.
A moment later, the church bells stopped. A thick gray streak of smoke poured upwards into the sky.
Williams lifted the detonator box and checked it for any signs of damage. Nothing seemed wrong.
“You try it,” said Lieutenant Marshall.
He obeyed and dropped the handle and again, nothing. Out of pure frustration he raised and lowered the handle several more times. Exasperated, he looked at the Lieutenant.
“Sir, should I go back and check the explosives and the wires?” I said. The first detonation might have broken a wire or dislodged it from the charge. Or any number of things. Forget Marines, why didn’t we ask for a couple of petty officers who’d blown things up before and were good enough at it to still have all their fingers?
Lieutenant Marshall thought a moment, then shook his head. “No, we don’t have the time. We’ve got to go.”
Well at least we don’t have to worry that the Denny won’t see our signal, I thought.
Seaman Allen waved
his arms wildly to catch my attention and his partner lookout facing outward pointed straight at the path from Port Stanley with a death grip on the back of Allen’s coveralls as if afraid we’d withdraw and leave him behind.
“Boss,” I interrupted with an urgent warning. “The militia is coming.”
At my signal, all the lookouts hid and Marshall, Williams, and I ducked out of sight behind our outcropping.
Almost before we’d gotten behind the rocks, three young boys holding ancient muskets far too big for them came running down the path hollering.
“We’re coming for you, Whalers!” This was not going to have been a sneak attack even if our scouts had been blind. They charged straight past us into Petty Officer Wicklow’s team. ‘The governor’s going to—”
The shouts cut off abruptly with some muted grunts. Wicklow’s men had them well in hand. What kind of militia is this?
Five more armed townsfolk came puffing down the path. The only head not solid gray or near bald with fringes of white was a man in a fine tailored suit with a heavy mustache and expression of fury on his face.
It’s the war, I realized. All the able-bodied men not working the whalers have gone for the war.
“Damn you all!” the well-dressed man yelled. “So help me, I’ll triple the price of your coal and impound your next three whales if you’ve tried to exceed your quotas again! Fifteen per season it is now, you bloody fools, and it’ll starve your own children when there’s none left to catch, blast you!”
“What the hell?” Lieutenant Marshall said, as he peaked over the hilltop even while I frantically motioned for him to stay under cover. Some of those older fellows might know a thing or two about sharpshooting.
Keep your fool head down, boss! Just because some folks in Washington would prefer a dead hero was no reason to give them one!
“What’s that you say sir?” I called back at the man leading the militia, wanting very much for any random shots to come my way rather than a dozen feet further to the left at the lieutenant.
Trouble in the Wind Page 23
