“They are close enough to be using open sights,” David said. “They should be able to do better than that.”
“They will oh, I am sure they will.” Ryder looked up at the moon,
hoping to see the shadow of a cloud fall across it. But the sky was brilliant with stars and the moon lit the surface of the Nile as if it were a stage. For the gunners the this would stand out against the silver waters like a granite hillock.
The next shell fell so close alongside that a shower of river water fell over the bridge and soaked those on it so that their shirts clung to their backs. Then there were more cannon flashes along the shore behind them as the Dervish gunners dragged up gun after gun and unlimbered to bring the this under fire.
“Jock, we will have to give them the best of it and cut the barge loose,” Ryder called to the engineer.
“Aye, skipper. I had a notion ye would say just that.” Jock picked up the axe and started towards the stern.
Another Dervish gun-carriage galloped along the bank until it was slightly ahead of the straining this and her burden. Though neither Ryder nor David was aware of it, the master gunner commanding the mounted battery was the Ansar whom David had dubbed the Bedlam Bedouin.
From astride the lead horse of the team, he gave a sharp command and they wheeled the gun carriage into line with the gun’s muzzle pointing out across the river, and unlimbered. The number two and three loaders stamped the heavy steel base plate into the soft earth of the riverbank. They set the point of the trail into its slot in the plate. While they worked the master gunner was shrieking orders, wild with excitement: he had never in all his brief career been offered such a fine target as the ferenghi ship now presented. It was almost broadside on. Its silhouette stood out crisply against the shimmering waters. It was so close that he could hear the terrified voices of the passengers raised in prayer and supplication, and the peremptory commands of the captain speaking in the infidel language the gunner could not understand.
He used a hand-spike to traverse the gun round the last few degrees until the long barrel was aiming directly at the ship. Then he wound down the elevation handle until he was gazing over the open iron sights at his target.
“In the Name of Allah, bring the bomboms!” he screamed at his loaders. They staggered up with the first ammunition box and knocked off the clips that held the lid in place. Inside, four shells lay in their wooden cradles, sleek and glistening ominously. The gunner, self-taught in the art of gunnery, had not yet fathomed the arcane principle of fuse delays. In fumbling haste, he used the Allen key he wore round his neck to screw the fuses to the maximum setting in the belief that this imparted to each missile the greatest amount of destructive power. The
this was a mere three hundred yards off the bank. He set his fuses at two thousand yards.
“In God’s Name let us begin!” he ordered.
“In God’s Name.” His number two flung open the breech of the Krupps with a flourish.
“In God’s Name,” intoned the number three, and slid one of the long shells deep into the chamber until it was snug against the lands. The number two slammed the breech-block shut.
“God is great,” said the Bedlam Bedouin, as he squinted over his sights to make certain of his aim. He traversed the mount four degrees left until he was aiming at the base of the this’s funnel. Then he jumped back and seized the lanyard. “Allah is mighty,” he said.
“There is no other God but God,” chorused his team.
“And Muhammad and the Mahdi are his prophets.” The gunner jerked the lanyard, and the Krupps slammed back against its base plate. The discharge deafened the crew with its report and blinded them with the muzzle flash and the flying dust.
On an almost flat trajectory the shell howled over the river and struck the Intrepid this two feet above the waterline and just astern of midships. It passed obliquely through her hull as readily as a stiletto through human flesh, but by virtue of the maximum fuse setting it did not explode.
Had it been three inches higher or lower it would have done minimal damage, nothing that Jock McCrump with his gas welding equipment could not have repaired within a few hours. But that was not to be. In passing it slashed through the main steam line from the boiler. Steam heated to twice the temperature of boiling water and under pressure of almost three hundred pounds to the square inch erupted in a shrieking jet from the ruptured pipe. It swept over the nearest stoker as he bent to thrust a faggot of timber into the open firebox of the boiler. He was naked in the heat, except for a turban and loincloth. Instantly the steam peeled the skin and the flesh off his body in great slabs to expose the bones beneath. The agony was so terrible that the man could not utter a sound. Mouth gaping in a silent scream, he fell writhing to the deck and froze into a sculpture of the utmost agony.
Steam filled the engine room and boiled in dense white clouds from the ventilation ports to pour over the decks, shrouding the this in a dense white cloud. Rapidly the ship lost power and swung idly broadside to the current. The Bedlam Bedouin and his gun-crew howled with excitement and triumph as they reloaded. But their quarry was now obscured by her own steam cloud. Although shells from many Krupps batteries along the bank plunged into the water alongside, or ripped the air overhead as though a giant was tearing a canvas mainsail in two, no more struck the little this.
Jock McCrump had been on the bridge with Ryder when the shell struck. He grabbed a heavy pair of working gloves from the locker beside the forward steam winch, and pulled them on as he ran back to the engine-room hatchway. The steam that billowed through the opening stung his face and the bare skin of his arms, but the pressure in the boiler had dropped as the steam bled off through the ruptured pipe. He ripped the heavy canvas curtain that covered the hatch from its rail, and snapped at Ryder, “Wrap me, skipper!”
Ryder understood instantly what he was going to do. He shook out the thick curtain, then wound Jock in it, cloaking his head and every part of his body but for his arms.
“The grease pot!” Jock’s voice was muffled by the folds of canvas. Ryder seized it from its hook beside the winch, scooped out handfuls of the thick black grease and spread it over the exposed skin of Jock’s muscular arms.
“That will do,” Jock grunted, and opened a slit in his canvas head cover to draw one last deep breath. Then he covered his face and plunged blindly down the steel companion ladder. He held his breath and closed his eyes tightly. But the steam scalded the exposed skin, melting away the coating of black grease from his bare arms.
Jock knew every inch of his engine room so intimately that he did not need to see it. Guiding himself with a light touch of gloved fingers over the familiar machinery, he moved swiftly towards the main pressure line. The shrieking of high-pressure steam escaping from the rupture threatened to burst his eardrums. He felt his arms cooking like lobsters in the pot and fought the impulse to scream, lest he use the last air in his aching lungs. He stumbled over the stoker’s corpse, but recovered his balance and found the main steam line. It was wrapped with asbestos rope to prevent heat loss so he was able to run his gloved hands along it until he found the wheel of the stopcock that controlled the flow of steam into the line. Swiftly he spun the wheel and the rushing sound of escaping steam rose sharply, then was snuffed out as the valve closed.
It took ineffable pain to make a man like Jock McCrump sob, but he was crying like an infant as he staggered back to the foot of the companion ladder, then clambered painfully up to the deck. He stumbled out into the night air, which felt cold after the hellish atmosphere of the engine room, and Ryder caught him before he fell. He stared in horror at the huge blisters hanging from Jock’s forearms. Then he roused himself and scooped more grease from the pot to cover them, but Rebecca had appeared suddenly and pushed him aside.
“This is woman’s work, Mr. Courtney. You see to your boat and leave this to me.” She was carrying a hurricane lamp and, by its feeble light, examined Jock’s arms, pursing her lips grimly. She set the lamp on the deck, crouched beside Jock and began to work on his injuries. Her touch was deft and gentle.
“God love you, Jock McCrump, for what you’ve done to save my ship.” Ryder lingered beside Jock. “But the Dervish are still shooting at us.” As if to underline the fact another Krupps shell plunged into the river, so close alongside that the spray rained down on them like a tropical cloudburst. “How bad is the damage? Can we get power on at least one of the engines to get us out of range of the guns on the bank?”
“I couldnae see much at all down there, but at the best odds the main boiler will not have as much pressure in her as a virgin’s fart.” Jock glanced at Rebecca. “Begging your pardon, lassie.” He stifled a groan as Rebecca touched one of the pendulous blisters, which burst open.
“I’m sorry, Mr. McCrump.”
“It’s naught at all. Dinna fash yourself, woman.” Jock looked up at Ryder. “Maybe, just maybe, I can knock
