Halfhyde to the Narrows by Philip McCutchan

Author:Philip McCutchan
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9781590132869
Publisher: McBooks Press
Published: 2004-11-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

CAPTAIN WATKISS had reached his decision shortly after the departure of Prebble back to the Vendetta. After due consideration of Prebble’s suggestion, Watkiss had seen virtue in it. Further consideration produced in him the conviction that it was all his own idea and he lost no time in sending for Venomous’s first lieutenant.

“Have a signal made, Mr Beauchamp: general to all ships from Senior British Naval Officer Afloat, Sevastopol, repeated British Naval Liaison Officer for information. Ensure there’s no damn balls-up in the Distributing Office … no, no, no,” he added angrily as he saw the first lieutenant scribbling notes. “That’s not the damn signal! Write this down: intend landing an armed party at four bells. Each ship will provide one officer, one petty officer and twenty seamen to lay alongside Venomous at 9:45, armed with revolvers and rifles and one hundred rounds per man. Rig for officers Number Ten negative swords, ratings will wear white duck. Gaiters will be worn. Understood, Mr Beauchamp?”

“Yes, sir—”

“Another signal, this time to Vendetta from, ah—Venomous: bagpipes will be brought. Pity we haven’t any damn Marines— don’t put that in the signal. Get on with it, Mr Beauchamp.”

“You don’t think, sir, that the Russians—”

“Russians, Russians. Damn foreigners, and I don’t give a fish’s tit for foreigners, Mr Beauchamp. Are we mice, or are we men?”

The question was obviously rhetorical and the first lieutenant asked, “Do you intend landing yourself, sir?”

Watkiss gave a vigorous nod. “Yes. I shall land and lead.” He stared. “Well, get on with it, man, get on with it!”

Mr Beauchamp, a portly man with the half stripe of a senior lieutenant between the two thicker ones on his shoulders, stood his ground and tried again. “I’m not sure it’s wise, sir—”

“Not sure, Mr Beauchamp? Did I hear you say, not sure?”

“You did, sir. The Russians will never allow a party to—”

“Not sure, Mr Beauchamp?” Captain Watkiss’s eyeglass dropped to his ample chest, catching the sunlight coming through the port to sparkle at the first lieutenant. “There is no damn need for you to be sure of anything, Mr Beauchamp— sureness is my prerogative, and mine alone.” He waved his arms, his face reddening dangerously. “Go away. Get out of my sight.”

“Very good, sir.” His teeth clenched against further verbal indiscretion, Mr Beauchamp turned away and was pursued along the alleyway by his captain’s voice, adding wisdom to sureness in the list of his sole prerogatives.

On the last stroke of four bells in the forenoon watch the assembled boats of armed seamen, led by Captain Watkiss in his galley, left the leader’s side and were pulled inshore by their crews. As they came abeam of the Nikolayev, a signal lamp flashed in their direction. Captain Watkiss, sitting importantly in the stern-sheets of the galley with his arms folded and his expression truculent, snapped: “Yeoman!”

“Yessir. I see the signal, sir.”

“What does it say?”

“Where are you going, sir.”

“Exercise.”

The yeoman crinkled the skin around his eyes and looked at Captain Watkiss in puzzlement. “Beg pardon, sir?”

“Exercise.

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