by Wilbur Smith
Ryder reversed the Ibis slowly until the gap between the two vessels was narrow enough for Jock and his team to leap back on board the steamer. As soon as his feet hit the Ibis’s steel deck he yelled, ‘Haul away!’
With a rush of relief Ryder eased the throttles ahead and gently drew the barge after him until she was following like an obedient dog on a leash. He began to haul her off into the main stream of the river, when a rushing sound filled the air and something passed so close above him that his hat spun off his head. Then, immediately afterwards, there followed the unmistakable boom of a six-pounder cannon, the sound following the shell from the west bank.
‘Ah! They’ve brought up one of their artillery pieces,’ David remarked, in a conversational tone. ‘Only wonder is that it has taken them so long.’
Quickly Ryder doused the spotlight beam. ‘They could not fire before for fear of hitting their own ships,’ he said. And his last words were drowned by the next shell howling overhead. ‘That was not so close.’ He kept his right hand pressing down on the throttle handles to milk the last turn of speed out of his vessel. The weight and drag of the barge cut at least three knots off their speed.
‘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 Ibis 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 Ibis 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 Ibis 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 Ibis 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 Ibis’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 Ibis 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 Ibis 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 Ibis.
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 an
d 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 together some kind of jury-rig and get steam to the cylinders. It just depends on the damage she’s suffered down there. But at the best I doubt we’ll get more than a few pounds of pressure into the line.’
Ryder straightened up and looked around. He saw the dark shape of Tutti Island no more than a cable’s length downstream from where they wallowed, powerless, under the Dervish guns. What the Dervish cannon fire lacked in accuracy, it made up for in rapidity. From the sheer weight of shells being hurled at them, it could not be long before they received another direct hit.
He watched the changing bearing of the island for a moment longer. ‘The current is carrying us past the island. If we anchor in its lee it will screen us from the guns.’ He left them and shoved his way through the passengers, shouting for Bacheet and his mate Abou Sinn. ‘Clear this rabble out of the way, and prepare to anchor at my command.’
They jumped to their stations, shoving and kicking aside the bewildered askari and stowaways to give themselves room to work. Bacheet freed the retaining tackle from the ring of the heavy fisherman’s anchor that hung at the bows. Abou Sinn stood over the chain where it emerged through the fairlead of the chain locker with the four-pound hammer ready.
Ryder peered back at the land, watching the muzzle flashes of the Dervish guns and judging his moment. For a few minutes he held his breath while it seemed that they would be driven ashore on the island, then an eddy in the current pushed them clear and they drifted so close to the eastern side of the island that they were sheltered from the Dervish batteries.
‘Let go!’ Ryder shouted to Abou Sinn, and with a blow of the sledge-hammer he knocked the pin out of the anchor shackle. The anchor splashed into the river, the chain roaring out after it, and found the bottom. The chain stopped running and Bacheet secured it. The Ibis came up hard and short, and spun round in the current to face upstream, with the timber barge behind her on her tow line. The Dervish cannon fire tapered off as the gunners found themselves deprived of their target. A few more shells screeched high overhead or burst ineffectually into the sandbanks of the screening island, then the gunners gave up and silence descended.
Ryder found Jock sitting on the bunk in the cabin, being attended to by all the Benbrook ladies. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked solicitously.
‘Not so bad, skipper.’ He indicated his arms: ‘These bonny little lasses have done a fine job on them.’ Rebecca had bandaged both arms with strips that the twins had torn from one of the threadbare cotton bedsheets, then fashioned a double sling from the same material. Now she was brewing a mug of tea for him on the stove in the tiny galley next door. Jock grinned. ‘Home was never so good. That’s why I ran away.’
‘Sorry to interrupt your retirement, but can I trouble you to take a peek at your engine?’
‘Just when I was really enjoying meself,’ Jock grumbled, but rose to his feet.
‘I’ll bring your mug down to the engine room for you, Mr McCrump,’ Amber promised.
‘And I’ll bring one for you, Ryder,’ Saffron called.
Jock McCrump followed Ryder down to the engine room. Bacheet and Abou Sinn carried away the stoker’s corpse, and by the light of a pair of hurricane lamps they assessed the damage. Now that Jock was able to examine his beloved engine more closely, he grumbled bitterly to disguise his relief. ‘Bloody heathens! Can’t trust them further than you can throw one of them. No sense of common decency, doing this to my bonny Cowper.’ However, only the main steam line shot was through; the engine itself was untouched.
‘Well, there’s naught I can do for the steam line this side of my workshop in Khartoum. In the meantime, though, perhaps I can cobble something together to get a mite of steam through to the engine, but I reckon we’ll not be breaking any speed records with the old girl.’ Then he held up his bandaged arms. ‘You’ll have to do the donkey work, skipper.’
Ryder nodded. ‘While we’re at it, I’m going to send Bacheet to move all our uninvited passengers across to the barge. That will correct my trim and give me a little more manoeuvrability and control. It will also give the crew more room to work the ship properly.’
While the passengers were transhipped, Ryder and his engineer began the repairs. Working quickly but carefully, they bled off the remaining steam from the boilers and drew the fires from the grate. Then they used the in-line valve cocks to isolate the damaged section of the main steam line. Once this was done, they could begin rigging a bypass line to carry steam through to the power plant. They had to measure the lengths they needed and cut the new pipe sections to length by hacksaw, then clamp them into the heavy vice on Jock’s workbench and cut threads into the ends of the pipes with the hand dies. They packed the joints with asbestos thread and tightened the elbows and connectors with their combined weight on the long-handled pipe wrench. They ended up with a mare’s nest of convoluted improvised piping.
The work took the rest of the night, and by the time they were ready to test its integrity dawn was showing through the engine-room portholes. It took another hour to set the fires in the grates and work up a head of steam in the boiler. When the needle of the pressure gauge touched the green line Jock gingerly eased open the cock of the steam valve. Ryder stood beside him and watched anxiously, hands black with grease, knuckles bruised and bleeding from rough contact with steel pipes. They held their breath as the needle on the secondary pressure gauge rose, and watched the new pipe joints for the first sign of a leak.
‘All holding,’ Jock grunted, and reached across to the port-engine throttle. With a suck and a hiss of live steam the big triple pistons began to pump up and down in their cylinders, the rods moved like the legs of marching men, and the propeller shaft rotated smoothly in its bearings.
‘Power up and holding.’ Jock grinned with the pride of accomplishment. ‘But I cannae take the chance and open her full. You’ll have to take what you get, skipper, and thank the Lord and Jock McCrump for that much.’
As the Ibis pushed slowly forward against the river current, the anchor chain came clanking in through the hawserhole. The flukes broke free from the riverbed and Ryder eased open the throttle. The Ibis responded so sluggishly that she made little headway against the four-knot current. Ryder felt a cold slide of disappointment. He glanced over the stern at the barge. Drawing deeply under its cargo of cordwood and uninvited passengers, it was behaving with mulish recalcitrance. Dozens of pathetic faces stared across at him.
By God, I’ve half a mind to cut you free and leave you to the mercy of the Mahdi, he thought venomously, but with an effort set the temptation aside. He turned instead to David, who had joined him silently. ‘She’ll never be able to hold her own in the Shabluka Gorge. When the entire flow of the combined Niles is forced through the narrows the current reaches almost ten knots. With only half her power the Ibis will be helpless in its grip. The risk of piling up on the rocky cliffs is too great to accept.’
‘What other choice do you have?’
‘Nothing for it but to battle our way back to Khartoum.’
David looked worried. ‘My girls! I hate to take them back to that death-trap. How long will Gordon be able to hold out in the city before the Dervishes break in?’
‘Let’s hope it’s long enough for Jock to finish his repairs so that we can make another run for it. But now our only hope is to get back into the harbour.’ Ryder turned the Ibis across the current and headed her for the east bank. He tried to keep the bulk of Tutti Island between the ship and the Dervish batteries, but before they were half-way across the first shells were howling above the river. However, with the current giving him some assistance Ryder opened the range swiftly, and the skill of the Bedlam Bedouin and his comrades was not up to the task of hitting a target as small as the Intrepid Ibis at a range of over a mile, except by the direct intervention of Allah. This day, however, their prayers went unanswered, and although there were a few encouraging near misses the Ibis and her barge made good their crossing of the mainstream, then turned south for the city, hugging the furthest edge of the channel at extreme range for the Krupps.