“You get her, guv’ner!” exclaimed one of the midgets. “She’s got a bloody gun up there!”
It was a minor midget mutiny.
“No matter—if I must, I can calculate the range without final adjustment! Open outer doors,” said Von Traeger as he removed a stopwatch from his pocket and counted the seconds. One of the midgets moved to the firing lever.
Von Traeger shouted, “Torpedieren entfernt!” as he signaled by snapping down his arm. The midget smashed down the lever and the ship vibrated as the torpedo was launched with a hiss of compressed air.
Tasha, her heart in her mouth, saw the torpedo streak toward the battleship. The ship vibrated and a second missile fired.
Summerlee lowered his binoculars and yelled to the Quartermaster, “Hard a-port! Full speed!”
The helmsman repeated the order for clarity and spun the wheel as the telegraph rang down to the engine room for full speed. The ship heeled over. Bernard moaned and slumped over the rail, very, very sick and terrified.
Mycroft was still at the binoculars. “Half the government saw that U-boat fire at us!”
A calm Sebastian watched, silently pleased. He thought he had spotted someone atop the U-boat conning tower, but in the excitement of the oncoming torpedo, that was a detail ignored by all.
The battleship, responding to her innovative double rudders, with white water bubbling and churning in its wake, heeled over as the torpedoes sped toward the rapidly swinging stern.
Mycroft, Ramsgate, Bernard, Sebastian, Summerlee, the Exec, the crew … everyone braced themselves for the impact.
Von Traeger watched the seconds tick away on his stopwatch. He could imagine Deirdre, in the cavern, watching through a telescope, perhaps clutching her crescent-moon pendant in anticipation.
Tasha watched, trying to calculate the angle of attack and the closing speed of the torpedoes against the growing speed of the battleship. The press reports stated that the new twin rudder system would add to the ship’s manoeuverability, and her turbines to her speed. These systems would be getting a test, and far earlier than the men who built them ever imagined. The turbines were significantly more responsive than the earlier reciprocating engines that Von Traeger was used to. They gave the battleship just the speed advantage she needed.
The torpedoes only barely missed the stern.
Tasha allowed herself a sigh of relief.
Von Traeger’s attention was riveted to his stopwatch. The seconds ticked by and there was no explosion. The truth dawned. “Hmmm. We missed.” He could now imagine a fuming Deirdre calling him a Prussian imbecile! But then he recalled that Deidre had already taken this contingency into account. She realised that the simple act of firing on the Dreadnought would be enough to precipitate a crisis. The lack of casualties or major damage, or even the sinking of the Dreadnought, were mere details. Even a failed attack was, after all, an act of war.
As Sebastian concealed his disappointment, Summerlee growled to his Executive Officer, “Fire on that ship!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” came the crisp reply as the Exec lifted the phone and called fire control.
Ramsgate, who had been reading about the Dreadnought as part of his investigation of the naval murders, asked Bernard, “Have the guns been calibrated yet?”
Bernard, incapable of speech, was having trouble recalling the answer. He gagged, put his hand to his mouth and rushed again to the rails.
The core of the Dreadnought was her five twin twelve-inch gun-turrets. In an era when battleships carried only four big guns, she carried ten.
Inside the turrets was a clockwork of precision movement: men and machine were fused into one efficient mechanism. Twelve-inch shells, weighing eight hundred and fifty pounds apiece, came up hoists from the ready ammunition magazine below the turret. Men slid them into the guns, and rammers shoved them further up the breech. This was followed by silken containers of cordite, two to each gun, which were slipped up and rammed in. The loading ramps fell away, the huge breeches slammed shut, and the guns elevated.
“Right gun ready!” “Left gun ready!” reported the gunners.
Bernard staggered back from the rail, wiping his chin with a handkerchief. In a hoarse voice, he related to Ramsgate that calibrating the range-finders with the guns was scheduled for the firing range the next day. At that second, the “gun ready” lights flashed on the fire-control table.
“If the range-finders and guns haven’t been calibrated, those shells could go anywhere!” said Ramsgate in alarm. He turned to Summerlee, but was too late. The captain yelled, “Fire!”
The Exec repeated into the phone, “Fire!”
At that second, eight of the Dreadnought’s ten twelve-inch guns—all that could fire on any given side of the ship—erupted, spitting black smoke and flame as the shells were hurled skyward. The crash from those enormous pieces of artillery was deafening, and the entire ship staggered.
One shell exploded near the sheep pen on McGloury’s croft.
On High Street, the old doctor was entering the Millport Historical Society when a shell exploded several blocks away behind him, creating a large crater in the cobblestones. As his back was turned, he failed to notice.
On another part of the island, an old man carried a newspaper and hurried toward an outhouse. A shrill whine sped overhead and suddenly the outhouse exploded. The old man shrugged and walked back the way he came.
Summerlee implacably lowered his binoculars. “Uh … you may cease fire, Number One.”
“Aye. Aye, sir!” came the ever crisp reply.
Summerlee folded his hands behind his back and stood the perfect picture of dignity. Britannia ruled the waves.
One shell, through sheer happenstance, was more accurate and exploded near the sub, sending up a great tower of white water that drenched the ship. Tasha, matches and all, huddled in the conning tower as spray and shell splinters slammed into the sub.
Inside, the little ship heaved at the concussion. The crew tumbled into a pile with Von Traeger on top and the midgets on the bottom. Jets of water spurted from several leaks, drenching them.
Von Traeger was able to stop some of the leaks by using cut-off valves, but the water kept shooting in near the bow. He realised that a fragment from the near miss must have breached the little hull, far more fragile than the stouter hulls of the full-sized submarines. He would never make the rendezvous with his yacht in the open sea, and there was no spot in the firth he could beach the U-boat without risking capture. Nearby was Millport Island, but sheer cliffs were ahead of him and he would sink before reaching any location he could beach the sub. He ordered them back to base. Von Traeger was a man who could make instant decisions, but seemed to have trouble planning more than ten minutes ahead.
The little U-boat manoeuvered back toward the cave as Deirdre, observing the lagoon entrance, drew away from her telescope in disbelief. The incredible fool was coming back and leading the British Navy right to her. She was prepared even for that. Tom, McGloury’s hired hand, was working nearby, cleaning away breakfast. She snapped her fingers. He ceased his labours and with a slight bow, turned toward her. “You know what to do. Lay charges at the ruin entrance and connect them to the cordite in this chamber, then evacuate the cave. They’ll send a landing party from the Dreadnought. Alert the marksmen on the platform to deal with them.”
“They’ll stop ’em, Priestess.”
Deirdre smiled slightly at his confidence. “If they don’t, when we seal the cavern, it will be their tomb. The first of many.”
Tom nodded, but something troubled him. “Priestess, these caverns have been our shrine and refuge since the beginning …”
“… and if we must sadly bid them farewell, take comfort in knowing our enemies are trapped within for eternity, and that our faith is stronger than mere stone.”
Tom brightened at that. “Forgive me my doubts, Priestess.”
Deirdre nodded and motioned him away. He hurried off to do her bidding. Armed men would
soon be taking up their pre-assigned positions. A graduate of Sandhurst, the Royal Military Academy, could not have planned a more efficient defence.
The sub approached the cave entrance, difficult to spot amid the craggy cliffs and stones that rose from the water, masking a direct view of the cavern. Tasha tossed aside the useless matches, took the dynamite, which was only damp, and with all her formidable strength, flung it to the rocks near the cave entrance. She aimed her Webley (almost useless at long range) and fired at the explosives. She needed to take two shots, but they detonated.
On the Dreadnought’s bridge, the explosion, as Mother intended, caught everyone’s attention.
“What the devil was that?” demanded Captain Summerlee.
Sebastian scowled; everything was going to pieces. While he could not see Mother, he knew that she must be responsible. Rage erupted within him. He had watched helplessly as Tasha obsessed his beloved Priestess; had desperately tried to warn Deirdre of the danger Mother represented. Sebastian’s counsel went unheeded, and in his failure he now witnessed the ruination of Deirdre’s ambitious yet careful planning. Gone was the glorious future she had promised, and that he and his fellow believers had laboured with such devotion to make manifest. But he kept the ferocity of his wrath hidden, for he might yet have a way to influence events. Beside him Ramsgate yelled, “It’s hard to spot, but there’s a cave in that cliff!”
Mycroft, his voice as dispassionate as ever, noted, “Yes. The U-boat’s headed right for it. We may have a solution to this problem after all. Captain, send an armed landing party into that cave.”
Summerlee wasn’t used to taking orders from civilians, but he knew better than debating Mycroft Holmes, so he nodded in agreement.
Sebastian stepped toward him. “Permission to go with them, sir! I grew up in this area and may be able to help!”
“Very well.”
Sebastian saluted and left as the rest returned to their binoculars.
As the sub slid into the cavern, Tasha, holstering the Webley in her belt, dove from the conning tower and swam to the nearby cliff-side. The deck hatch slowly opened, and Von Trigger reconnoitered, spotting Tasha in the water. With the periscope out of commission he conned the boat from above, shouting directions to the midget helmsman below, guiding the sub into the passage. “Two degrees to port!” and the bow of the sub—low in the water from the leak and with her forward decks awash—swung in alignment with the tunnel opening.
Chapter Forty
The Caverns
Men rushed about in disciplined activity, stringing new cable, mooring the sub, and making preparations to evacuate. Marksmen, with armbands reading “Millport Skeet Society,” found cover on the platform, awaiting the landing party. Two men ripped a canvas cover from a Maxim machine-gun and trained it on the lagoon.
Below them, Deirdre, aware of the imminent battle, had decided how the altered circumstances would affect me. She stopped McGloury and gave him orders, “Take Laura to the sacrificial chamber and wait for me. If Ian hasn’t fallen, cut the rope. If you don’t hear from me in ten minutes, kill the child.”
McGloury was not enthusiastic. “The child … Please—this isnae a task for me, Priestess.”
“There is a penalty for disobedience,” she said quietly. Under her inflexible expectation of servility, he could only nod.
Ian was desperately trying to save himself as the flame burned through the rope that circled his waist. His life depended on the durability of a few strands of hemp. With his hands tied behind his back, Ian—his time on the range leaving him no stranger to the use of cordage—worked his fingers to loosen the knots. He gave a fleeting glance to the flame as another strand separated; there was little of the fibre left. At last the knots loosened and Ian worked his hands free. He reached for the line from the pulley above him and climbed.
The rope snapped, but Ian was able to grasp the pulley attached to the ceiling. He saw the empty darkness below his feet where the rope, still tied to his waist, now swayed. Ian shifted his weight and swung back and forth like a pendulum. The metal of the pulley sliced into his hand. When he could bear no more pain, he let go and plummeted.
Ian’s swing carried him just far enough to grasp the ledge of the pit. The jagged edge bit deeper into his bleeding hands, but Ian hung on, ignoring the pain. The ancient stone under his right hand crumbled in his grip. He caught himself with his left hand, dangling with only the strength of one arm between him and the blackness below. But the stone under his left hand held him solidly. Using both arms, Ian pulled himself up, listening to the pounding of his own heart as the blood rushed in his ears. He paused, kneeling on the edge of the pit, breathing hard, collecting his thoughts. Then he untied the rope. In an instinct honed by years in the saddle, he coiled the remains of the rope, slung it over his shoulder and rushed out of the chamber.
Deirdre spotted, past the cavern opening, the distant motor-launch from the Dreadnought speeding toward them. She could see the scarlet tunics of the Royal Marines clumped together with the armed ratings that formed the small landing party.
Tasha climbed out of the firth onto a narrow ridge that widened as it led away from the water and into the huge chamber. She heard voices from around the corner and stopped, flattening herself against the craggy stone side of the cavern. Some men were attaching new cable to crates of cordite.
“That’s the job. Put the plunger in the crypt, then Deirdre said to get topside,” said one.
“Aye! That’s the truth!” said the other. “Once our priestess touches this off, the old place will …” He gestured, imitating the expanding violence of an explosion.
That was it then, thought Mother; she knew it was a race against time with my life at stake. She listened to the men leave, then silently followed.
I don’t really remember any of this; Deirdre’s drugs clouded my mind to such an extent that I was a little automaton. But as I understand what happened, McGloury led me into the sacrificial chamber and placed me in front of the pit. McGloury noted the broken rope, and assuming Ian’s fate, eyed the pit, not really expecting to see any sign of him in the blackness. He had every intention of carrying out his priestess’s instructions—blind devotion and raw fear would allow no less—and though Deirdre had not desired mercy, her latest command would spare me the horrible fate of becoming her.
To the two dozen officers, ratings, and Royal Marines in the motor-launch sailing through the lagoon to the pier, the immense chamber appeared empty. But atop the platform, under the concealment of stacks of boxes and rocky outcroppings—wherever nature or human efforts provided cover—Deirdre’s marksmen were ready. Their rifles and the Maxim machine-gun were trained on the dock, waiting for the marines to disembark. They had been careful to shield the cordite (which Deirdre would explode with a plunger) behind rocks and equipment. A lucky shot or ricochet could still turn the lagoon into an inferno, but that was a calculated risk that these deluded men were willing to take to honour their beliefs.
The head marksman whispered to his men, “By McGuffin’s great axe! Sebastian’s with them! Be careful, lads.”
In the crypt chamber, the hollow eye-sockets of countless skeletons witnessed Deirdre nimbly attaching the wire to the twin poles of the detonator. Behind her, men were making their escape as they filed out of the crypt and climbed up the shaft. Some gave their priestess a confident grin, others were sad, but all showed deference. Then came the sound of gunfire. Her followers instinctively swung their attention in the direction of the main chamber. The muffled clamour of battle intensified. Deirdre merely finished her work on the plunger.
The Royal Marines and the rest of the landing party jumped off the launch and moved cautiously into the great chamber. They did not speak, though their sergeant gave his men silent hand signals, ordering them to spread out; clumped together they were too inviting a target.
As the British contingent separated, Deirdre’s men erupted into action. Rifles cracked and the Maxim rattled, and the Mar
ines and ratings below began to fall, or to find what cover they could on the pier and among their dead comrades who littered the pilings. Sebastian crouched behind a crate as a marine jumped next to him and returned fire. The other marines and the rifle-armed ratings also were shooting.
Above them, on the platform, one of Deirdre’s men was hit and toppled to the chamber floor far below, landing with a thud heard amid the din of battle.
Sebastian kept his head down, awaiting any opportunity to aid his cause, find Deirdre, or kill Mother.
All but one of the cult members had fled up the shaft that led to the ruins and escape. As the last man, a large rustic in a sheepskin vest, started up, he noted that Deirdre wasn’t following. “I heard Sebastian was with the landing party,” he told her. “I’m sure our men’ll take care not to hit him.”
She nodded and motioned for him to hurry up the shaft. He took a step, but paused again and with genuine regret in his eyes, “Sorry there was a wee change in your wonderful plans, Priestess. We’re still with you.”
“An inconvenience, nothing more. Our destiny and revenge still await us.” She again gestured for him to climb away. The big man gave a curt nod and vanished upward.
A few feet away, on the other side of the door, a devotee wearing a sidearm was still guarding any approach to the crypt chamber. Deirdre had given him permission to leave, but he and a few others in various parts of the caverns stayed anyway, determined to guard her to the last. Further down the tunnel, Tasha stepped out of the shadows, raised her Webley and fired. The guard dropped lifeless to the ground. Mother raced to the door, but the wounded man sprung back to life, lunging for her leg and taking her down. As she fell, he backhanded her with his own revolver. Mother reeled, but put her gun to his head and fired. She pushed his heavy, lifeless body away and leaned, gasping against the wall. Without warning, the wooden shaft of a harpoon smashed the gun from her hand. Tom was there, clutching the weapon, turning the Lili-iron with its sharp metal barb toward her.
Lady Sherlock Page 15