Seventeen

 

The following day, wearing a galabiya and a towel round his head so that he looked like one of the Libyan boatmen who plied up and down the coast, Edward took an Arab dhow past Arina harbour.

The gunboat, Tahaf, guarded the entrance, her guns trained to sea. She looked a little like a large flat-iron, with low decks, a low freeboard and a high bridge and upperworks. The red Turkish crescent flag flapped at her stern. The entrance to the harbour was narrow, with high cliffs on either side and, surrounded by small yellow buildings and palm trees, it looked like a seedy oasis. The Huda lay on the beach, beam-on to the sea beyond the Tahaf, leaning inwards, her tall stack canted over, her masts charcoal marks against the sky.

Edward was in a thoughtful mood when he returned to the little quay at Sanauen where Sam was bent over Dido’s engine.

‘Sam, we need to convert these bloody things to men o’ war.’

‘Charming,’ Sam said. ‘And how do you propose to do that? The water pump on this bastard has gone on the blink.’

‘What about the other one?’

‘Not much better.’

‘Have we the torpedo launching gear with us?’

‘You know bloody well we haven’t.’

‘If we could use that torpedo–’

‘It’s a dummy.’

‘No, it isn’t. Only the warhead. Suppose we change it for one stuffed with explosive.’

‘Then what?’

‘Sink something.’

‘Jesus.’ Sam stared at Edward in awe. ‘What?’

‘One of these caiques that bring in the Turks’ supplies. It’d show what the boats could do.’

‘That’s an act of war. Where are you going to get the explosive from?’

‘You’ve heard of this chap, Zaharoff, haven’t you? He sells anything from grenades to battleships.’

‘I think you’re barmy,’ said Sam, grinning.

Edward grinned back. ‘Am I? Sam, if we could hit something we could sell a couple of dozen of these things. And think what that means as commission. You could go home and marry Alice Appleby.’

Sam laughed. ‘Bugger Alice Appleby. A bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush. Rosina della Strada’ll do me.’

 

It took a fortnight and a little bribery to get the torpedo across the Mediterranean. They found a French ship in Sanauen heading for Brindisi and managed to sweeten the captain enough to give Edward a passage. He returned aboard an Italian naval tug.

‘Where the hell did you get the warhead?’

‘I had it taken to pieces and filled with explosive.’

‘Who did it?’

‘Fabbrica Farinese. Pappa della Strada told me about them. They do work for the Italian navy. At this moment they’re trying to produce torpedo boats. I used a little of Uncle Egg’s expenses to persuade one of the directors I was an Italian naval officer and that we’ve got a high-speed launch to fit the torpedo. I said it was multo urgento.’

‘You cunning sod. One of these days you’ll get your head stuck in the railings and won’t be able to get it out. Who’s paying?’

‘The Italian Navy. At least, I hope so. If they refuse or we fail, Christ knows.’

‘Jesus,’ muttered Sam. ‘I have to hand it to you, kid.’

‘Does Dido’s engine work?’

‘Like a bird.’

They worked on the boat all that night and the next day, hauling on tackles to swing the torpedo to its position against the clamps on the deck.

‘It looks bloody ugly,’ Sam observed, eyeing the equipment. ‘Has it ever been tried?’

‘Apparently.’

‘Are we going to test it?’

‘We don’t have time. If it works, we’re in the money. If it doesn’t, we could be in the clink.’

Frowning, Sam studied the tilt of the deck. ‘Will she steer?’ he asked. ‘She’s got a hell of a lot of weight on one side. She’ll probably go round in circles.’

She did.

Towed out by a hired launch driven by an Arab in a fez, they tried her out the following day. The sun was blisteringly hot and they could see the dun line of the desert behind the shore. The boat moved in a definite arc.

‘She’ll be hell to aim,’ Sam decided. ‘And what if they see us?’

‘We do the job after dark.’

‘God help us. What are we going to do about this bloody circling?’

‘Sandbags.’ Edward gestured at the great sweep of desert baking under the African sun. ‘There’s plenty of sand.’

It worked. The sandbags didn’t provide perfect balance but they didn’t have to use as much helm to keep the boat heading on a straight course.

‘Just one little thing,’ Sam said. ‘What if somebody starts firing at us?’

‘Let’s see if Boboli will give us a machine gun.’

But Boboli had disappeared. They found him eventually outside Sanauen, where a whole battalion of men were clearing stones and smoothing ridges of sand.

‘My airfield,’ Boboli said proudly. ‘We are bringing our air fleet up from Tripoli.’

‘Your what?’

‘We have two Bleriots, two Farmans, two Etrich Taubes and three Nieuports.’

Edward had never heard of aeroplanes being used for war. He’d never seen one, in fact, though he’d heard of people floating around above the ground.

‘What do they do?’ he asked.

‘Reconnaissance work. That is how we know the tribesmen are gathering at Ain Zara. They are the cavalry of the clouds.’ Boboli gestured at a young officer alongside. ‘This is Captain Piazzi. He made the first operational flight in the world from the field we established near Tripoli. We are going to destroy Arina with bombs.’

Edward’s jaw dropped. ‘I thought you wanted to torpedo something.’

Boboli shrugged. ‘It won’t be necessary now. The air fleet will reduce the opposition to dust.’

 

Edward was in a gloomy mood that evening. He had spent a great deal of money that wasn’t his. The bomb was an occupational hazard among European rulers but nobody had ever dropped any from an aeroplane before.

News came that Boboli’s aeroplanes had arrived and Edward hired a carriage to take himself and Sam to see them. The horse looked on its last legs, the stuffing was sticking through the leather of the seats and the fringed awning was faded and torn.

‘Looks like a bloody funeral,’ said Sam.

‘Ours,’ Edward replied.

Boboli’s air fleet, the engines covered with tarpaulins, was lined up, being scrutinised by groups of Italian soldiers. The atmosphere was sulphuric. Boboli was furious because only part of the air force had arrived, and more than one of the planes was out of action. A sandstorm had overturned two, breaking spars, while three more were having engine trouble because sand had blown on to the exposed tappets of the engines.

‘Christ,’ exclaimed Sam. ‘I used to fly them things on a piece of string when I was a kid.’

Three days later, two of the Farmans struggled off the ground, engines buzzing like faulty sewing machines.

Boboli looked pleased as they gained altitude.

‘Sottotenente Gavotti is going to drop bombs. The size of melons and weighing no less than two kilos each.’

As the aeroplanes vanished from sight, he began to prowl up and down, gnawing at the end of his swagger stick.

An hour later one of the machines appeared out of the clouds. They could hear the engine missing occasionally and saw puffs of blue smoke as it circled the airfield.

It landed finally, bounced and came to a stop. Everybody started running. A moment later a major on a horse tore up to report. ‘Sottotenente Falcioni had to drop his bombs in the desert, Excellency,’ he said. ‘Gavotti dropped all of his on the target. Four altogether. Three exploded.’

Boboli was almost dancing with rage. ‘And the damage?’

‘Two or three camels, Excellency.’

Boboli turned away, furiously slapping at his boot with his stick.

‘Perhaps I can do what the aeroplanes couldn’t do, Excellency,’ Edward said quietly.

Boboli’s head turned. ‘How?’

‘We have acquired a torpedo.’

 

Back at the harbour of Sanauen, Boboli studied the strange apparatus fitted to the boat and the missile resting on the chocks on its side.

‘Will it work?’ he asked.

‘Of course it will, Excellency.’

They managed to persuade Boboli to give them an old lightweight Hotchkiss which the army didn’t like because of its tendency to jam. It was fitted to the bow and a Sergeant Custalozzi and five men armed with rifles were provided to handle it. Two soldiers would have been sufficient for Edward but Boboli insisted.

The men were dewy-eyed conscripts but the sergeant had fought in Abyssinia and Somaliland, and had the medals to prove it. His grandfather had been one of Garibaldi’s followers and Custalozzi was itching to prove himself a chip off the old block.

As they prepared to go aboard, Boboli said, ‘You can’t go to war as a civilian, Signor Bourdillon. You could be shot as a spy. You must be sworn in as officers of the reserve. From now on you are Tenente Bordillone and Ingenière Nanchino. We will find the uniforms. Just in case. The Turks are not noted for their civilised treatment of prisoners of war.’

A trial run, fully loaded, was scheduled for the afternoon. The guns plus the military overload reduced the boat’s speed considerably.

‘Sink me a ship,’ Boboli said, ‘and I will make sure your boat is bought.’

Edward glanced at the sky. The sun was shining and the sea was still. ‘Would tonight suit you?’ he said.

 

Followed by a small tug loaded with drums of petrol, the Dido left the quayside as dusk arrived, engines rumbling hollowly as they made for the open sea. There was a whiff of wind and Edward prayed the weather would not change. They had twenty miles to go and a heavy lop might sink them with the boat so dangerously unbalanced.

She handled badly and the soldiers were far from happy. As the spray broke over the bows, Sergeant Custalozzi moaned it would ruin his gun. One of the soldiers was seasick, and lolled unhappily in the stern.

After two hours they were in view of the lights of Arina. By this time everyone was cold, damp and far from confident of the operation’s success. Edward stopped the engines. Above the swish and lap of the sea, Edward was surprised to hear voices.

‘Turkish caiques bringing in supplies, Signor Tenente,’ Custalozzi hissed. ‘They come every night. We must be very quiet.’

Sam gave the thumbs up.

‘Chocks going to work?’ Edward asked.

‘Christ, I hope so.’

‘Firing bar fixed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Air lever forward?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wire loop attached.’

‘Yes. For God’s sake, let’s get on with it.’

The engines restarted with a thump and the Dido moved closer. Points of light gleamed ashore and there was a line of yellow portholes where the Turkish gunboat lay. Without being able to see them, Edward was aware of the caiques drifting past them in the dark.

A slight wind made it extremely difficult to keep her on course. Waves slopped over the bows, and there were muffled cries of alarm from the soldiers.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ Sam muttered, ‘if we don’t get rid of the bloody thing soon, we’ll be swamped.’

‘Just a bit closer,’ Edward muttered. ‘Tell ’em to bale.’

Clouds obscured the moon and cast a dark shadow over the sea. The Dido was manoeuvring in the entrance to the harbour now with the Tahaf beam-on to them. Her deck lights picked out a number of men on her stern.

‘Get rid of the sod,’ Sam growled.

Edward held his hand a little longer. ‘Stand by.’

‘For Christ’s sake–’

‘Go.’

Sam heaved on the lever that released the chocks. Nothing happened.

‘Give it a shove.’

Cursing under his breath, Sam threw his weight against the chocks. Reluctantly they moved, the connecting rods sliding and clicking as the torpedo settled with a final solid clunk into firing position over the side of the boat. Then, as Sam heaved, the clamps opened abruptly like claws. The torpedo fell and Sam almost followed it overboard as it ploughed into the sea. The control wire sprang taught with a twang then dropped loose. As the torpedo’s motor started and it moved away the boat swung to port.

‘Jesus,’ said Sam, staring into the darkness. ‘It worked.’

At that moment the moon came out like a searchlight. They were surrounded by caiques. But not one changed direction and it was obvious the low freeboard of the Bourdillon made them almost invisible in the swell.

They could see the torpedo track moving away from them at a tangent, nose-up and making a small bow wave.

‘The bloody thing’s not running straight,’ Sam groaned.

‘It’ll hit her, though,’ Edward replied. ‘It’ll hit her.’

The soldiers quickly forgot their seasickness and their concern for the gun. Then the torpedo vanished.

‘It’s gone underneath.’

The language was frightful.

‘Well, that’s that,’ muttered Edward. ‘We’d better go home.’

‘We’ve lost the bloody thing,’ said Sam, ‘but at least we’re alive.’

Edward brought the boat’s head round towards the west, disconsolate at having failed.

‘We’ll never get another chance like that,’ he said.

As he spoke there was a tremendous explosion ashore, followed by another that seemed to split the heavens open. A great red flare of flame blossomed out like a vast tulip.