Eighteen

 

For a while everyone was silent, awed by what they had done.

The moon vanished again, behind a huge bank of cloud. The sea was like ink and they could see nothing of the caiques. One minute they had been there; now they were invisible.

The boat was still tending to yaw to port under the counterweight they had added to balance the torpedo.

‘Get rid of those bloody sandbags,’ Edward snapped.

Leaping forward, Sam wrenched out his knife and the sandbags began to plop into the water. As they disappeared and the boat began to answer the helm better, they became aware of a heavy shadow bearing down on them and Edward heaved the boat’s head round. It was the last of the Turkish caiques and the deck was jammed with men, eyes glued to the huge flare of flame ashore. Fragments of the Huda were still dropping into the sea and they could hear the Turks’ cries of dismay coming over the water. Nobody on board the caique seemed aware of the low sleek shape of the Bourdillon in the water astern.

Edward was surprised by the rattle of the gun on the foredeck. Eager to strike a blow for his country, Custalozzi had snatched the cover off the Hotchkiss and was firing at the caique. The startled Turks dived for cover behind the wheel-house. As the Bourdillon moved along the beam of the vessel, Custalozzi let rip with another burst.

So far he didn’t seem to have hit anybody but the opportunity was too good to resist. Edward drove the Bourdillon at speed across the bows of the caique so that Custalozzi could treat the Turks to a third fusillade. As they swung to starboard to run down the other side of the caique a white flag was run up the masthead, faintly pink in the glow of the flames ashore.

‘The buggers are surrendering,’ Edward yelled.

‘You’ve started a bloody war,’ cried Sam, ‘you mad sod! What are we going to do now?’

‘Accept the surrender.’

‘Sergeant,’ Edward said to Custalozzi, ‘can you get aboard that vessel and batten everybody down below deck? Take four men. Leave one man to handle the gun. We’ll dodge about a bit, firing here and there so they’ll think there are more of us. When you’ve got them all below and the hatch secured, shout and one of us will take over.’

Custalozzi and four of his men clambered aboard the caique, guns at the ready. While Edward circled round, the remaining Italian fired short bursts over the caique.

Edward was wondering nervously if he’d bitten off more than he could handle when a shout came from Custalozzi, and Edward took the Bourdillon alongside.

 

‘You jammy sod. A Turkish general. Sufra Adem Bloody Bey, no less. And his staff.’

Sam stared at Edward, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

They had struggled back to Sanauen against a rising wind. And a downpour of rain left the Bourdillon almost swamped. When they reached the harbour a cavalcade of officers, splendid in sashes and braid, with Boboli at their head, came thundering down to the quay.

Custalozzi sprang to attention, quivering with pride, his arm raised in a shuddering salute. Men with carbines were quickly dispatched to the caique and a string of Turks, complete with fezzes and medals, soon emerged on deck. They were a bedraggled lot. Locked below, most had been seasick.

The senior officer, a major general, bowed and offered his sword to Boboli who, with a magnificent gesture, indicated that Edward should take it. Startled, Edward accepted the sword, then proffered it to Boboli who shook his head and smiled.

‘E la vostra,’ he said. ‘You captured him. It is yours. Bravo. Bravissimo, Tenente Bordillone. Italy is grateful. It was a brilliant idea to attack the ammunition ship first. Without her, the Tahaf is nothing.’

Three-pounder guns were quickly mounted on the bows of the two Bourdillons and they raced up and down outside the entrance to Arina harbour, firing on the Tahaf, while she replied ponderously with her heavier guns, her shots always wide of the mark. After a week the rate of firing slackened then stopped. With her ammunition gone and none in reserve, the Tahaf was useless. A white flag went up and the Italian soldiers moved in from the desert.

Inevitably Boboli took the credit, but he was as good as his word. The day following the ceremony of the surrender at Arina, as the red, white and green flag of Italy was hoisted over the Customs House, a man from the navy arrived to arrange to take over the boats.

Benghazi fell within a few days, followed by Derna. By the end of the year Italy was in formal possession of the coastal area towns and was organising an expeditionary force for a movement to the interior.

The newspapers had the story by this time with Edward referred to as Tenente Eduardo Dante-Bourdilloni and Sam as Ingenièro Samuele Nachino. Still wearing the uniforms Boboli had supplied, the two heroes appeared in a parade in Rome among several thousand soldiers and sailors. They were presented with enamelled medals with red, green and white ribbons and were kissed on both cheeks by the King, a minute figure wearing a shako half as tall as he was. When they finally returned to Naples, the della Stradas were almost hysterical with pride and delight. A huge celebration was organised at the best restaurant in the city, and Sam and Edward were clapped by the staff and customers.

Sufra Bey’s sword was admired by all, and old della Strada who, like Custalozzi, had fought in Abyssinia, made a few passes, which encouraged further roars of approval.

One of the della Stradas’ neighbours turned up with a bundle of letters addressed to Edward.

Edward felt almost embarrassed by the effusive congratulations. Montesi, Zoparella, Evrone, Avvocato Ferignani, had all written, even to Edward’s surprise, the frozen-faced Matschek. There was also one from Egg, with an important postscript. ‘Enquiry today from Italian Navy concerning 20 more boats.’ The final letter was postmarked Messina.

‘Lucky Edward,’ Rafaela wrote in her strong spiky hand. ‘Your boats have been sold to the navy.’ He wondered how she knew before he did. ‘You now have everything you wish. If only I had.’