Ko Dali's daughter was at my elbow, with a chattering nigger pointing out which ship was which. There were two steamers, the farther one being the Obrtucheff, three vessels with masts, of which the Mikhail was farthest north, and a ketch, all riding under the moon on the glassy sea, pretty as paint.
"That's the ticket for soup!" says I. "We'll have 'em sunk in half a jiffy. How are you, my dear—I say, that's a fetching rig you're wearing!" And I gave her a squeeze for luck, but she wriggled free.
"The firing-frame, angliski you must direct them," says she, and I turned reluctantly from surveying the bay and listening to the war that was breaking out along the beach—hell of a din of shooting and yelling, and it stirred my blood to action. I strode in among the toilers, saw the firing-frame broken from its crate, and showed them where to position it, at the very lip of the go-down, just above the small boats and barges which were rocking gently at their moorings on the water six feet below our feet.
Putting up the frame was simple—it's just an iron fence, you see,. with supports both sides, and half-pipes running from the ground behind to the top of the fence, to take the rockets. I've never known my fingers so nimble as I tightened the screws and adjusted the half-pipes in their sockets; everyone else seemed slow by comparison, and I cursed them good-naturedly and finally left Ko Dali's daughter to see to the final adjustments while I went off to examine the rockets.
They had them broken out by now, the dull grey three-foot metal cylinders with their conical heads—I swore when I saw that, as I'd feared, they were the old pattern, without fins and needing the fifteen-foot sticks. 43 Sure enough, there were the sticks, in long canvas bundles; I called for one, and set to work to fit it into a rocket head, but the thing was corroded to blazes.
"Now blast these Brummagem robbers!" cries I. "This is too bad—see how British workmanship gets a bad name! At this rate the Yankees will be streets ahead of us. Break out another box!"
"Burst it open! off with the lid, sons of idleness!" bawls Kutebar, fuming with impatience. "If it was Russian gold within, you'd have them open fast enough!"
"They will open in God's time, father of all wisdom," says one of the riders. "See, there they lie, like the silver fish of See-ah—are they not pretty to behold?"
"Prettier yet when they strike those Ruski ships of Eblis!" roars Kutebar. "Bring me a stick that I may arm one of these things! What science is here! Wisdom beyond that of the great astronomer of Samarkand has gone to the making of these fine instruments. I salute you, Flashman bahadur, and the genius of your infidel professors of Anglistan. See, there it stands, ready to blow the sons of pigs straight up Shaitan's backside!" And he flourished the stick, with the rockethead secured—upside down, which made me laugh immoderately.
I was interrupted by the Silk One, tugging urgently at my sleeve, imploring me to hurry—I couldn't see what all the fuss was, for I was enjoying things thoroughly. The battle was going great guns outside, with a steady crackle of gunfire, but no regular volleys, which meant, as I pointed out, that the Ruskis hadn't come to order yet.
"Lots of time, darling," I soothed her. "Now, how's the frame? Very creditable, very handy, you fellows—well done. Right-ho, Izzat, let's have some of those rockets along here, sharp now! Mustn't keep ladies waiting, what?" And I took a slap at her tight little backside—I don't know when I've felt so full of beans.
It was a fine, sweaty confusion in the go-down as they dragged the rockets down to the firing-frame, and I egged 'em on, and showed them how to lay a rocket in the half-pipe—no corrosion there, thank God, I noted, and the Silk One fairly twitched with impatience—strange girl, she was, tense as a telegraph wire at moments like this, but all composure when she was at home—while I lectured her on the importance of unrusted surfaces, so that the rockets flew straight.
"In God's name, angliski!" cries Kutebar. "Let us be about it! See the Mikhail yonder, with enough munitions aboard to blow the Aral dry—for the love of women, let us fire on her!"
"All right, old fellow," says I. "Let's see how we stand." I squinted along the half-pipe, which was at full elevation. "Give us a box beneath the pipe, to lift her. So—steady." I adjusted the ranging-screw, and now the great conical head of the rocket was pointing just over her main mast. "That's about it. Right, give me a slow-match, someone."
Suddenly there wasn't a sound in the go-down, apart from me whistling to myself as I took a last squint along the rocket and glanced round to see that everything was ready. I can see them still—the eager, bearded hawk-faces, the glistening half-naked bodies running sweat in the stuffy go-down, even Kutebar with his mouth hanging open, quiet for once, Ko Dali's daughter with her face chalk-white and her eyes fixed on me. I gave her a wink.
"Stand clear, boys and girls," I sang out. "Papa's going to light the blue touch-paper and retire immediately!" And in that instant before I touched the match to the firing-vent, I had a sudden vivid memory of November the Fifth, with the frosty ground and the dark, and little boys chattering and giggling and the girls covering their ears, and the red eye of the rocket smouldering in the black, and the white fizz of sparks, and the chorus of admiring "oohs" and "aahs" as the rocket bursts overhead—and it was something like that now, if you like, except that here the fizzing was like a locomotive funnel belching sparks, filling the go-down with acrid, reeking smoke, while the firing-frame shuddered, and then with an almighty whoosh like an express tearing by the Congreve went rushing away into the night, clouds of smoke and fire gushing from its tail, and the boys and girls cried "By Shaitan!" and "Istagfarullah!", and Papa skipped nimbly aside roaring "Take that, you sons of bitches!" And we all stood gaping as it soared into the night like a comet, reached the top of its arc, dipped towards the Mikhail—and vanished miles on the wrong side of it.
"Bad luck, dammit! Hard lines! Right, you fellows, let's have another!" And laughing heartily, I had another box shoved under the pipe to level it out. We let fly again, but this time the rocket must have been faulty, for it swerved away crazily into the night, weaving to and fro before plunging into the water a bare three hundred yards out with a tremendous hiss and cloud of steam. We tried three more, and all fell short, so we adjusted the range slightly, and the sixth rocket flew straight and true, like a great scarlet lance searching for its target; we watched it pass between the masts of the Mikhail, and howled with disappointment. But now at least we had the range, so I ordered all the pipes loaded, and we touched off the whole battery at once.
It was indescribable and great fun—like a volcano erupting under your feet, and a dense choking fog filling the go-down; the men clinging to steady the firing-frame were almost torn from their feet, the rush of the launching Congreves was deafening, and for a moment we were all staggering about, weeping and coughing in that filthy smoke. It was a full minute before the reek had cleared sufficiently to see how our shots had fared, and then Kutebar was flinging himself into the air and rushing to embrace me.
"Ya'allahah! Wonder of God! Look—look yonder, Flashman! Look at the blessed sight! Is it not glorious—see, see how they burn!"
And he was right—the Mikhail was hit! There was a red ball of fire clinging to her timbers just below the rail amid-ships, and even as we watched there was a climbing lick of flame—and over to the right, by some freakish chance, the ketch had been hit, too: there was a fire on her deck, and she was slewing round at anchor. All about me they were dancing and yelling and clapping hands, like school girls when Popular Penelope has won the sewing prize.