Above the Spit there was a high bank rising to the steppe behind, and at the distance of some hundred yards from the edge there was a tumulus, behind which I fancied I saw artillery. The Cracker had run on ahead, and the Grinder was just drawing on parallel with this high bank — we were all peering at it, and one officer was saying to the other, "Well! I wonder the Russians have not got a battery on that cliff" — when from a seam in its side, parallel with the water, a puff of white smoke spirted out, and the rush of a shot followed, which terminated in a splash in the water close to the side of the Grinder. "Tell Grinder he may give him a shot in reply," cried Admiral Stewart. The little Grinder, with more valour than discretion, at once put down his helm and ran in, drawing across the Stromboli, at which the enemy opened another gun at the moment. This shot fell short. And now light field-pieces, on the top of the cliffs, opened; none of the shot from the Russians had yet fallen closer than twenty yards to us. The drum beat to quarters on board the Stromboli, and the men rushed on deck in a state of high delight to clear for action; berthings were removed, and guns got ready, but Grinder being intent on doing his devoir got in our way, so that his recall was hoisted. The Stromboli slowly craned over towards the bank.
The principal work was a trench in the cliff, half-way up, and when you came to squint along a gun, and saw only four little black eyes staring at you over a parapet of earth which did not seem three inches high, you began to understand the difficulty of striking such objects. "Try 2,500 yards!" The gun was trained. At the words, "Well! Fire!" the iron globe, whose curve you could trace through the air, hurtled with the peculiar hiss of its race, over the parapet, knocking up a black pillar of earth from the crest of the hill, and bounding far away to the rear. "Too high!" The Russians replied at once. The shot flew over Captain Spratt's head, who was at the foretop, and plunged into the water 200 or 300 yards beyond us. The Muscov had been playing the game of firing short, to entice us well under his battery. Stromboli kept edging nearer, the captains of the guns were all intently gazing along their sights. "Try 2,000 yards." Away flew the iron messenger again, but he only told the Russians to bob their heads and keep out of his way, and passed behind them. Aimed "too high" again. The Spitfire, Cracker, and Grinder were now coming into action. The enemy's field-pieces took to shell, and studded the air above us with smoke-clouds, the angry hum of their splinters was heard on all sides. Whiz! — right across our deck comes a shot, and plashes into the water over our counter. Our long gun at the bow sends a shot in reply, at 1,700 yards, which goes right into their battery this time. Whiz! whiz! two shots, one after the other, one dashing up the water close to her sides, the other cutting the jib foot-rope of the Stromboli.
Sir Houston Stewart resolved to return. That there was no{415} intention of going up to Nicholaieff with a steam-sloop, a surveying sloop, and some small gun-boats I need not say, and had the enemy been driven from the Spit ten times a day he could have returned at any time, and have constructed just such another flying defence as that with which we were engaged. Indeed, the Admiral would not have replied to the enemy's fire at all, but that Jack is dissatisfied if not permitted to return a shot whenever one is sent at him. With a parting salute, the Stromboli set her jib, slewed round, and steamed slowly down the river. The enemy continued to fire after us, but the Spitfire, Grinder, and Cracker covered the movement, and a shell from the latter burst in the earthwork, and appeared to do some mischief. As we returned towards the Liman, the Spiteful, Triton, and Arrow, which had remained off the mouth of the Bug — "an unpleasant position," said Sir Houston Stewart, "which will be appreciated by London lodgers" — were seen steaming up to us, as they apprehended that they could help us out of a scrape; but the emulative gunners had not a chance of doing anything.