Shepherd, one of the petty officers of the _St. Jean d’Acre_, had conceived the idea that he could, single-handed, blow up a man-of-war in Sevastopol harbour. The contrivance appeared simple enough. I had already taken him with his apparatus to the Admiral, who was amused and approved, leaving the time for the experiment to me. The plan was this. To prepare a light iron case a foot long by eighteen inches, with a loop at each end. The case to be fitted with a Bickford’s fuse, which burns under water. A sort of canvas duck punt was to be fitted to exactly hold the case amidships. The after part was to hold one sitter, who could easily steer with a canoe paddle without noise. The Russians had been in the habit of sending three or four thousand men across the entrance end of the harbour. The night fire of war-ships had so inconvenienced this passage of their transport boats, they shifted the line of their passage higher up the harbour. The dark night for our expedition arrived at last. The spot for embarkation was only separated by a spur of land covered by thick scrub and bush, but the darkness of the night enabled our guide to take us to the water. At half-past twelve the punt left the rough slips and was immediately lost to sight, nor was there the slightest sound. At the expiration of three hours nothing had occurred, and there were signs of daybreak. With us was Colonel St. George Foley, attached to General Pellissier’s staff. We were within range of the Russian sentries, and had to creep through scrub and bushes until we were inside the French lines: we soon commenced on our refreshments. I was distressed at having helped to lose poor John Shepherd--as, if caught, he would be shot as a spy. St. George Foley was put out at the loss of his horse, servant, and haversack. My coxswain, who, I think, had been washing his mouth out, was sent in search among an acre of gun carriages, waggons, etc., and returned, announcing to Foley that “The beggar was gone, but had left his painter.” Poor Foley applied for explanation. Painter was a rope spliced in a ring in the bow of a boat, and most likely the horse had slipped his head out of halter and gone home--the servant losing no time in following. In fact, all during the night the white light of shells had been flying over our heads from three different Russian batteries at a French mortar battery. Great was my delight an hour after my arrival in camp to hear of Shepherd’s safe return. The plucky fellow had pulled past and between a number of Russian steamers, and was within 400 yards of the three-deckers, when a whole string of Russian boats pushed off from the western shore to convey troops across.