‘Ready and waiting, sir,’ said the NCO.
Killigrew selected two of the matrosy at random. ‘You and you: open the sea gates.’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘The rest of you board the Khimera. No, not you, Sergeant: I want a word with you first.’
‘Sir?’
As one of the matrosy jumped on to the deck of the Sea Devil and opened the hatch, Killigrew took the NCO to one side and addressed him in a low tone. ‘What is your name?’
‘Zubakoff, sir.’
‘I’ve done salvage work in my time, Sergeant Zubakoff, so I know my way around inside of a diving suit,’ he confided. ‘But I must confess this will be first time I’ve been in one of these contraptions. That means you’re going to have to hold my hand. Can I count on you?’
‘I shan’t let you down, sir,’ the sergeant said gravely.
Killigrew clasped him by the shoulder. ‘Good man.’
The watergates were open now. The last two men stepped on board and descended the hatch, and Killigrew and Zubakoff climbed down after them.
The interior of the Sea Devil was dark and cramped with ten of them in there; one of the men lit the wick in a hurricane lamp. The iron sides reflected no light, and the interior felt dank and cold.
‘You know anything at all about how these things work, sir?’ asked Zubakoff.
‘Herr Bauer briefed me on the principles while I was in St Petersburg, and I’ve studied the plans, but I’m unfamiliar with the controls.’
Zubakoff nodded. ‘The treadmills control the screw propeller,’ he explained, pointing to them. ‘The helm controls the rudder, just like on an ordinary ship; this wheel here handles trim; and these valves control the ballast so we go up or down. Each of us knows our duties, sir. You just tell us what you want the Khimera to do, and we’ll do it. Um… Lieutenant Fedorovich used to stand in the observation cupola to con the ship during trials.’
‘Then I shall do likewise.’ Killigrew made his way to the front of the vessel. A short ladder led to the box at the prow of the ship. He was about to ascend when he noticed another doorway leading forward, with a porthole set on it. ‘What’s through there?’
‘Underwater hatch, sir,’ Zubakoff told him. ‘That’s where Ustimovich will get out to fix the explosives to the Duke of Wellington’s hull. We’ll have to be sitting on the bottom when he does, though: flooding the front compartment plays havoc with the Khimera’s trim.’
Killigrew peered through the porthole. The compartment was unlit, but he could just make out enough room for four men to stand, provided they were thin and not averse to intimacy, but not taking into account the space taken up by the diving suit hanging from one bulkhead and the coiled air-hose running from a valve in the bulkhead to the brass helmet.
He ascended the ladder to stand on the fourth rung, so his head and shoulders were in the observation cupola. Peering through the thick, salt-stained glass, he could see the interior of the boat-shed clearly enough.
He descended once more. ‘Very well, then. Let’s see how well you know the initial diving drill,’ he told the matrosy.
Standing at the helm, Zubakoff grinned. ‘You heard the captain-lieutenant, mouzhiki. Check the inner and outer underwater hatches are sealed, Volkoff.’
One of the matrosy squirmed through the watertight doorway below Killigrew into the chamber forward, and emerged a moment later, screwing the wheel on the inner doorway to seal it. ‘Underwater hatches sealed.’
‘Close the upper hatch, Yukhin.’
Another matros climbed the central ladder and closed the hatch above them. Killigrew knew the clang was the sound of his own tomb being sealed. He was sorry not to have a chance to rescue Stålberg and Lindström, or to avenge Araminta’s death, but push had come to shove and he knew his personal desires had to take second place to his duty; and that was to destroy the Sea Devil and save the lives of the men on board the Duke of Wellington, even at the cost of his own.
Yukhin screwed the hatch shut. ‘Upper hatch sealed.’
‘Commence air purification.’
Yukhin grasped a handle and pumped it. Water began to drip from dozens of tiny holes drilled through the pipes that ran along the ceiling of the contraption.
‘Is that supposed to happen?’ Killigrew asked dubiously.
Zubakoff grinned. ‘Unnerving, isn’t it, sir? Don’t worry, that’s just to purify the air.’
Killigrew glanced down. The water collected in the bilges below the iron grating that formed the deck, from where it was presumably pumped back into the pipes.
‘The water’s too shallow to submerge in the dock, sir. Lieutenant Fedorovich would take us out on the surface, and then submerge in Artillery Bay. We’re ready to go when you are, sir.’
‘Excellent. Take her out, Zubakoff.’
‘Yes, sir! You heard him, mouzhiki: let’s go!’
The men on the treadmills began to step, turning the wheels. Gears groaned eldritchly. Killigrew climbed back up to the observation cupola and peered out. The Sea Devil seemed to be motionless, but as the men on the treadmills gained momentum and the wheels turned faster, the strange contraption began to move forward, out of the gunboat-shed and into Artillery Bay. Killigrew could see some artillerymen working on the opposite embankment. Seeing the Sea Devil emerge, they cheered and threw their caps into the air, although Killigrew could scarcely hear their huzzas.
Even with the men on the treadmills going flat out, the Sea Devil did not move at more than two knots, and that was on the surface where the water resistance was at its lowest. This was going to take for ever. He caught himself, and smiled: was he really in such a hurry to die?
‘Four points to starboard, Zubakoff,’ he called down from the observation cupola.
‘Four points to starboard it is, sir.’ The sergeant spun the wheel, and the Sea Devil turned ponderously.
‘Bring her amidships,’ Killigrew ordered when the Sea Devil was pointed towards the crossroads where the four channels between Vargon and East, West and Little Svarto met.
‘’Midships. We can reach the open sea under the pontoon bridge between Vargon and West Svarto, sir,’ said Zubakoff. ‘There’s enough water, provided we stick to the middle of the channel and don’t go below three fathoms.’
‘Very well. We’ll submerge as soon as we get to the middle of the roads. Steady as she goes.’
Below him, one of the matros burst spontaneously into song, and when Killigrew did not tell him to be quiet the others joined in:
God save the noble Tsar!
Long may he live, in power,
In happiness,
In peace to reign!
Dread of his enemies,
The Faith’s sure defender,
God save the Tsar!
Killigrew mouthed the words of ‘Rule, Britannia!’ Through one of the side portholes in the observation cupola, he could see a dinghy rowed after them by four matrosy, while a man in a lieutenant’s uniform gestured frantically in the stern sheets. Lieutenant Fedorovich, he presumed: back too late to save his command. Fortunately, the nine matrosy working below him could see nothing of the dinghy.
‘Zubakoff?’ he called down.
‘Sir?’
‘Take her down: three fathoms.’
‘Yes, sir. Flood ballast tanks!
As one of the matrosy pumped water into the ballast tanks, the Sea Devil began to submerge. It was eerie to stand in the observation cupola as the water level rose on the other side of the portholes. Killigrew’s heart beat frantically in his chest, until he forced himself to get a grip. This was no different from being in a diving suit. Besides, it was his plan to die, or at least death was likely to be the result of his plan. The water would be shallower here than he had originally intended, but he was not sure he could keep up the imposture much longer. The Russians would be able to salvage the Sea Devil, he had no doubt, but not before the Allied fleet had reduced Sveaborg to rubble. At this depth, he might yet be able to escape this ir
on coffin, but only to be caught by the Russians, and doubtless die a lingering death in the Kochubey Mansion; assuming Nekrasoff bothered to take him all the way back to St Petersburg.
‘Depth: three fathoms,’ reported Zubakoff. ‘Maintain neutral buoyancy!’
‘Hold it there.’ Unseen by the men in the body of the underwater boat, Killigrew took his revolver from his holster and pressed the muzzle to the glass of one of the viewing ports. He took a deep breath: this was the point of no return. When he pulled the trigger, he would be condemning himself and the Sea Devil’s crew to a watery grave; but it would be worth it, to save the lives of the men on board the Duke of Wellington, and all the others who would die – British, French, Turkish and Russian – if the war was prolonged.
He pulled the trigger. The report was deafening in the confined space. As thick as the glass was, it was no match for a ·43" calibre slug travelling at 650 feet per second. The bullet punched a hole clean through, shattering the glass, and the water poured in.
The force of it caught Killigrew off guard, almost knocking him from his perch. He had to drop the revolver and hold on with both hands. Above the roar of the rushing torrent, he could hear the Russians shouting in panic below.
Only Zubakoff kept his head. ‘One of the viewing ports must’ve shattered! Here, use this to try to fother it while we pump out the ballast!’
One of the matrosy appeared below Killigrew, clutching a greatcoat as he looked up at the torrent. It was unlikely that a coat stuffed in the port was going to stem the flood, but Killigrew was determined to make sure the Sea Devil went down and stayed down. As the matros tried to climb up beside him, Killigrew kicked him in the face, and the man fell down with blood streaming from a smashed nose.
Another matros tried to grab Killigrew by the ankle. The commander aimed a kick at him, but the man managed to avoid it and hooked a hand over his belt, trying to drag him down. Killigrew’s foot slipped on the wet rung and he fell. The two of them crashed to the deck, and the commander knocked the man out with a right cross.
The water level rose in the bilges beneath the grating that formed the deck. As it rose above the grating, Killigrew saw his revolver lying there, but Yukhin caught him from behind and held him in an arm lock before he could grab it.
‘We’re losing neutral buoyancy!’ shouted someone. ‘We’re sinking!’
‘Someone fother that port, for Christ’s sake!’
Yukhin spun Killigrew around to face another matros, who punched him in the stomach. Judging from the force of the blow, the matros had overcome a lifetime of subservience to fulfil a lifelong dream: striking a superior officer. Killigrew kicked him in the crotch, and when the man doubled up he kneed him in the face, before bracing a foot against the side of one of the treadmills, launching himself backwards across the vessel so that Yukhin was slammed against the bulkhead. Killigrew felt the arms that gripped him loosen, and the sailor slipped down to the deck.
Zubakoff left the helm and charged towards Killigrew. The commander fumbled in the rising water for his revolver and grabbed it in time to bring the sergeant up short.
‘The powder will be wet!’ Zubakoff said uncertainly.
‘Pinfire revolver,’ Killigrew told him.
‘Depth, four fathoms and sinking,’ moaned the matros watching the bathometer.
Killigrew caught sight of a movement out of the corner of his eye as one of the other matrosy suddenly appeared from behind one of the treadmills. He spun round and pulled the trigger, but not before the matros got his hands on his wrist and forced the gun aside. The noise of the shot was deafening in the confined space, but not as bad as the whine of the bullet as it ricocheted off a dozen metallic surfaces, each ear-shattering clang merging with the echoes of the last.
And then the bullet hit Killigrew squarely in the forehead.
* * *
On board the Duke of Wellington, Captain Caldwell approached the marine on duty outside the door to the great cabin at twenty-five past ten. The marine saluted and knocked on the door for him.
‘Who is it?’ Rear Admiral Dundas called from within.
‘Captain Caldwell to see you, sir.’
‘Show him in.’
The marine opened the door and ushered Caldwell inside. The captain found Dundas sitting at the table with Commodore Pelham. The two of them were playing ‘Old Maid’ by the light of the oil-lamp hanging from the deck head.
Caldwell saluted. ‘You asked me to remind you when it was coming up to half-past ten, sir.’
‘So I did.’ Dundas stared thoughtfully at the cards in his hand for several moments.
‘Something wrong, sir?’ Pelham prompted him.
Dundas shook his head. ‘It’s just I can’t help thinking… it isn’t too late to call off the attack…’
Pelham looked horror-stricken. ‘You can’t, sir! Everything’s in place; everyone’s just waiting for the word.’
‘Yes, but I can’t help thinking… what if something goes wrong? What if the place is more heavily defended than we realised?’
‘The gunboats will be able to pull out quickly enough if that’s that case. Please, sir, think of how the public will react back in Britain.’
‘Public opinion, yes…’ Dundas seemed to drift off into a reverie.
Caldwell still stood waiting on the threshold. ‘Your orders, sir?’ Dundas took one of the cards from Pelham’s hand: the ace of spades. That matched his ace of hearts, so he took them and laid them both aside. ‘Send a general signal through the fleet: “Have steam up by three a.m.”’
Pelham looked relieved.
Caldwell saluted. ‘Aye, aye, sir!’
* * *
A young michmani in undress uniform weaved through the crowd of gaily dressed men and women in the citadel until he found Admiral Zhirinovsky, who still stood talking with Nekrasoff and Aurélie. He stood to attention and saluted.
‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but lookouts report steam rising from the funnels of the enemy steamers.’
‘Keep your voice down!’ Snarling, Zhirinovsky glanced nervously at the other guests nearby, but they were all too engrossed in their own conversations to have heard what the michmani had said. He pasted a phoney smile on his face in case anyone was watching. ‘Do you want to spread fear and despondency? I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about.’
The michmani flushed. ‘Sorry, sir. Your orders?’
‘My orders? Carry on, michmani. Those are my orders. Most likely the enemy are planning to steam away from here at dawn, just as they steamed away from Kronstadt and Reval!’
‘Yes, sir!’ The michmani saluted again and turned on his heel, marching away.
‘Do you really believe that?’ Nekrasoff asked quietly. ‘The intelligence reports of my own department suggest Dundas will attack. Like all British admirals – like the British government – he is a slave to the beast with many heads. Napier was dismissed because he did not attack; Dundas knows from that example he has no choice.’
Zhirinovsky snorted. ‘Our intelligence reports suggest that neither Dundas nor Seymour has the courage to risk any of their ships in an attack against granite batteries.’
‘And what about Pénaud? Suppose he puts some backbone into them?’
‘Then let them attack. Their shell guns and steam engines will be powerless against our defences!’
‘Shouldn’t we warn his Imperial Highness that an attack may be imminent?’ said Nekrasoff.
‘Do you want to be one to tell him we fear a British attack?’ demanded Zhirinovsky. When Nekrasoff said nothing, he smiled triumphantly. ‘Well, neither do I. Besides, I want him to be here to see with his own eyes when my Khimera sinks the Duke of Wellington.’
‘When will it set out? If you’re right about the Allies steaming away at dawn without firing a shot, isn’t there a danger we’ll miss our chance?’
Zhirinovsky smirked. ‘The Khimera is already on its way to the Allied fleet. I gave Lieutenant Fedorovich orders to set out at half
-past ten.’ He took out his fob watch and glanced at it. ‘By my calculations, it should be in position to attach explosives to the Duke of Wellington’s hull by one o’clock this morning. Even if the Allies are planning to attack at dawn, I think they’ll soon change their minds when they see their flagship mysteriously blown out of the water!’
Nekrasoff shot a glance at Aurélie. ‘Should we be discussing this in front of Madame Ögren?’
Zhirinovsky waved dismissively. ‘Oh, it’s all right. She doesn’t speak a word of Russian. Do you, my little Finnish trollop?’ he added to Aurélie, still speaking Russian.
She looked at him blankly. ‘Pardon?’
‘You see? The silly bitch doesn’t understand a word.’
A man in a black leather greatcoat and fur hat came through the crowd and stood to one side, trying to catch Nekrasoff’s eye. ‘Excuse me one moment,’ Nekrasoff told Zhirinovsky and Aurélie, crossing to speak to the man. ‘Yes?’
The man leaned forward to whisper in the colonel’s ear. At first Nekrasoff looked horrified at what he was hearing, but as the man continued to whisper a smile spread across the colonel’s face.
‘Splendid, splendid! That’s the best news I’ve had all year!’ He crossed back to where Zhirinovsky and Aurélie stood. ‘Madame Ögren, I fear I must take my leave of you for now. A matter demanding my immediate attention has been brought to my notice. If you’ll excuse me?’ He clicked his heels and bowed low to kiss her hand. Straightening once more, he turned to salute Zhirinovsky. ‘Your Highness… you said the Khimera set out at half-past ten?’
‘Those were my orders.’
Nekrasoff’s grin became fractionally wider, if such a thing were possible. ‘I’m sure your orders are always obeyed, Highness.’ He saluted and clicked his heels again, marching towards the gate after the man in the greatcoat.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Aurélie.
‘I don’t know…’ Zhirinovsky frowned. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d say that devil Nekrasoff is up to something,’ he muttered to himself in Russian. ‘Maybe I should check the Khimera did go out on time…’
Killigrew and the Sea Devil Page 42