Gasping for breath and feeling shaky, Killigrew turned to Molineaux, who was wiping the blade of his cutlass clean with a rag. ‘Much obliged, Molineaux.’
‘My pleasure, sir.’
‘Where’s Gilchrist? Find him and tell him to send up a blue light, before the Ramillies opens up with a broadside.’
Molineaux nodded and hurried back downstairs. The three men who had gone on to the roof to deal with the sharpshooters up there returned, two of them supporting the third, who nursed a bullet hole in his upper arm.
‘Is it bad, Rawlins?’
‘I’ve had worse, sir,’ the seaman replied cheerfully. ‘Right glad of it, I am too. Didn’t want to go back to England without a souvenir. I’d never’ve been able to show me face in the Ramage Arms without summat to prove I weren’t shirking.’
‘That’s the spirit, Rawlins. Take him out into the fresh air, Stoddard. Patch him up as best you can and take him back to the pinnace.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
As Killigrew made his way back downstairs, he heard a whooshing sound outside, and had reached for the hilt of his cutlass before he realised it was only the noise of Gilchrist’s signal rocket. Forcing himself to relax, he emerged into the ground floor where the coxswain greeted him with a salute.
‘I’m afraid Wilcox is dead, sir. One of the Ivans managed to squeeze a shot off before Patchett could pay him off. And Kearney’s in a bad way.’ He indicated an able seaman who lay on the floor amongst the corpses of Russians with two of his shipmates crouching over him, offering him what comfort they could. His stomach had been slashed wide open by a bayonet and his entrails were spilling out.
‘Take him outside into the fresh air and rig up a litter so we can take him back to the Ramillies.’ Killigrew would have preferred to summon Mr Dyson ashore, but from the way the Russian shots had been slamming into the hull before they had attacked the fort, he suspected the surgeon and his two assistants would have their hands full in the sick berth. ‘Same goes for any other wounded. Including the prisoners.’
‘The rest of our wounded are still standing, sir,’ reported the coxswain. ‘Which is more than I can say for the Russian wounded: about six of ’em.’
Killigrew stooped to retrieve the revolver he had dropped earlier. ‘Any other prisoners?’
The coxswain grinned. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but you didn’t say anything about taking prisoners.’
‘Did we win, sir?’ asked Kearney, his eyes shining brightly, in spite of the pain he was in: pain that was evident from the sheen of sweat on his ashen face. Despite Mr Dyson’s skill, Killigrew doubted the young seaman would last the night.
‘Yes.’ Killigrew’s voice was raw. ‘We won.’
Kearney managed a wan smile as he was carried out. Following him out, Killigrew felt sick. He supposed he himself would get a mention in dispatches for the brief action, perhaps even a mention in The Times’ ‘Naval Intelligence’ column. Wilcox and Kearney would get mentions too, perhaps, but only in the casualty list. It was a poor reward for men who had given their lives for their country… not even their country, Killigrew corrected himself bitterly, but for Turkey and the Eastern Question, a question they did not even understand. He was not sure he understood it himself. He remembered joking about it in the wardroom on the voyage from Portsmouth: anyone who knows the answer to the Eastern Question doesn’t understand the question. It did not seem so amusing now.
Molineaux must have seen the grim look on his face. ‘Pretty light butcher’s bill, sir, considering.’
‘One man dead,’ Killigrew snapped back. ‘And Kearney like to follow him. That’s two men too many.’
‘And how many if we’d done it Neville’s way?’ Molineaux shouldered his musket. ‘This is war, sir. Coves get scragged. There ain’t a man in the Ramillies who ain’t a volunteer. Wilcox and Kearney knew the risks. Better that British soldiers and seamen die fighting for their country than innocent women and children get slaughtered by the Russians in Bulgaria.’
‘It was the Turks who perpetrated the Bulgarian massacres, Molineaux, not the Russians.’
‘Same difference.’
‘It doesn’t trouble you that we’re fighting to defend the Ottoman Empire?’
Molineaux laughed harshly. ‘Don’t kid yourself, sir. It’s British trade we’re fighting to defend, never mind the poor bloody Bulgars. You think the government’d give a damn what the Turks or the Russians did to the Bulgars, if the Tsar didn’t have his beady eye on India?’
Killigrew nodded. As usual, Molineaux was able to see beyond the self-righteous stuff and nonsense in the newspapers to cut to the heart of the matter.
‘Russia, Turkey… not much to choose between them, s’far as I can tell,’ the petty officer continued. ‘You can worry about the rights and wrongs of it if you like. Me, I’m going to concentrate on staying alive.’
The breeze had cleared the smoke by now, and Killigrew was able to see that while the Russian guns had punched a few holes in her sides above the waterline, there was no sign that the red-hot shot had set the Ramillies’ timbers alight. That was something to be grateful for, at least.
He saw Neville approaching at the head of his squad of marines. ‘Damned good show, sir!’
‘One dead and seven wounded, one seriously,’ Killigrew told him. ‘How are your men?’
‘Not a scratch on ’em, sir.’ Neville at least had the decency to sound apologetic. ‘Just like you, to keep my lads standing in the wings while your bluejackets steal all the glory.’
‘Well, I’m sure my bluejackets will damn me to hell for it tonight.’ Killigrew took out a cheroot, plugged it in the corner of his mouth, and reached for his matches before catching himself with a grimace. He turned back to Neville. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a light on you, by any chance?’
Chapter 1
War Tourists
Thursday 10 August
It was the usual damned shambles, Killigrew thought sourly.
The French took their soldiering seriously: that much had been obvious from the speed with which they had set up their camp within hours of landing, and the methodical manner in which they had established their mortar batteries within range of the Russian forts.
But with the English – and at times like this he preferred to think of himself as Cornish, which was something else entirely – it was altogether another matter. Here, as in all things, the culture of the gifted amateur pervaded, although in what way these particular amateurs were gifted remained a mystery, unless not being overburdened with brains might be considered a gift.
The Åland Islands had no shortage of beasts of burden, and the French had commandeered plenty. It simply had not occurred to the officer commanding the landing party from the British fleet – Captain Hewlett of HMS Edinburgh, Rear Admiral Chad’s flagship – to commandeer any horses of their own, a happenstance that gave rise to a good deal of muttering amongst the British seamen who hauled at the drag ropes.
What they were hauling was one of three thirty-two-pounder long guns that had been brought ashore at Tranvik Point from HMS Belleisle. Now the guns – along with a good supply of shot, shell and cartridge – had to be dragged the four and a half miles to where the Royal Engineers were setting up a breaching battery. Weighing two tons, each gun rested on a stout wooden sledge, and needed 150 men to drag it on rollers over the dusty, uneven ground to where the sappers were building a rampart of sandbags and earth-filled wicker gabions. A band from one of the ships in the bay behind them led the way, playing martial airs like ‘Heart of Oak’ and ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’ to encourage their efforts.
Dragging the guns was backbreaking work. Leaving the other officers present to rush about bawling unnecessary orders, Killigrew had stripped off his pea jacket to haul at the ropes alongside his men, while half a dozen petty officers – including Molineaux – were appointed to each sledge to steady it with handspikes as it rolled, pitched and slewed about the dusty track. Others picked up
the rollers as they emerged behind the sledge, replacing them at the front. Beyond the forest of pine trees that lined the rocky shore, the rollers sank into the soft earth of ploughed fields, and the sweating, puffing seamen turned the air as blue as their jackets with their salty language.
‘Bloody hot work, eh?’ said ‘Red’ Hughes, a Welshman whose sallow face was pitted by smallpox.
‘Aye,’ agreed Seth Endicott, a tall, lanky man with greasy fair hair and thick Scouse accent. ‘Eh, it’s just as well we didn’t have to drag sledges as heavy as this’n in the Arctic.’
‘I can keep going for ever,’ said Hughes, and added: ‘On Trubshaw’s Cordial!’ As always, it provoked a burst of hilarity from the men pulling on the drag ropes; all except Molineaux, who scowled. Some kind of in-joke at Molineaux’s expense, as far as Killigrew could tell.
‘All right, my buckoes,’ he gasped. ‘That’s enough gabbing – a little less yack and a little more back, if you catch my drift.’
The men strained at the ropes, faces red with exertion, bare feet slipping and sliding in the dust. The fleet had been issued with boots for the men to wear ashore, but the Naval Commissariat Department – staffed by more ‘gifted’ amateurs, Killigrew did not doubt – had seen fit to supply boots that were all two sizes smaller than the average seaman’s foot.
Glancing at the seamen’s feet now, Killigrew could not help noticing that Molineaux wore a particularly fine pair of boots. ‘Those didn’t come from the commissariat,’ he observed. ‘You bought those yourself?’
‘Yur, well, you know how uncomfortable the navy-issue ones are. Even when they’re the right size.’
‘Where did you get them?’
‘Some cove called Tricker.’
‘Tricker…’ Killigrew almost lost his grip on the drag rope. ‘Not… Tricker’s of St James’s?’
‘That’s the place.’
‘But… that’s where I get mine!’ And a pretty penny they cost him too. He wondered how Molineaux could afford them on a petty officer’s pay; given the Londoner’s curriculum vitae, Killigrew could be forgiven for wondering if he had acquired them by entirely honest means. But now was not the time to ask him, not with his shipmates listening.
The last half a mile was the worst. The guns had to be hauled up a boulder-strewn slope to the eminence where the sappers had located their battery. Now the guns were in view of one of the Russian forts the enemy gunners began to send the occasional cannon-ball skipping towards them.
Seeing the tars struggling to haul the guns inch by inch up the slope, some French soldiers camped nearby left off what they were doing to take their places at the drag ropes alongside the British allies. This prompted huzzahs and heartfelt cries of ‘Vive la belle France!’ from those seamen who had breath left in their aching lungs.
By now the Russian gunners were dropping shells close enough to shower the men with dust and soil, but their guardian angels earned their wings that day: there were no fatalities, and thanks to the assistance of the French soldiers the three guns were all in position by one o’clock in the afternoon.
A young officer of the Royal Engineers saluted Killigrew. ‘Lieutenant Lennox,’ he introduced himself. ‘Aide-de-camp to General Jones.’
‘Commander Killigrew, HMS Ramillies. Anywhere my men can get a bite to eat?’
Lennox smiled. ‘It’s all been arranged: our cooks are preparing something for them now. What about you? You’re welcome to be a guest in our mess.’
‘That’s very kind of you.’
Lennox stepped up on to the rampart, took the telescope from under his arm and levelled it towards the Russian positions, studying them for a moment.
‘What do you think?’ Killigrew asked him.
‘Well, it would have been a formidable position if the Russians had finished the defences. But given that they began work on these forts about forty-five years ago and they’re still not finished, I’d say a reasonable date for the projected completion would be some time in the early twentieth century.’
‘Looks like we got here just in time, then.’
Lennox lowered the telescope. ‘I should say we’ll have this nut cracked in about a week.’
‘A week!’
‘Too long, you think?’
‘Surprisingly short. But siege warfare never was my forte.’
Lennox proffered the telescope so Killigrew could see for himself. The main fortress of Bomarsund stood on the coast, facing across the narrow channel that separated Prästö Island from Bomar. Semi-circular in shape, it presented a casemented battery five hundred yards long towards Lumpar Bay. It had embrasures for 120 guns in two tiers, although Killigrew had only counted five dozen muzzles. The fortress was built of brick faced with hexagonally cut blocks of the local pink granite, the embrasures and the arches of doorways framed with whiter stone. The iron roof was covered with several feet of sand as protection against mortar shells.
Four round forts – identical to the one Killigrew and his men had taken six days earlier – were arranged around the flanks of this fortress to provide covering fire in the event of an attack from the sea. Each stood about half a mile from the main fortress. The British had designated them the north, west, south and east forts according to where they lay in relation to it, although strictly speaking the south fort lay to the south-west. Earthworks ran from this fort to the main fortress, and it was clear that if the war had not intervened then more fortifications would have been built linking the south, west and north forts; the east one stood on Prästö Island, across the channel from the main fort. Incomplete as the fortifications were, they nonetheless presented a formidable appearance to Killigrew’s eyes as he surveyed them now from the landward side.
Lennox indicated the west and south forts. Both stood on knolls that dominated the whole vicinity. ‘We’ll have to take both those forts before we can launch an assault against the main fortress.’
‘I found lobbing a few grenades through the embrasures works wonders,’ said Killigrew.
Lennox smiled thinly. ‘Ah, yes, heard about your little adventure at the Ango Fort the other day. That’s doing it the hard way. It’s a miracle your casualties were so light.’
A lesser man might have taken umbrage at the implied slight, but Killigrew only smiled and raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh? And how would you have done it?’
‘Artillery barrage, of course. Pound away with shells, and keep pounding away until it collapses. No need to risk the lives of your men in hand-to-hand combat.’
‘It was the lives of the men on board the Ramillies that concerned me.’
‘Yes, well, the Ramillies should never have found herself in that position. Not that it was your fault,’ Lennox added hurriedly. ‘But troops should have landed to occupy that fort, prevent the Russians from sneaking back inside when our backs were turned.’
‘I couldn’t agree more!’
‘But it only goes to prove what I’ve been saying for years. No disrespect, but the age of battleships is over. Look at what happened to the Turks at Sinope: one shell in the magazine, and the whole ship goes up. Swinging on board enemy ships to capture them will soon be all in the past. That thing has had its day.’ Lennox indicated the sword at Killigrew’s hip.
‘You mean, who needs a cutlass, when you can blow your foe apart at a thousand yards?’
‘Precisely! Modern armaments are much more efficient.’
‘Efficient! I’d never looked at it in quite that way. I’d always thought that one sought to gain a military advantage by gaining a tactical or strategic advantage: getting the weather gage of the enemy; or dominating the high ground, as you landlubbers would say. You make it sound as if it was our job to kill as many of the enemy as possible.’
‘That’s the way the world is going.’
‘Rather a dangerous approach, wouldn’t you say? Given that we’re at war with one of the most populous countries in the world; and one that’s ruled by men who don’t care how many of their soldiers they send to
their deaths.’ Killigrew shook his head. ‘Not sure I approve of all this long-distance pounding. Call me an old-fashioned romantic if you will, but I can’t help feeling that if gentlemen must kill each other without the courtesy of being formally introduced first, they should at least have the courage and decency to do it face to face: to look into the eyes of their opponent even as they snuff their lives out with the thrust of a bayonet or the stroke of a cutlass. Trying to kill men who are little more than stick figures in the distance, or barely glimpsed shadows behind far-off embrasures… one doesn’t feel one’s trying to kill another human being at all.’
‘Much easier that way, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Oh, it’s easier, all right: too easy. Too easy to forget that those distant figures are men of flesh and bone, like you and me, with mothers, wives, sweethearts, ambitions and dreams. How many dreams are shattered with each burst of a shell? Slaughter without guilt.’ Killigrew shook his head. ‘If this is to be the way of the wars of the future, then no good will come of it.’
He turned his attention to the south-east, where Lumpar Bay shimmered beneath the sun. He could see two screw frigates, a sailing frigate, a steam corvette and a first-class paddle-sloop positioned to support the French landing at Tranvik Point, where two paddle-steamers towed barges packed with soldiers across from the four troopships. In addition, more ships were arrayed in two lines across the bay, out of range of the Russian batteries: four screw ships of the line, including the Ramillies and Admiral Pénaud’s flagship, the Inflexible; five French sailing ships of the line; ten more paddle-steamers; two hospital ships; the Imperial yacht la Reine Hortense, which had brought General Baraguay d’Hilliers and his entourage out from France; and a cutter. Not to mention the Åland Islanders’ own bum-boats; several British merchant schooners owned by enterprising captains selling alcohol and other forbidden pleasures to the fleet; and four pleasure yachts.
Killigrew’s Run Page 3