‘These Frenchmen are crazy!’ Endicott tapped his forehead emphatically. ‘What do they mean, then?’
Molineaux glanced at Killigrew, and whispered in Endicott’s ear. The Liverpudlian’s face cleared. ‘Oh, is that all? For a moment there, I thought you were going to say it meant summat really dirty. So what does a Frenchman say when he wants to kiss a lass?’
Molineaux scratched his head. ‘Dunno. What about you, sir? What do you say to a French lass when you want to kiss her?’
Killigrew smiled bashfully. ‘Well, not that I’ve had much experience with French ladies…’
The two ratings looked at him sceptically.
‘…but I would imagine one simply waits for the right moment, and then kisses without asking. Best to go about it handsomely, though – make your intentions clear, give the other party a chance to indicate that your attentions are unwelcome, if necessary.’
Molineaux saw a man in the uniform of a mate come running up from the direction of Tranvik Point, and pointed him out to Killigrew and Endicott. ‘Here comes Mr Latham, sir.’
A young man with a mop of straw-coloured hair and deeply sunken eyes in a thin face, Francis Latham skidded to a halt in front of Killigrew and snapped to attention, saluting awkwardly. ‘Captain Crichton presents his compliments, sir, and requests the presence of the shore party back on board at your earliest convenience,’ he gasped breathlessly, his normally pale face now red from running.
‘Something amiss, Mr Latham?’
‘It’s the Penelope, sir – she’s run aground on Presto Island, within range of the enemy guns. The Russians are throwing everything they’ve got at her.’
‘Sounds like a case of all hands to quarters.’ Killigrew strode briskly to where the rest of the men lounged about, resting from their labours. ‘Listen up, lads! I know you’re all tired and it’s a lot to ask, but the Penelope’s got on shore under the Russians’ guns, and—’
Hughes and the others leaped to their feet. ‘Where do you want us, sir?’
‘The captain’s sending boats to pick us up at the cove west of Grinkarudden,’ said Latham.
‘Come on, lads!’ said Molineaux. ‘Look lively, while there’s still enough of the Penelope left to rescue!’
With a great cheer, the seamen charged in a mob towards the French battery facing the west fort half a mile away. Almost at once the Russian gunners opened up, sending cannon-balls skipping across the open heath land. But the west fort could only bring a few guns to bear, and their rate of fire was as slow as their aim was poor. Nevertheless, it was a hair-raising sprint, with Latham leading the way and Killigrew bringing up the rear with Molineaux and a few other trusted hands, to make sure that no one was wounded and left behind. At last they had skirted the back of the French battery and entered the trees beyond. The Russian guns started lobbing shells at the pines, but they were firing blind now, and succeeded in doing no more damage than stripping a few branches and slaughtering some wildlife.
When the seamen reached the cove, they found the boats already waiting for them. The petty officers took a head-count of the men in their divisions. Having established that their guardian angels were still working flat out, they climbed into the boats and pulled hard to where the Ramillies was anchored on the other side of the bay. As the men scrambled up the lifelines to the bulwarks, Killigrew ascended the accommodation ladder and pulled himself through the entry port, not forgetting to doff his cap in obeisance to the quarterdeck, where he presented himself to Captain Crichton.
‘Reporting for duty as ordered, sir.’
‘By God, Killigrew, you don’t lag behind when there’s work to be done, do you? Too late this time, though: Hecla, Gladiator and Pygmy have already towed the Penelope clear. Not before time, either: she was taking a fearful pounding. The Russkis must’ve hulled her in a dozen places. The chief had to order them to throw her guns over the side to lighten her. How did it go ashore? Did you get the guns up to General Jones?’
‘Only half of them, sir: it was heavy going. Captain Hewlett respectfully requests that the men who went ashore this morning be allowed to rest, and asks that you send a hundred and eighty fresh men ashore tomorrow to help drag the remaining three guns to the battery.’ Crichton nodded and turned to the yeoman of the signals. ‘Signal Edinburgh, Flags: Captain Hewlett shall have as many men as he requires.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Permission to go ashore with them tomorrow, sir?’ asked Killigrew.
‘Not granted.’ Crichton smiled. ‘You’re not the only officer in the Ramillies, you know. Time to let someone else get a whiff of grapeshot, eh? Masterson can go ashore tomorrow; you’ve earned a rest.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. There is one other thing: the lads who were ashore this morning were called away before they had a chance to eat…’
‘Say no nore. Mr Saunders! Tell Sawyer to prepare a hot meal for the men who were ashore this morning.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Midshipman Saunders saluted and headed for the fore hatch.
‘I’d recommend them for an extra tot of rum at “up spirits”, sir,’ added Killigrew. ‘They’ve earned it.’
Crichton nodded. ‘Make it so, Mr Killigrew. I shall want a full report of your activities ashore by the end of the first dog watch.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Carry on.’
Chapter 2
What Did You Do In The Russian War, Daddy?
Thursday 10–Friday 11 August
Molineaux had a pounding headache by the time he crawled into his hammock that night after piping ‘ship’s company’s fire and lights out’. He closed his eyes and lay very still, hoping that he would fall asleep, and the headache would be gone by the time he awoke, but sleep was elusive. Finally he gave up, creeping below the bodies of the other men snoring in their hammocks, and made his way forward to the sick-berth. The place was quiet at that time of night, with only Mr Charlton there, reading one of his books on homeopathic medicine.
A snub-nosed lad with dark curly hair, Humphrey Charlton was only recently qualified as an apothecary and this was the first time he had served on board one of Her Majesty’s ships. As soon as Charlton had come on board, the news that Crichton had employed a homeopathic practitioner as one of the Ramillies’ two assistant surgeons had spread through the lower deck like the plague, and about as welcome.
‘What’s homeopathic medicine when it’s at home?’ Endicott had asked.
‘Something to do with curing like with like,’ explained Molineaux.
‘Oh, aye? Does that mean that if you get one of your legs blown off by a round shot, Mr Charlton’s going to amputate the other?’
Now Molineaux stood on the threshold of the sick-berth and eyed Charlton dubiously. ‘Er… is Mr Dyson around, sir?’
‘Tucked up in his bunk, at this time, I should imagine,’ said Charlton.
‘What about Mr Yates?’
‘Ditto. Anything I can help you with?’
‘I was just after some Dr James’s powders, sir.’
‘Headache?’
‘Thumping.’
‘You don’t want Dr James’s powders,’ said Charlton. ‘I’ve got just the thing for you.’ He crossed to the dispensary and took out a bottle of an oily, yellow-tinged liquid. Removing the stopper, he dipped a medicine dropper inside. ‘Open wide!’
‘Ahh!’
‘Now, don’t swallow this – let it rest on your tongue until it’s absorbed.’ Charlton let the tiniest trace of the liquid drop on Molineaux’s tongue. It had a sharp yet sweet taste, not entirely unpleasant.
‘Wha’ i’ i’?’ asked Molineaux, taking care not to let his tongue touch the roof of his mouth.
‘A new chemical: a compound of glycerine, oil of vitriol and spirits of nitre. Taken in small doses, it induces violent headaches.’
‘Well, thank you very much, sir!’ Molineaux forgot all about not touching the roof of his mouth with his tongue. ‘When I said I wanted something for a headach
e, I meant I wanted to get rid of one, not get a new one!’
‘It’s a homeopathic cure,’ Charlton explained patiently. ‘If you haven’t got a headache, it will give you one. If you’ve already got one, it should cure it.’
‘Yur, right!’ snorted Molineaux. He snatched up the bottle and glanced at the label: pyroglycerin. ‘Sorry, sir, but with all due respect, you can keep your blooming homeopathic cures! ’ He tossed the bottle to Charlton, who blanched and caught it with an expression of profound relief.
‘Don’t do that!’ screeched the assistant surgeon.
‘Don’t do what?’ asked Molineaux, alarmed by the unwarranted panic in Charlton’s voice.
‘Throw this bottle around like that. This stuff is highly explosive!’
‘What do you mean, sir, highly explosive?’
‘I mean what’s in this bottle is enough to blow this sick-berth apart and reduce the two of us to our constituent atoms.’
‘Go tell it to the marines!’ scoffed the petty officer. ‘You’re spinning a yarn, ain’tcher?’
‘No, Molineaux, I am not.’
‘Lumme! Does the cap’n know you’re storing explosives in the dispensary?’
‘Why? Do you think he’d mind?’
‘I reckon there’s a distinct chance he might have some objection, sir, yes… lumme!’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘You maniac! …sir. You just put some of that stuff in me gob!’ Deciding it was time to make his excuses and leave – before Charlton offered him a gunpowder suppository – Molineaux turned on his heel and returned to his hammock very gingerly.
* * *
The first lieutenant, Masterson, had already gone ashore with two hundred of the Ramillies’ crew first thing the following morning. Killigrew was attending to some paperwork after breakfast when someone knocked at the door to his cabin.
‘Come in!’
The door opened and Molineaux stood there. ‘You sent for me, sir?’
‘Yes, Molineaux. I’ve been meaning to ask you about your boots.’
‘My boots, sir?’
Killigrew nodded. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but… I cannot help but wonder how you can afford a pair of Tricker’s on a petty officer’s wages.’
‘I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you mean.’
‘I dare say. Nevertheless, I’m intrigued to know how you came by the money.’
Molineaux looked uncomfortable. ‘With all due respect, sir, I ain’t sure that’s any of your business.’
‘All I’m asking is that you’ll give me your word of honour that you earned the money honestly.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say I earned the money, exactly… but I didn’t break any laws, if that’s what you mean.’
‘A legacy?’
‘Not exactly, sir. More a sort of… windfall.’
On the upper deck, the ship’s bell tolled twice, and in exactly the same instant a chiming sound came from Molineaux’s pocket. ‘Oops!’ The petty officer pulled out a gold watch and fiddled with the winder. ‘Sorry, sir… forgot to switch off the chimes of me repeater… sir?’
Killigrew was staring at the watch, open-mouthed. ‘That must have been some windfall, Molineaux,’ he stammered at last.
The petty officer grinned. ‘I ain’t complaining. Not enough for me to retire on, you understand. More sort of… pocket money, if you will. Thought I’d treat myself to a few luxuries.’
‘So I see. Molineaux, are you quite sure you didn’t—’
Mr Charlton appeared in the corridor behind Molineaux. ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. Wondered if I might have a word?’
‘Hmph…? Oh, yes, of course. We’ll continue this conversation some other time, Molineaux. Carry on.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The petty officer touched the front of his bonnet and was about to leave when Charlton addressed him. ‘How’s the headache this morning, Molineaux?’
‘Fine; no thanks to you, sir. Pyro-bloody-glycerin indeed!’ Molineaux turned smartly on his heel and made his way forward to the mess deck.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Killigrew.
‘It seems Molineaux doesn’t seem to have much faith in my homeopathic cures, sir,’ explained Charlton, taking the petty officer’s place on the threshold.
‘He’s not the only one,’ grunted Killigrew. ‘Did you want something?’
‘Sick list, sir.’ The assistant surgeon held the said paper down at his side.
The two of them stared at one another.
‘Well, are you going to give it to me?’ Killigrew asked Charlton at last.
‘You’re not going to like it, sir.’
‘If it was a rattling good yarn I was after, Mr Charlton, you may rest assured that I would not opt for the daily sick list.’ Then a horrid thought occurred to him. ‘Christ! Don’t tell me the cholera’s back!’
‘You’d best see for yourself, sir.’ Charlton finally handed him the report.
Killigrew cast an eye over it. The names of Willoughby and Gidley – second and third lieutenants respectively – leaped out at him. ‘Oh, Lor’!’ he groaned when he saw what ailment they were suffering from. He looked up at Charlton. ‘We’ll have to tell the Old Man.’
‘Won’t that be rather embarrassing for Willoughby and Gidley?’
‘I should say it will be extremely embarrassing for Willoughby and Gidley. Pass the word for them to join us in the captain’s day-room. You’d better have Mr Dyson join us too.’
‘Yes, sir.’
While Charlton went off to search for the two lieutenants, Killigrew made his way to the captain’s quarters. ‘Sick list, sir,’ he announced once he had negotiated his way past the marine sentry on duty that morning.
Like Killigrew, Crichton was up to his ears in paperwork as usual. He took the sick list from his commander and initialled it without even glancing at it.
Killigrew coughed into his fist. ‘You might like to take a closer look at this one, sir.’
Crichton looked again. ‘Oh, hell!’ he exclaimed. ‘Pass the word for Willoughby and Gidley.’
‘I already took the liberty of asking them to join us, sir.’
‘Thank you. Take a seat, Killigrew.’ Crichton tidied up his papers and presently they were joined by Charlton, Dyson, Willoughby and Gidley. The captain invited the surgeon and his assistant to be seated, leaving the two lieutenants to stand there on the carpet like a couple of naughty schoolboys who had been caught tippling the chaplain’s brandy.
‘Do you know about this, Dyson?’ asked Crichton.
The surgeon looked bewildered. ‘About what, sir?’
‘Tell him, Killigrew.’
The commander took a deep breath. ‘It would seem our second and third lieutenants have contracted a social disease, Mr Dyson.’
Willoughby and Gidley both blushed and squirmed, as well they might.
‘Don’t beat around the bush, Killigrew,’ snapped Crichton. ‘They’ve both copped a burner.’
Dyson peered at his assistant. ‘Are you certain, Charlton?’
‘All the symptoms are there, sir,’ said the assistant surgeon. ‘Extreme pain in the male member when passing water, purulent mucus discharge—’
‘Thank you, Mr Charlton, we all know what the symptoms of gonorrhoea are,’ Crichton interrupted hurriedly. ‘What’s your prognosis?’
‘Fortunately we’ve discovered the infection in the early stages, sir. With the swift application of a course of mercury treatment, I think we can soon have them back on their feet again.’
‘But I suppose they’ll need to be off duty until then,’ snorted Crichton. ‘Can’t have ’em running off to the necessary every five minutes when they’re officers of the watch, hey? Until then, we’ll move Adare up to second, Lloyd to third, and so on.’ He glowered at the two lieutenants. ‘Damme, I’d’ve expected such carelessness from a couple of the hands, but from you two? I’m very disappointed in you. Have you got anything to say for yourselves?’
&nb
sp; ‘Sorry, sir,’ mumbled Willoughby and Gidley.
Crichton sighed. ‘I ought to punish you, but between your symptoms and the cure, I think that’s punishment enough… though you can be assured I’ll be deducting your pay for every day you’re unfit for duty.’ He turned to Charlton. ‘Does anyone else on board know about this?’
‘Only Barr, sir,’ said the assistant surgeon. Barr was the sick-berth attendant.
‘Then it will be all over the ship within the hour,’ sighed Crichton. ‘No point in cooking up a covering story to hide your shame; not that you deserve it anyhow. Go on, get out of my sight, the pair of you—’
‘One moment, sir,’ said Killigrew. ‘May I ask them a question?’
‘By all means.’
Killigrew turned to the two miscreants. ‘Any notion where you might have picked it up?’
Willoughby and Gidley exchanged glances.
‘Answer the question, damn it!’ snarled Crichton. ‘This is no time to be coy.’
‘There’s a schooner moored in Ångholmsfjörd, sir,’ volunteered Willoughby. ‘Can’t remember its name – something beginning with M, Mil-something. They have… ah… ladies… on board. It’s very high class,’ he added hurriedly. ‘All the officers of the fleet have been using it—’
‘Oh, very high class!’ snorted Crichton. ‘A schooner chock-a-block with poxed cyprians! Mr Dyson, would you make arrangements to have these two idiots transferred to the Belleisle?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Willoughby, Gidley, Dyson and Charlton withdrew from the day-room. Only Killigrew lingered.
Crichton rubbed his face wearily. ‘Damn it! This is all we needed.’
‘We’ll manage somehow, sir,’ Killigrew said confidently.
Crichton looked up at him, as if surprised to discover the commander was still there. ‘Was there anything else, Mr Killigrew?’
‘Just a thought, sir. I don’t doubt Willoughby was exaggerating when he said that all the officers of the fleet have visited this schooner – I haven’t, for one, and I know that isn’t your cup of char, but… even if only a few dozen have been on board, well… it could be a major problem for the fleet.’
Killigrew’s Run Page 5