‘You’re right, of course. I suppose I’ll have to write a letter to all the captains of the fleet, warning them and their crews off this damned floating bordello. Perhaps you’d pass the word for Mr Latimer on your way out?’
‘Certainly, sir. But by the time your letter gets around the fleet, it could be too late for some poor, innocent fools.’
‘Yes, of course. Can we impound this vessel, put them under arrest?’
‘I don’t think that’s legal, sir.’
‘Oh, damn and blast! Still, we could send a boarding party over to her to clear off any naval people, and see if we can drive her away from the fleet. Check their papers, search them for contraband, generally make life difficult for the crew, that sort of thing. Make it clear they’re not welcome, perhaps find enough evidence to arrest them on some trumped-up charge. Take the first cutter and a score of men.’
‘Me, sir?’
‘Who else? You’re good at that sort of thing; and don’t stand there pretending you don’t know what the inside of an accommodation house looks like.’
Killigrew was tempted to ask what Crichton meant when he said he was ‘good at that sort of thing’ – as if he had made a career out of boarding floating brothels – but he could not in all conscience argue with the captain’s second accusation. ‘I’d’ve thought it would be a job for one of the lieutenants, sir.’
‘Masterson’s ashore with the guns; can’t send Willoughby or Gidley, obviously; wouldn’t trust Lloyd to tie his own bootlaces; and Adare probably thinks gonorrhoea is one of King Lear’s daughters. No, Killigrew: I appreciate it may seem a little infra dig., but it’s got to be you.’
The commander sighed. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
* * *
A thick fog was rolling down Ångholmsfjörd by the time the cutter approached the sound where half a dozen merchant ships and bum-boats rode at anchor. Killigrew ordered the crew to lie on their oars, and took his miniature telescope from his pocket to survey the scene. The sun had set, but there was still a pale glow in the sky to illuminate the masts that rose above the level of the fog, and he could easily make out the ships’ lights shining through the gathering dusk.
It was a good place for the floating grog shops to do business: naval officers were passing up and down the channel constantly, moving between the squadron engaged in Lumpar Bay and the rest of the fleet waiting at Ledsund. If some of those officers’ boats took a little longer to make the journey than necessary because they had stopped here to replenish their personal stocks of alcohol, or to enjoy the embraces of a young lady of easy virtue, their superior officers would be none the wiser.
Killigrew snapped the miniature telescope shut and returned it to the pocket of his pea jacket. ‘All right, lads, now listen carefully. One of those vessels is the one we’re after.’
‘Is it a Russian spy ship, sir?’ asked the coxswain.
Killigrew shook his head. ‘It’s a floating cunny warren…’
The men cheered.
‘Don’t get your hopes up. We’re here for business rather than pleasure. And in case any of you were thinking of boarding the whores, I should warn you that at least two of ’em are fireships, and I’m informed that certain officers from the fleet have already burned their pokers…’
‘Willoughby and Gidley,’ murmured someone, and the others nodded.
Killigrew grimaced. ‘Yes, well, we don’t want it happening to anyone else, so our job is to make life very uncomfortable for the crew of the ship we’re looking for. We’ll board her as if she was a slaver: be rough, but not too rough. Corporal, make sure your men’s muskets are unloaded. Bruises by all means, but not cuts, hoist in?’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘We’ll go on board hard and fast. Search the ship from stem to stern, get everyone up on deck: crew, bluejackets, tarts, everyone.’
‘What if one of ’em’s an officer, sir?’ asked Molineaux.
‘I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of the penalty for striking an officer, Molineaux; but if they’re lieutenants or below, don’t let them pull rank on you. If they don’t like it, just refer them to me. If they’re captains or above, you’d best use your discretion.’
‘And if we find a commander?’
Killigrew smiled. ‘Find out if he’s got seniority on me before you do anything else.’
The men laughed.
‘All right, lads, give way together.’
The crew dipped their oars once more and the cutter moved across towards the fleet of bum-boats and floating grog shops.
‘Bloody hell!’ muttered Powell. ‘I joined the navy to get a crack at the Russkis; didn’t think I’d end up boarding a floating brothel.’
‘Dunno what you’re complaining about, Hal,’ Joyner retorted. ‘At least you ain’t married. ’Ow am I going to explain this one to my missus?’
‘This’ll be a story to tell our grandchildren,’ said Molineaux. ‘How we boarded a cunny warren in the great war with Russia.’
Hughes began to sing: ‘Farewell and adieu to you fair trading ladies; farewell and adieu to you ladies of trade. For we’ve received orders for to—’
‘All right, keep silence in the boat there!’ Killigrew did not mind a little banter amongst the hands when things were not too serious, but they were drawing close to the ships now, and the hull of the first loomed out of the fog at them. ‘I know we’d all rather be boarding a Russian warship, but don’t go thinking this isn’t a very serious matter.’
They rowed in and out between the ships riding at anchor while Killigrew tried to match one of them to the description Willoughby had given him: a fore-and-aft rigger schooner of about 170 tons, a hundred feet from stem to stern and twenty-three feet broad. It was difficult to gauge the dimensions of any of these ships in the fog, and he hoped in vain that a whore leaning at the rail of one might invite him on board for a good time, thus giving the game away.
He was starting to think he was on a wild-goose chase when the cutter rounded the stern of one of the grog shops and he saw a handsome yacht beyond. The curtains behind the gallery windows were drawn, but he could see a slit of light shining between them, and hear laughter and the chink of cutlery on china. The name carved on the scrollwork below the window was illegible in the gloom until he shone the light of a bull’s-eye on it: Milenion.
‘That’s the one,’ he murmured to his men. ‘Make for the accommodation ladder, Cox’n.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The coxswain put the tiller over, bringing the cutter in towards the yacht’s side. Standing at the bulwark smoking a pipe, a crewman watched them approach with idle curiosity. Killigrew ignored him, jumping for the accommodation ladder as soon as it was within reach and climbing up to the entry port.
The crewman tried to block his path. ‘’Ere, you can’t just barge on board like this! This here’s a private yacht.’
‘I’ll do as I please, my bucko!’ Killigrew drew his revolver from its holster and waved the muzzle in the crewman’s face: it was unloaded, but with any luck the man would not notice in the half-light.
Apart from the coxswain, who remained in the cutter and made her fast to the accommodation ladder, the rest of the men swarmed up on the schooner’s deck, fanning out to cover the other crewmen with their muskets. Glancing about, Killigrew saw that the schooner was well kept, the deck holystoned as white as that of a man o’ war.
‘What the devil’s going on?’ A smartly dressed man in a peaked cap came up through the after hatch. He was in his mid-fifties, a hard-faced man with a neatly trimmed beard emphasising the point of his jaw. ‘Who are you?’
‘Commander Killigrew, HMS Ramillies. Are you the owner of this vessel?’
‘I’m Captain Thornton, the master. The owner is—’
‘Where can I find him?’
Thornton regarded him stonily.
Killigrew thumbed back the hammer of his revolver.
Thornton sighed. ‘You’ll find him dining in the saloon, aft.’
&n
bsp; ‘Thank you. Corporal Harding, you and your men remain on deck and keep these fellows covered. Molineaux, make your way down the fore hatch and work your way aft, flushing out everyone below decks. I don’t care if they have to tumble up with their trousers round their ankles.’
Molineaux grinned. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Powell, Joyner… you two come with me.’
Accompanied by the two able seamen, Killigrew descended the after hatch. Below decks was illuminated by oil lamps set in gimbals on the bulkheads. Willoughby had not been exaggerating when he had described this as a high-class establishment: teak panelling, brass handrails brightly polished, even a thick carpet underfoot. The owner of the vessel must have been raking it in, to make a voyage in a ship of this quality pay its way. Even the crewmen on deck had been wearing a uniform of sorts.
They passed a number of cabin doors. ‘Shouldn’t we search ’em, sir?’ asked Powell.
Killigrew shook his head. ‘Leave them to Molineaux and the others; I’m after the pimp who runs this barge.’ Besides, he could hear no sounds emanating from any of the cabins, none of the giggles, moans of passion, creaking bed springs or whip cracks he might have expected from a vessel like this. Presumably it was a quiet night. It was just as well: he was terrified of kicking in one of the doors and catching a rear admiral in flagrante delicto on the other side.
He could hear a murmur of voices coming from the door at the far end of the passage, presumably leading into the saloon. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Powell and Joyner were still with him. ‘Ready?’ he murmured. They both nodded.
Killigrew kicked open the door and strode through into the saloon. The compartment was luxuriously appointed, even compared to the Ramillies’ wardroom: plush velvet drapes, mahogany furniture, and what looked suspiciously like a Persian mg on the floor. The younger of two women screamed, and the white-coated steward who had been serving supper to the two couples at the table dropped a serving dish in fright.
Killigrew levelled his revolver at the man sitting at the head of the table. ‘All right, which one of you whoremongers is the owner of this floating bordello?’
The man’s jaw dropped. He was sixty or thereabouts, dressed in black cassimere pantaloons and an alpaca swallowtail coat, a gold watch chain hanging across the front of his white satin waistcoat beneath a muslin cravat. His ruddy face was dominated by a Roman nose and a splendid set of white whiskers.
Killigrew’s jaw dropped too.
‘You!’ exclaimed the thirteenth Viscount Bullivant.
‘My lord!’ stammered Killigrew.
He did not recognise the younger but equally well-dressed man seated at Bullivant’s right – thirtyish, pink-faced, with ginger hair and extravagant side-whiskers – but the older of the two women was familiar enough: in her late forties or early fifties, elegantly dressed but well past her prime, with a lantern jaw and iron-grey hair pinned up in a bun: Lady Bullivant.
The younger woman, sitting with her back to him, twisted in her chair. Seeing him, she blanched. ‘Kit!’
‘Killigrew!’ spat Lord Bullivant, rising to his feet and throwing his napkin down on the table as if in challenge. ‘What the devil’s the meaning of this intrusion, sir?’
The commander hurriedly returned his revolver to its holster. ‘I can explain everything, my lord. You see, I thought this ship was a floating brothel…’
Bullivant turned puce.
The younger woman rose to her feet and turned to face him with slow deliberation.
Killigrew grinned sheepishly. ‘Hullo, Minty. Long time, no see.’
The Honourable Araminta Maltravers dashed the contents of her wine glass in his face.
He licked his lips. ‘Mm! The ’forty-six. An excellent year—’ He broke off and ducked hurriedly as she threw the glass at his head. It shattered against the bulkhead behind him. ‘Perhaps I’d better take my leave?’
‘I’ll say you had!’ snarled Bullivant. ‘By God! If you ever come near me or any members of my family ever again, I’ll have you horsewhipped to within an inch of your life! Damn your eyes, Sir James Graham will hear of this!’
Sir James Graham was the First Lord of the Admiralty: a Whig, but a Whig in the Tory Lord Aberdeen’s coalition government, and Killigrew knew for a fact that Bullivant and Aberdeen were on the best of terms. If it had been his intention to end his career prematurely, he could not have done it more spectacularly if he had mooned the Queen.
‘My most sincere apologies. Naturally, I’ll pay for any damages,’ Killigrew added lamely.
‘Oh, you’ll pay, right enough!’ Bullivant roared apoplectically. ‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Killigrew! By God, I’ll see to it you’re kicked out of the navy for this! Now get out!’
‘My lord.’ Killigrew bowed out of the saloon, closing the door behind him, while Powell and Joyner snickered.
In the passage, he heard a woman squeal in protest, and saw Molineaux emerge from one of the cabins with a petite, dark-haired, elfin-faced young woman firmly gripped in a half-nelson. ‘Let go of me, you black-faced heathen brute!’ she protested.
‘Look at this one, sir!’ the petty officer grinned. ‘Dressed as a dollymop. Kinky, eh?’
‘Let her go, Molineaux.’
‘Sir?’
‘She really is a maid. This yacht belongs to Lord Bullivant.’
‘You mean, his lordship’s running this floating brothel?’
‘No, Molineaux. We’ve got the wrong ship.’
The petty officer hurriedly released the maid. ‘Sorry, miss…’
She whirled and drew back a hand to slap him. He raised his arms to protect his face, so she punched him in the groin. He doubled up with a gasp, and she turned and disappeared back inside the cabin, slamming the door behind her and sliding the bolt.
As Molineaux followed Killigrew up the companion ladder clutching himself, he was pursued up on deck by the well-dressed young man who had been dining with the Bullivants. ‘Killigrew? You are a bounder, sir!’
The commander ignored him. ‘Back in the cutter, everyone. Take a head count, Cox’n.’
‘Killigrew!’ persisted the young man. ‘I am talking to you, sir!’
The commander turned to face him. ‘But I am not listening to you, sir.’
‘You, sir, are a bounder.’
Killigrew shrugged. ‘It’s been said before.’
‘You are not only a bounder, sir. You are a dastard and a coward.’
‘Sticks and stones.’ Killigrew made for the entry port to follow his men back down to the cutter.
‘One moment, sir!’ The young man tugged off one of his kid gloves. Grabbing Killigrew by the shoulder, he spun him round and slapped him in the face with it. ‘Sir, I challenge you to a duel!’
‘Duelling is illegal,’ Killigrew reminded him.
‘Back in England, perhaps…’
‘If, as I suspect, this vessel is registered in England, I think you’ll find that English law applies here on board every bit as much as it does on Piccadilly.’
‘Then we’ll go ashore, by God!’
‘You may go ashore, sir. I have my duties on board the Ramillies to attend to.’
‘Am I to understand that you are refusing to give me satisfaction?’ Killigrew rolled his eyes. ‘My word, he’s finally got it!’ he remarked to no one in particular.
‘You, sir, have no honour!’
‘None at all. Look, you want a duel? Very well. As the injured party, I have choice of weapons.’
‘Injured party, sir? And just how is it you consider yourself the injured party?’
‘I have offered you no insult; I do not even know your name…’
‘It is Dallaway, sir! Lord Dallaway! And I demand satisfaction!’
‘Yes, I think we’ve got past that point. You were the one who stuck me, so I am the injured party.’
Dallaway waved dismissively. ‘As you will. It makes no difference to me, sir – I am equally adept with swords or pist
ols.’
‘And I also have choice of time and place.’
‘As you will.’
‘Then for the time and place, I choose here and now.’
Dallaway smiled wolfishly. ‘Nothing would give me greater satisfaction.’
‘That remains to be seen.’
‘Your weapon of choice?’
‘Hmph? Oh… fists.’ Killigrew punched him on the nose.
Dallaway went down with blood streaming from his nostrils.
‘There,’ said Killigrew. ‘Honour is satisfied. Good evening to you, sir.’
He climbed through the entry port and descended to the cutter, taking his place in the stern sheets. ‘Shove off, Molineaux! Up together, lads. Give way with a will!’
* * *
‘Good God, man!’ Crichton was appalled when Killigrew reported to his day-room later that night. ‘I send you to do a simple little job like drive off a floating brothel, and you manage to insult one peer of the realm – a close personal friend of the prime minister, no less – and assault another.’
‘Yes, sir. It was entirely my mistake. I’ll bear full responsibility and take the consequences.’
‘And deprive me of the best second-in-command I ever had? You’ll do no such thing. I’m sure if I have a word with the chief we’ll be able to sort this mess out somehow.’
‘Thank you, sir. What about the real floating brothel? She must still be out there somewhere…’
Crichton grimaced. ‘Forget about the floating brothel, man. I’ve sent word to the other ships in the fleet. That will have to do. We’ve got more important fish to fry. Carry on.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Killigrew saluted and withdrew, wishing he shared Crichton’s belief that things could be cleared up so easily. Sir Charles Napier might be commander-in-chief, but to judge from the tone of some of the editorials in the newspapers brought out to the fleet from England, public opinion was turning against the rear admiral for his failure to attack Kronstadt. The attack on Bomarsund might deflect some of the criticism, if all went well, but Bullivant had Lord Aberdeen’s ear, and if the prime minister put pressure on the navy to have Killigrew dismissed, Napier’s patronage would not be enough to save him. Besides, Napier himself had always been fickle, and had grown increasingly testy with his subordinates as the campaign had progressed; given his own troubles, he might not hesitate to sacrifice the commander to protect his own back: he was in no position to defy Lord Aberdeen.
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