Killigrew’s Run

by Jonathan Lunn

  Emerging from Crichton’s day-room, Killigrew encountered Willoughby, supervising his marine servant who was packing his things for his transfer to the Belleisle.

  ‘By the way, sir, I remembered the name of that schooner – it was the Millicent.’

  It took the combined efforts of Lieutenants Lloyd and Adare and the marine to remove Killigrew’s hands from Willoughby’s throat.

  Chapter 3

  The Guns of Bomarsund

  Saturday 12–Wednesday 16 August

  The crew of the Duke of Wellington were paraded on the upper deck for divisions when the lookout at the maintop spotted the schooner approaching. ‘Sail ho!’ he bellowed down to the deck.

  Captain Gordon cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Where away?’

  ‘Fine off the starboard bow!’

  One of the lieutenants took the telescope from the binnacle and raised it to one eye. ‘Can you make her out?’ asked Gordon.

  ‘She’s flying the White Ensign… but I don’t think she’s one of ours.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘She’s a schooner, sir.’ The lieutenant handed Gordon the telescope so he could see for himself.

  ‘Royal Yacht Squadron,’ said Gordon. ‘Or one of the other clubs permitted to fly the White Ensign.’ He handed the telescope back to the lieutenant. ‘The Milenion?’

  ‘I do believe you’re right, sir.’

  Rear Admiral Michael Seymour – a tall man with a patrician face and greying hair swept back from his temples, iron-grey side-whiskers creeping across his prominent cheekbones like cant hooks – crossed the quarterdeck to join them at the bulwark. ‘The Milenion?’

  ‘Lord Bullivant’s yacht, sir,’ explained Gordon. ‘He’s one of the war tourists who’ve accompanied the fleet out here.’

  And a personal friend of Lord Aberdeen, thought Seymour. ‘Captain Gordon, you will order your men to dress the yards.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard me, man! I want the yards dressed, as a mark of respect to a peer of the realm.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Bosun, pipe the men aloft.’

  The men swarmed up the ratlines and out on to the yards until there was not an inch of horizontal timber in the ship’s tops that did not have a seaman standing on it. The wind was light, and even with all sails drawing, the Milenion made slow progress as she sailed across the Ledsund to where the Duke was anchored.

  The Milenion dropped anchor a short distance from the Duke and lowered her gig from its davits.

  ‘Looks as though his lordship intends to honour us with a visit, sir,’ said the lieutenant.

  ‘Full compliments, Captain Gordon,’ said Seymour. ‘Marine guard, drummers, side party.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Gordon turned to the senior officer of marines on the quarterdeck. ‘Guard at the entry port – a ruffle of drums when his lordships sets foot on the deck.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  The Milenion’s gig rowed across to where the Duke was anchored. ‘What boat is that?’ called the marine sentry at the entry port.

  ‘Lord Bullivant, yacht Milenion, Royal Yacht Squadron!’ responded the gig’s coxswain. The gig bumped against the Duke’s side beside the accommodation ladder, and Lord Bullivant gazed unhappily up at the entry port, some thirty feet above him.

  At 270 feet from stem to stern, with a burthen of 3,700 tons and a complement of 1,100 men, HMS Duke of Wellington was indisputably the mightiest man-o’-war in the world. With 130 thirty-two pounders arrayed on three decks and a sixty-eight pounder mounted on traversing rails on the forecastle, she carried sufficient firepower to discharge a ton and a half of iron at every broadside. She rode at anchor under bare poles with the other mighty line-of-battle ships at Ledsund that were too large to navigate the shallow Ångösund to Lumpar Bay where the rest of the fleet supported the attack on Bomarsund. A slim funnel rose abaft her foremast to betray the presence of the 780 horsepower engine in the depths of the ship, driving a screw propeller to manoeuvre her in defiance of wind and wide.

  Lord Bullivant said something to one of the gig’s crew, and the man ascended the entry port to approach one of the boatswain’s mates.

  ‘His lordship requests a bosun’s chair, sir,’ reported the boatswain’s mate.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, man! Rig one up!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  A boatswain’s chair was rigged up and lowered from one of the yards to the gig below, and presently Lord Bullivant was swinging above the upper deck. ‘Well, lower me down! Can’t afford to hang about here all day!’

  ‘If you’d just stretch your legs, my lord, you’ll find that your feet are only a couple of inches off the deck,’ Captain Gordon told him as tactfully as possible.

  ‘Stretch me legs? What do you think I am, made of India rubber?’

  Disgusted, the two seamen holding Bullivant up exchanged firm nods, and a moment later the boatswain’s chair came crashing down to deposit Bullivant sprawling on his back amidst a tangle of rope. The boatswain descended on the two hands with a face like thunder, but both knew that whatever punishment he had in store for them, it was going to be worth it.

  Ashen-faced, Rear Admiral Seymour hurried forward to help Bullivant to his feet. ‘My lord! My most sincere apologies, my lord. Rest assured, the men responsible will be punished most severely for their carelessness.’

  ‘I should damned well think so too,’ snarled Bullivant, dusting himself down. ‘Now then, where’s Napier?’

  ‘Napier, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, Vice Admiral Sir Charles Napier. This is the flagship, ain’t it?’

  ‘Sir Charles has transferred his flag to HMS Bulldog for the duration of the attack on Bomarsund, my lord. Perhaps I may be of service?’

  ‘And who the blazes are you?’

  ‘Seymour, my lord. Rear Admiral Michael Seymour. I,’ he added self-importantly, ‘am the captain of the fleet.’

  ‘I thought Napier was in charge?’

  ‘He is commander-in-chief, my lord. I am his second in command.’

  Bullivant wafted him away dismissively. ‘I want to speak to the organ grinder, not his monkey.’

  ‘Ah ha ha ha ha ha!’ said Seymour.

  Bullivant looked around the deck, as if doubting the veracity of the rear admiral’s claim that Napier was not on board. Finding no trace of the commander-in-chief, he turned back to Seymour. ‘Well, if Napier ain’t here, I suppose you’ll have to do,’ he said wearily. ‘Now see here, Seymour: I want to make a complaint.’

  ‘A complaint, my lord?’

  ‘Yes, a complaint! Damme, do I have to say everything twice? A complaint against one of your officers. Commander Christopher Killigrew, to be precise.’

  ‘The Arctic explorer?’ asked Seymour. It was news to him that Killigrew was in the fleet, although on reflection he was not all that surprised.

  ‘That’s the feller. Damned scoundrel came on board the Milenion last night, roughed up my crew, broke one of the doors, accused me of running a brothel, and then had the gall to strike the son of a good friend of mine: Lord Dallaway! ’

  ‘An officer of the Royal Navy?’ Seymour exclaimed incredulously.

  Bullivant rounded on him. ‘You calling me a liar?’

  ‘No, my lord, not at all. Far from it. You may rest assured, that I shall have the matter looked into at once.’

  ‘Never mind looking into it, Seymour. I want the damned feller punished. Keelhauled, flogged, strung up from the yard-arm, whatever it is you do to damned scoundrels like that in the navy.’

  ‘We don’t inflict capital or corporal punishment on officers of the Royal Navy any more, my lord, except for the gravest of crimes—’

  ‘You don’t? No wonder the damned navy’s gone to pot. No damned discipline, these young bucks nowadays. I’ve a good mind to complain to Lord Aberdeen!’

  ‘However, if Commander Killigrew is guilty of the things you say he is, you may rest assured he’ll be dismissed
the service in disgrace.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that will have to do. I want him finished, Seymour, do you understand? Finished!’

  ‘He will be, my lord, I assure you! ’

  ‘Hmph!’ Bullivant snorted, as if he would believe it when he saw it. ‘You’d better not be flannelling me, Seymour, or I’ll see that you stay on half-pay for the rest of your life. That’s all. Good day to you, sir!’ The viscount turned on his heel and stalked across to where the boatswain’s chair had been hoisted once more, but on second thoughts descended to his gig via the accommodation ladder instead.

  Seymour watched him being rowed back to the Milenion, then ordered his flag lieutenant to follow him and descended the after hatch.

  ‘Close the door behind you,’ he ordered, when they entered the great cabin, and then rounded on the flag lieutenant. ‘Know anything about this fellow Killigrew, Tremaine?’

  ‘Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, I had the misfortune to sail with him on board the Tisiphone when she was posted to the Guinea Coast a few years ago. Not an association I’m proud of, I hasten to add.’

  ‘Really? I thought he was a national hero, after that Arctic business.’

  ‘From what I heard, the voyage of the Venturer was a total shambles, sir. Killigrew should have been court-martialled instead of promoted.’

  ‘You think there might be some truth to Lord Bullivant’s accusation?’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, sir. Killigrew’s a scoundrel, sir, an absolute scoundrel. He swears, he smokes, he consorts with the wrong sort of women… damn it, sir – pardon my French – but he even reads the Manchester Guardian!’

  ‘Good God! What is he, some sort of anarchist? What’s a fellow like that doing in the Royal Navy?’

  ‘Making a nuisance of himself, by the sound of things.’

  ‘Think I’d better meet this fellow for myself. I don’t suppose you know which ship he’s in, do you?’

  ‘Blenheim, I think.’

  ‘Very well. Take a cutter up to Lumpar Bay to arrest him. The charge is conduct unbecoming an officer of the Royal Navy. We’ll court-martial him as soon as Bomarsund is reduced.’

  Tremaine smiled triumphantly. ‘With pleasure, sir.’

  * * *

  ‘Holloa, sir!’ exclaimed Killigrew, delighted to see his former captain. ‘What are you doing here? I thought the Jenny Dacre was back at Ledsund.’

  ‘Came up in my gig,’ explained the Honourable Henry Keppel, a younger son of the Earl of Albemarle. The captain of HMS St Jean d’Acre, Keppel was less than five feet tall, his face framed by flaming red hair and long side-whiskers, his blue eyes twinkling. ‘Thought I ought to come and see for myself how big a mess Old Charlie makes of the attack on Bomarsund.’

  ‘You mean, the Chief doesn’t know you’re here?’ exclaimed Killigrew.

  Keppel grinned. ‘What he doesn’t know can’t harm him.’

  There was no love lost between Keppel and Vice-Admiral Sir Charles Napier. It dated back nearly a quarter of a century, when Napier had been captain of HMS Galatea and Keppel had been one of his lieutenants. Killigrew had heard the story while serving as a midshipman under Keppel’s command on board HMS Dido during the Opium War. On a cruise to the West Indies, Keppel had had his heart set on attending a ball held at Government House in Kingstown by Sir John Hill, the governor of St Vincent and a friend of Keppel’s father. On the day of the ball, Napier had ordered Keppel confined to his cabin – on a trumped-up charge, to hear Keppel tell it – just to spite him. Keppel had none the less contrived to go ashore disguised as an officer’s servant, and had been enjoying himself dancing with the young ladies of the island when Napier himself had turned up in the ballroom. Keppel had only escaped court-martial thanks to Sir John’s intervention.

  The past few weeks had not improved relations between the two men. There had been reservations about appointing Napier commander-in-chief of the British fleet that was being sent to the Baltic: he had a reputation for being a loose cannon with a habit of exceeding his orders, and there were fears that he would send the ships of the fleet to their destruction by ordering them to attack the granite batteries of Sveaborg or Kronstadt. In the event, he had gone to the other extreme, and Keppel made no secret of his disappointment that for once in his life Napier was sticking to his orders: in this case, to prevent the Russian fleet from escaping into the North Sea, and to ‘look into the possibility of doing something in the Åland Islands’. In the months since the fleet had arrived in the Baltic, both Sveaborg and Kronstadt had been reconnoitred, but – without going in person within a mile of either – Napier had declared both unassailable without gunboats or mortar vessels, much to the swashbuckling Keppel’s disgust.

  ‘You won’t tell him you caught me playing hookey, will you?’ Keppel asked Killigrew.

  The commander grimaced. It was awkward to find himself caught between two men who had both acted as his mentors at different stages of his career. He liked both. Sometimes he suspected that the reason they did not get on was that they had too much in common: both reckless rebels who refused to play by the rules.

  Instead he excused himself to buy himself time. ‘If you’ll pardon me a moment, sir?’

  Keppel waved magnanimously.

  Killigrew turned to the Ramillies’ gunner. ‘When you’re ready, Mr Gatiss.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Gatiss turned to the gun crew and screamed: ‘Fire!’

  Keeping his eye steadfastly fixed along the sights of the long gun, Endicott pulled the lanyard downward with a jerk, bringing his left hand smartly on his right. The hammer snapped against the quill tube and a puff of smoke escaped the vent; the gun boomed deafeningly in the same instant, belching forth a great cloud of flame and smoke and shooting back on its truck until the preventer tackle brought it up short.

  ‘Stop the vent,’ ordered Gatiss.

  Endicott forced in a vent-plug with his left hand, keeping his thumb on it, and half-cocked the lock with his right.

  Killigrew levelled his telescope and saw the shell explode about thirty feet short of the target, and a little to the left, throwing smoke, dust and clods of earth high into the air. The next gun in the battery fired, and then the one after that. The two French batteries continued their bombardment, while down in the bay below, the Edinburgh and the fourth-rate screw ship Ajax were keeping up a diversionary fire. All three batteries ashore hurled shot and shell at the Russian fortifications as fast as their sweating gun crews could fire and reload, filling the air with noise and smoke, and every now and then a Congreve rocket would shoot from its frame, trailing smoke along its erratic course before exploding against any target but the one it was aimed at.

  The flag lieutenant’s error in naming the Blenheim as Killigrew’s ship had given him a reprieve, at least. Another of the blockships in Lumpar Bay, the Blenheim was anchored less than a cable’s length from the Ramillies, but a cable’s length made all the difference. Having put Tremaine straight about where the commander might be found, Captain Pelham had hoisted a signal to the Ramillies advising Crichton that the cutter now rowing towards his ship had come to arrest his second-in-command, and he would be advised to place the miscreant under arrest. The fact that the signal had been sent at all carried a broad wink advising him to do exactly the opposite, and while Tremaine had been ascending the accommodation ladder on one side of the Ramillies, Killigrew had been shining down the lifelines to Crichton’s gig on the other.

  ‘Make yourself useful ashore,’ Crichton had called down to him from the bulwarks. ‘God knows, you’re no help to anyone out here in the bay, and you’ll be even less use kicking your heels in the Duke’s lazaretto. And for heaven’s sake, try to stay out of the Chief’s way until I can have a word with him.’

  With which dubious benediction Killigrew had returned ashore once more, and had spent the last two days helping to put the finishing touches to General Jones’s battery.

  ‘Reload,’ he told the gun crew, and checked his fob watch. ‘I’m
timing you.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ said Gatiss. ‘Run in!’

  Each man in the fourteen-man gun crew knew his place and his duties. Endicott helped Joyner and Powell overhaul the side tackles while the rest of the gun crew manned the train tackle, hauling the gun back until the muzzle was clear of the embrasure and ready for reloading.

  ‘Well!’ said Endicott. He had been appointed captain of the gun, and Killigrew was curious to see how well the leading seaman would conduct himself. Normally the ship’s joker – although there was room for plenty of jokers on a ship as large as HMS Ramillies – today Endicott was being seamanlike and professional.

  Killigrew turned back to Keppel. ‘Sorry about that, sir. You were saying?’

  ‘Just that I remember when I hurt my back in a fall from the accommodation ladder during the China War. A certain midshipman under my command took the opportunity to go adrift and take part in the assault on Chinkiang-fu. When I learned of his gallantry in that desperate assault, I promoted him to mate. What I really ought to have done was have the young rogue court-martialled.’

  Killigrew sighed. ‘You were never here, sir.’

  Keppel beamed. ‘That’s the spirit, my boy.’

  ‘Sponge!’ ordered Gatiss.

  Joyner and Powell stepped inside the breeching together. Another man handed the sponge to Powell, who forced it hard home to the bottom of the bore and gave it two round turns to extinguish any fire left in the gun. He withdrew it hand over hand and gave it two smart taps against the underside of the muzzle to knock off any burning or foul fragments.

  ‘You’ve already met Molineaux, I think?’ Killigrew asked Keppel, gesturing to where the petty officer stood at the adjoining embrasure, holding a musket.