‘You murdering swine!’ gasped Charlton.
Molineaux was just as enraged, but unlike Charlton he felt that actions spoke louder than words. As Chernyovsky turned to face the assistant surgeon, he caught sight of the petty officer charging at him. He raised his sabre to defend himself, but Molineaux caught him by the wrist and drove a fist into his face. Chernyovsky staggered away, blood gushing from his nostrils. Before Molineaux could follow up his attack, however, another Cossack urged his pony forward. He struck the petty officer on the back of the neck with the stock of his carbine. Two more dismounted and seized Molineaux between them. Although conscious, he was too dazed to resist as they searched him and found his Bowie knife. Chernyovsky rallied, wiping his nose on his sleeve and scowling at the blood. He still had the sabre in his hand, and it looked as though he was going to slash Molineaux across the face with it.
‘Starshina Chernyovsky!’ snapped Killigrew. ‘My men and I were under a flag of truce when we were fired upon.’
‘This negr pig dared to strike me!’
Molineaux must have misheard the word ‘negr’ – Russian for ‘black’ – for he struggled furiously in the grip of the two men who held him.
‘You murdered a British officer in cold blood!’ protested Charlton.
Chernyovsky lost interest in the petty officer and turned to face the assistant surgeon with an amused smile. He laid the blade of his sabre across Charlton’s neck. ‘I will kill another, if you are not silent.’
Charlton blanched and swallowed.
‘We are prisoners of war,’ said Killigrew. ‘I demand that we are treated as such.’
Chernyovsky rounded on him. ‘You are in no position to demand anything, Commander.’
‘We were on our way to see the military governor in Ekenäs. I have an important message for him from Vice Admiral Sir Charles Napier. I suggest you take us to him at once.’
Wiping more blood from his upper lip with his sleeve, Chernyovsky regarded Killigrew appraisingly for a few seconds. ‘Bring them,’ he ordered his men at last.
Marching under the guns of the Cossacks, Killigrew and his men reached the north-east side of Odensö Island, where a narrow channel was all that kept the island from being a peninsula. Where the channel was narrowest – no more than fifty feet wide – a low, rickety wooden bridge spanned the deep water below. The bridge was in urgent need of repair, and Chernyovsky sent half his men over first – one at a time, each man leading his horse – before ordering Killigrew and his men to follow.
From the bridge they marched another mile and a half through the forests until they emerged to find themselves at a cove overlooking the Ekenäs Inlet. Killigrew had studied a chart of the place before he had left the Ramillies, and it was easy to match the landscape to the calotype-like memory of the map in his mind’s eye. The inlet split into three arms, the longest running north-east by north all the way up to the village of Pojo. The middle arm ran east-north-east, and the shorter ran due east for less than a mile before it split into three more, much smaller arms. The town of Ekenäs stood near the end of the promontory between the longer two arms – from the shore of the inlet, Killigrew could see the whitewashed tower of the church rising up above the shingled roofs of its pretty wooden houses less than a mile away – and to reach it overland would have required a march of eleven miles, around the shorter two arms of the inlet.
A wooden landing-stage ran out into the cove, and a thick cable reached across to the south side of the island just below the promontory, where a flat ferry stood at a second landing-stage about five hundred yards away. One of Chernyovsky’s men dismounted to ring the bell, and the five men who worked the ferry hauled it across to the south landing stage.
Chernyovsky exchanged a few words in Russian with the man in charge of the ferry, a squat, neckless fellow with crew-cut hair. He cast his piggy eyes over the prisoners, then hawked and spat over the rail. ‘Angliskis! I defecate on Angliskis!’ he told them in broken English.
The ferry was large enough to carry Chernyovsky’s troop, horses and all, along with the prisoners. The ferrymen hauled on the rope, pulling them across to the island, while the fellow with the crew cut sang a sonorous shanty to help them keep time.
‘What is that tune?’ asked Charlton.
‘I think it’s “The Song of the Vulgar Boatman”,’ Molineaux said with a grin.
Once on the island, they were marched across to where a long wooden bridge spanned the channel that separated them from the promontory. From there it was a short walk to Ekenäs itself, a small town of wooden, two-storey buildings painted red and white. As the prisoners were marched through the narrow, cobbled streets, the townsfolk stared at them curiously: coarsely dressed fishermen, or respectable-looking burghers in broad-brimmed black hats, sober black frock coats and colourful waistcoats, their wives and daughters in embroidered bodices and pretty shawls.
A couple of merchant barques vied for space with fishing yawls in the harbour, but the scene was dominated by the two ships tied up at the wharf: a Russian paddle-sloop, 160 feet from stem to stern, and the Milenion. Two matrosy – Russian seamen – stood on guard at the foot of the yacht’s gangplank in tight-fitting, bottle-green jackets, like a dragoon’s, their feet encased in Wellington boots, forage caps worn on one side of their crew-cut heads. Excepting that it had no paddle-box boats, the sloop was little different from the ship Killigrew had served on three years ago, the Tisiphone; except that while the Royal Navy now considered the paddle-steamer Tisiphone obsolete, this sloop, merely by virtue of having a steam-engine, represented the cutting edge of technology as far as the Russian Imperial Navy was concerned.
While Molineaux was marched off with Vowles, Endicott, Hughes and Iles, Chernyovsky and two of his men dismounted to escort Killigrew, Charlton and Dahlstedt to a handsome town hall on one of the streets running parallel with the harbour.
Inside, they were shown into an outer office where a clerk did some paperwork at a desk while three civilian petitioners sat on a bench against one wall. The clerk, a petty jack-in-office like any of his breed anywhere in the world, ignored Chernyovsky and his prisoners until the starshina whacked his Cossack whip down against his desk, startling him. Chernyovsky barked at him in Russian – Killigrew caught the words ‘three English prisoners’, but that was about it – and the clerk rose to his feet and disappeared through an inner door.
Conscious of the scrutiny of the three civilian petitioners, Killigrew, Dahlstedt and Charlton stood stiffly to attention in their brine-stained uniforms. All three of them had lost their hats, and cut bedraggled figures. ‘Perhaps if we point out that you’re Swedish, you’ll be more fairly treated,’ Killigrew murmured to Dahlstedt out of the corner of his mouth, for Chernyovsky’s benefit as much as for the pilot’s.
‘Eh? Oh! Yes. Yes, of course.’
The clerk re-emerged through the door and said something to Chernyovsky, and the three Cossacks marched the prisoners through the door, down a corridor to a large office where a man wearing a white uniform with lots of gold braid sat at a desk. He rose to his feet as Killigrew, Charlton and Dahlstedt were brought in. Chernyovsky spoke at length to the officer, who nodded and studied the three prisoners while the starshina was speaking.
‘Kto-nibud’ govorit po-Russki?’ the officer asked Killigrew when Chernyovsky had finished speaking.
‘A little, but my Swedish is better.’
The officer regarded him in surprise. ‘So, we will speak Swedish. I am Lieutenant-General Ramsay, military governor of the Ekenäs district.’
‘Commander Christopher Killigrew, of Her Majesty’s Ship Ramillies, at your service,’ Killigrew replied, wondering how a Finn came by a Scottish name like Ramsay. ‘These gentlemen are Mr Humphrey Charlton, one of our assistant surgeons, and Mr Sten Dahlstedt, a Swede who is kind enough to serve as one of our pilots.’
Ramsay regarded Dahlstedt curiously. ‘Sweden is neutral in this war, Herre Dahlstedt.’
The pilot shrugge
d. ‘The British pay well.’
‘I hope it is worth it, for your sake. You need not expect any special treatment on account of your nationality, Herre Dahlstedt. You have chosen to serve alongside an enemy of Russia, and you will be treated accordingly.’ Ramsay smiled. ‘However, as officers and gentlemen, if the three of you are prepared to give your paroles, I’m sure it can be arranged for you to be billeted in comfort.’
‘First things first,’ said Killigrew. ‘I wish to protest in the strongest possible terms.’
‘Protest? About what?’
‘First, that my cutter was fired upon by one of your batteries as it passed through the Vitsand Sound under a flag of truce. Five of my men were killed.’
Ramsay frowned. ‘That is a very serious allegation, Commander Killigrew. I will have it looked into immediately.’
‘There is nothing to look into,’ Killigrew told him. ‘My cutter was sunk. Otherwise we would have sailed into the harbour here, instead of being captured in the woods by Starshina Chernyovsky and his brigands. Second, I also wish to protest at the cold-blooded murder of one of my officers, Mate Francis Latham.’ He jerked his head at Chernyovsky. ‘The starshina here stabbed him with his sabre when he was defenceless.’
Ramsay asked Chernyovsky a question in Russian. The starshina replied indifferently, with a shrug. Ramsay’s expression was that of a man who did not like what he was hearing, but could not do much about it. Theoretically, as a lieutenant-general he outranked a starshina – the Cossack equivalent of a colonel – but Ramsay was a Finn, and Chernyovsky was a Russian. Although Finland might in theory be integrated as part of Russia, Killigrew suspected that things were not so clear-cut between the Russian and Finnish authorities.
‘Starshina Chernyovsky tells me that the officer in question was mortally wounded,’ Ramsay told Killigrew. ‘That his act was one of mercy.’
‘Mr Charlton here will tell you that Mr Latham could have survived with prompt medical attention.’
‘I am sorry for the death of your comrade, but… my hands are tied. Such things happen in war, yes?’
Killigrew was not satisfied with that, but it was the closest thing he was going to get to an apology, so he would have to accept it – for now. In the meantime, he had gained the initiative in this interview, and he was determined to hold on to it. ‘And now we must turn to the matter that brought us to Ekenäs in the first place: the seizure of the civilian yacht Milenion.’
Ramsay chuckled. ‘Ah, yes. Our belligerent Lord Bullivant and his family. Civilians of an enemy power captured in Russian territorial waters in time of war. Even you must confess we would be well within our rights to execute them for espionage… yes, Commander, even the ladies.’
‘I should point out that Lord Bullivant is a personal friend of Lord Aberdeen.’
‘Yes, so he pointed out to me during our first meeting. Do not concern yourself too much about Lord Bullivant and his family, Commander. They are being well treated.’
‘Vice Admiral Sir Charles Napier has instructed me to inform you that he is willing to exchange General Bodisco for Lord Bullivant and his family, and the crew of his yacht.’
‘General Bodisco is Vice Admiral Napier’s prisoner?’ Ramsay asked in surprise.
‘Bomarsund surrendered yesterday.’
Ramsay frowned, then shrugged. ‘So. I do not have the authority to order the release of a prisoner as important as Lord Bullivant. I have referred the matter to my superiors in Helsingfors.’
‘What about us?’ demanded Killigrew. ‘Since we were captured under a flag of truce, you have no right under the custom of war to hold us as prisoners.’
‘As I have said, I will have the matter looked in to. In the meantime, I crave your patience. If you gentlemen will give me your paroles, I will have you billeted locally until this matter can be resolved. Fair enough?’
Killigrew was reluctant to give his parole: if the Russians decided that he and his men were to be held as prisoners of war, all the fiends in Hell would not stop him from trying to escape. He was damned if he would give his word of honour that he would not attempt to do so. ‘We’ll give you our paroles not to escape until such time as we’ve had a response from your superiors,’ he told Ramsay, wondering how long it would take: the optical telegraph connected Ekenäs with Helsingfors and could relay messages back and forth in a matter of minutes, but Russian bureaucracy was notoriously slow. ‘However, I must stipulate two conditions.’
‘Oh?’
‘I want to see Lord Bullivant and his family and be assured from their own lips that they are being treated well.’
Ramsay smiled. ‘Nothing could be simpler. Lord Bullivant and his family are guests at my house. This afternoon you shall join us for dinner. I think that will assure you they are being well treated. Your second condition?’
‘I also want to see my men, and the crew of the Milenion, to be assured they are also receiving proper treatment.’
‘I think this can be arranged. I have your parole?’ Ramsay proffered his hand.
Killigrew shook it. ‘Conditional on the terms we agreed.’
* * *
Molineaux and the others were escorted to a large barn on the outside of the town. A padlocked chain around the handles of the barn door held them fast, while four guards – Russian infantrymen in grey greatcoats and caps – patrolled the outside of the building with muskets and pistols. The doors were unchained, Molineaux and his shipmates ushered inside, and the doors closed behind them.
There were eleven men already in there, arranged about the stalls or in the hayloft in various attitudes of lassitude. They all looked up as the five seamen entered, and some of them rose to their feet. Molineaux recognised them as the crew of the Milenion from their poncy uniforms.
‘Who are you?’ demanded one, the bearded, hard-faced man Killigrew had confronted on the deck of the Milenion a week earlier. ‘Speakee English?’
‘Better than you, mate,’ said Molineaux. ‘Petty Officer Wes Molineaux of HMS Ramillies. These coves are Andy Vowles, Seth Endicott, “Red” Hughes and Ben Iles.’
‘I’m Captain Thornton, master of the yacht Milenion. This is Mr Mackenzie, my mate; Mr Uren, my bosun; and Jack Burgess, Tommo Fuller, Joe O’Leary, Charlie Ogilby, Dick Searle, Ned Yorath and Nick Attwood.’
‘Everyone calls me “Doc” on account of me being the ship’s cook,’ said Attwood.
‘Oh, and this is Mr Todd, the steward,’ Thornton added, indicating a fellow in a white coat. ‘The Milenion is Lord Bullivant’s yacht, we were stopped and taken in tow by a Russian paddle-sloop—’
‘We know,’ the coxswain said coldly. ‘If it wasn’t for you lot, we wouldn’t be here right now.’
‘Eh?’
‘Old Charlie Napier heard about what happened to you,’ explained Molineaux. ‘He sent us to get you out.’
‘You’ve come to rescue us?’
‘We were originally sent to negotiate your release, but the bastard Ivans fired at our boat. Killed six of our shipmates, they did. I ’spect Mr Killigrew is negotiating our release right now.’
‘Mr Killigrew?’ echoed Mackenzie, a small Scotsman with a mop of boyish black curls. ‘Cap’n, was that no’ the name o’ the navy officer that boarded the Milenion last week?’
‘Aye, that it was,’ agreed Thornton, staring hard at Molineaux. ‘Thought I recognised you from somewhere. You’re the nigger petty officer who was with him that night, aren’t you?’
Molineaux smiled thinly. ‘The first time someone calls me a “nigger”, I let it pass. Then I warn them not to do it again. The second time… well, just consider yourself warned, Cap’n Thornton; you and all your crew.’
‘I’d take him seriously if I were youse lads,’ Endicott said cheerfully. ‘The last cove who called him a “nigger” got his jaw broke.’
‘Last cove but one,’ Molineaux corrected him, thinking of Chernyovsky. But sooner or later, he had already promised himself, he was going to settle the score w
ith that Cossack bastard for what he did to Mr Latham. ‘Any notion of where they’re holding Lord Bullivant, Cap’n Thornton?’
Thornton shook his head. ‘We haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since we were brought ashore.’
Hughes snorted derisively. ‘Typical bloody aristo! I’ll bet he’s got his feet up in some Russki aristo’s mansion, with a good cigar and all the brandy he can guzzle, while the rest of us rot in this stinking barn.’
‘Watch it!’ growled Mr Uren, the Milenion’s boatswain, a tall, lantern-jawed fellow whose jib had the cut of a man who’d done service on one of Her Majesty’s ships. ‘That’s our boss you’re talking about.’
‘Boss my eye! He’s just a capitalist, exploiting the working-class proletarians and then casting them aside like broken machinery when he no longer has any use for you. You lot are no better than Russki serfs, mindlessly kowtowing to your lord and master—’
‘Red?’
‘Aye, Wes?’
‘Stow it.’
‘Don’t mind him,’ Endicott told the Milenions, jerking a thumb at Hughes. ‘He read some political pamphlet a couple of years back, and now everything’s got to be bourgeoisie exploitation this, capitalist oppression that and working-class struggle for freedom the other.’
‘And where’s your precious Commander Killigrew right now, d’you think?’ demanded Fuller. If somewhere up in Heaven God had a mould from which all sailors were cast, Fuller was closest to the original: about five feet tall, broad-shouldered, with muscular arms so hairy the tattoos that marked them were almost hidden. ‘With ’is feet up next to ’is lordship’s, I shouldn’t wonder, sipping brandy from the same decanter and smoking a cigar lit from the same lucifer.’
Killigrew’s Run Page 11