Killigrew’s Run

by Jonathan Lunn

  Killigrew slowed as he passed the house. Grabbing Kizheh by the collar, he threw him from the driving board. As Killigrew lashed the reins and the telezhka rattled away, the Russian picked himself up and hobbled about in agony.

  ‘Lady Bullivant and the others still with us, Molineaux?’ Killigrew called over his shoulder.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ the petty officer replied. ‘In fact, if she’s not careful, she’s going to run over the Russki… oh, bugger! He’s seen her, and jumped out of the way.’

  It was easy enough to find the harbour from there: in Ekenäs, all roads led to the waterfront. Killigrew drew up in a side street not far from where the Milenion was moored, and jumped down from the driving board. He crept forward to the end of the street, and peered around the corner. It was a dark night, with the moon not yet risen and only a faint luminescence in the sky to the north to remind him how close they were to the Arctic Circle, but the deck lamps of the Atalanta silhouetted the schooner tied up at the same quay where she had been all day, just beyond the rows of upturned fishing boats and nets drying on frames on the wharf.

  Killigrew turned back in time to flag down Lady Bullivant’s telezhka. ‘Still with us, my lady?’

  ‘You’ll have to drive a good deal swifter than that to lose me, Mr Killigrew.’

  ‘That’s the spirit, ma’am!’

  Molineaux jumped down from the roof of the first telezhka. ‘Now what, sir?’

  ‘Get everyone out of the carriages and keep them here until I signal. Then bring them across in groups of two or three. The ladies first, then Mr Charlton and the wounded. The Atalanta isn’t moored too far away, and I can see the anchor watch from here. I’d rather not arouse their suspicions if we can avoid it.’

  ‘I’m with you on that one, sir. What about the Milenion? Isn’t there an anchor watch?’

  ‘No, just a couple of guards at the top of the gangplank, by the look of it. I’ll deal with them.’

  ‘Right you are, sir.’ The petty officer turned to help Araminta down from the first telezhka.

  Still dressed in the Third Section uniform he had taken from one of the guards, Killigrew slung a musket over one shoulder and sauntered out of the alley with his hands in his pockets, whistling ‘Kalinka’. In a small, sleepy, respectable town like Ekenäs, the waterfront was deserted at that time of night. The two men on guard at the top of the gangplank – probably matrosy from the Atalanta – watched him curiously as he crossed the quayside.

  Killigrew broke off whistling to hail them as he ascended the gangplank. ‘Zdorovo, muzhiki!’

  ‘Dobryi vecher, szr,’ said the matrosy.

  ‘Kak dela?’

  ‘Spasibo, khorosho, szr.’ They saluted him as he reached the top of the gangplank. He touched the brim of his gendarme’s shako-képi, and then brought the edge of his hand down against the neck of the matros on his right, before driving his fist into the other’s jaw with a right cross. They hit the deck within seconds of each other.

  Killigrew glanced about the deck to make sure no one had seen him deal with the guards. At least all the rigging was still in place, the sails neatly furled, but there was no sign of the four brass guns that had been on the deck when he had boarded the Milenion in Ångholmsfjörd: the Russians must have taken them already. Killigrew grimaced: compared to the long gun on the Atalanta’s forecastle, the six-pounders had been mere popguns, but popguns were better than no guns at all.

  He was about to signal Molineaux to start bringing the others across when he heard a loud thump coming from below decks aft. Taking one of the guard’s muskets, he crept cautiously down the after hatch. At the far end of the passageway, he could see light showing under the door to the saloon. He tiptoed to the door, and threw it open.

  An attractive blonde woman he did not recognise stood there, her hair rumpled alluringly, clad only in her petticoats, her arms clamped protectively over her ample breasts.

  ‘Who are you?’ Killigrew demanded in Swedish. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘She’s with me,’ Pechorin said behind him, laying the blade of his sabre against Killigrew’s neck. ‘And as to what we’re doing here… that’s a question I might well ask you. The musket… on the deck, if you please.’

  The commander shrugged off the musket and lowered it by its strap.

  ‘Now, kick it over there.’

  Killigrew shoved the musket across the far side of the saloon.

  The woman dashed into one of the adjoining staterooms and slammed the door, bolting it.

  ‘Using Lord Bullivant’s yacht for a private assignation?’ Killigrew asked with a smile.

  Pechorin gestured at the opulent surroundings. ‘Now what woman could say no to a man in surroundings like these?’

  ‘I think I know one. I’ll introduce you to her, if you like.’

  ‘No, 1 think we’ll keep this between ourselves for now. Two’s company, and all that.’ Pechorin moved to stand in front of Killigrew and with the tip of his sabre he indicated the hilt of the dress sword at the commander’s hip. ‘You do know how to use that thing, I take it?’

  ‘Finest swordsman in all the Russias, eh?’ Killigrew asked nervously.

  Smiling, Pechorin nodded.

  Killigrew drew Leong’s pistol from his pocket and levelled it at the Russian. ‘Drop the cutlery, Count. I may only have been a runner-up at the East Falmouth Junior Pistol Shooting Championship in 1835, but at this range even I can’t miss.’

  ‘Come now, Mr Killigrew! Where’s your sportsmanship?’

  ‘I’m afraid Colonel Nekrasoff confiscated it.’

  ‘Ah, how is the good colonel?’

  ‘Still alive, alas. The sword, Count.’

  Pechorin threw the sabre down on the rug.

  Killigrew retrieved the musket and gestured to the door. ‘After you.’

  ‘You’re too kind.’

  Killigrew marched him up on deck. The two matrosy at the entry port were slowly coming to, one of them rubbing his neck, the other his jaw.

  ‘Idiots!’ muttered Pechorin. ‘Is this your notion of standing guard?’

  ‘I hope they’re better at tying knots, for your sake.’ Killigrew signalled for Molineaux to start sending the others over. He pointed to a coil of rope hanging from a belaying pin. ‘Tie him up,’ he ordered one of the matrosy, indicating Pechorin.

  ‘Now your friend,’ he ordered, once he was satisfied the count was securely bound.

  By the time the matros had finished binding his shipmate, Endicott had come on board with the Bullivants.

  ‘I thought I told you, only the women at first?’ said Killigrew, seeing Lord Bullivant.

  ‘He kind of insisted, like, sir,’ Endicott said ruefully, waving to where Molineaux stood at the mouth of the side street.

  ‘Well, now you’re here, my lord, you can make yourself useful.’ Killigrew tossed him the musket. ‘Keep them covered,’ he ordered, indicating Pechorin and the two matrosy. ‘Endicott, tie that one up. Then check the knots on the other two.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Bullivant clutched the gun awkwardly to his chest. ‘Now look here, young man. You can’t order me about as if I was one of your men, you know!’

  Charlton came on deck with the maid, the two of them supporting Dick Searle between them. The assistant surgeon had tied a makeshift bandage around Searle’s neck, but it was already soaked with blood. ‘He’s in a bad way, sir,’ said Charlton.

  ‘Nicholls, is there such a thing as a sick-berth on board?’ Killigrew asked the maid.

  She shook her head. ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Attwood keeps a medicine chest in the galley,’ said Araminta. ‘It’s got dressings and everything in it. Nicholls, help Mr Charlton take Searle down to my stateroom while I fetch the chest.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’

  Hughes arrived next, with Mackenzie – who had his arm in a makeshift sling – and Dahlstedt. ‘Take them down to Miss Maltravers’ stateroom, Hughes,’ ordered Killigrew. ‘You’ll
find Mr Charlton down there, attending to Searle.’

  ‘He won’t be able to fit them all into Araminta’s stateroom,’ said Lady Bullivant. ‘I’ll go with them; we can use the main stateroom and one of the other cabins for the wounded.’

  ‘Thank you, my lady.’

  She followed Hughes and Mackenzie down the after hatch.

  Thornton, Uren and Burgess came on board next. Killigrew glanced anxiously across to where the Atalanta was moored. This was taking far too long, and sooner or later someone on the paddle-sloop was going to notice the people emerging from the side street to board the Milenion. ‘Mr Uren, can you start making ready to get her under way? The others will help you as they come on board. Just don’t hoist the sails until I say so.’

  ‘Now just a minute!’ protested Thornton. ‘You’re on my ship now, Killigrew. I give the orders around here.’

  Killigrew did not have time for this. ‘My sincerest apologies, Captain Thornton. I’ve just commandeered this yacht in the name of the Queen. Now, are you going to help me sail it out of here, or should I order Leading Seaman Endicott to lock you up in the lazaretto, assuming there’s one on board?’

  Thornton glanced at Lord Bullivant.

  ‘What do you think you’re going to do?’ the viscount sneered at Killigrew. ‘Sail her out of here and right back to the fleet, just like that?’

  ‘That’s the general idea.’

  ‘In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a Russian naval steamer tied up not three hundred yards off. Surely you don’t think they’re going to just sit there and let us sail off without giving chase?’

  ‘Do you see any smoke coming from the Atalanta’s funnel, my lord? They’re not expecting trouble. I’ll lay odds her fires are banked. It’ll take them at least two hours to get steam up, and we can be well on our way by then. I served on a paddle-sloop not unlike the Atalanta for five years, and I’ll lay odds that even under steam she can’t make more than nine knots… probably less, knowing the quality of Russian engineering. What can the Milenion make under full press of canvas, Captain Thornton?’

  ‘I’ve known her make ten with a following wind, if the breeze is strong enough.’

  Sitting with his back to the gunwale, his hands tied behind his back, Pechorin scowled to hear his beloved paddle-sloop spoken of so lightly. ‘But you won’t be sailing with a following wind, will you, Killigrew? You’ll be tacking down a narrow channel. And my second-in-command is no fool. He’ll sail after you until he can get steam up. Once he does, he’ll catch you and blow you out of the water.’

  ‘With his captain a hostage on board the Milenion? I doubt it. And I doubt a brig-rigged paddle-sloop like the Atalanta can sail as close to the wind as the Milenion can.’

  Iles came on board with Fuller and Attwood. ‘What can us do to ’elp, sir?’

  Killigrew indicated the fishing nets ashore. ‘Roll up those nets and bring them on board. Stow them on deck amidships.’

  Uren glanced at Thornton. The master hesitated, and then nodded. The three seamen made their way back down the gangplank and started to take down the nets.

  Hughes came back on deck. ‘The pill-roller’s just tucking his patients up in bed now, sir. Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Yes, you can put these two ashore.’ Killigrew indicated the two Russian sentries they had captured.

  ‘Aren’t you worried they’ll warn their mates on the Russki paddle-sloop, sir?’

  ‘It’s no good having their captain a hostage on board, if they don’t know about it. The first lieutenant on the Atalanta’s going to realise something’s up as soon as the officer of the watch sees us hoist sail, which will be any moment now…’

  ‘Eh, I don’t want to worry you, sir,’ said Endicott. ‘But it looks to me as though the Ivans have already worked out there’s summat going on, like.’

  Killigrew glanced across to the Atalanta and saw that two dozen matrosy in green jackets and forage caps, armed with muskets, had descended the paddle-sloop’s gangplank. They marched along the waterfront to where the Milenion was moored.

  ‘Oh, hell!’

  He looked over to the side street, and was pleased to see the last four men – Molineaux, O’Leary, Ogilby and Yorath – were already running across the quayside towards the yacht. They would reach the gangplank ahead of the Russians, but it was going to be a damned close-run thing. ‘Hughes, get the Ivans ashore, chop chop! Bear a hand, Endicott!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Endicott and Hughes each picked up one of the matrosy and carried them down to the quayside. Uren, Fuller and Attwood were bringing the nets on board.

  ‘Mr Uren, can you have men standing by to bring the gangplank on board and cast off the mooring ropes as soon as Molineaux and the others are aboard?’

  ‘Aye, sir. Stations for stays!’

  ‘Lord Bullivant, perhaps you would be good enough to go below and keep the ladies there until I tell you otherwise?’

  Bullivant seemed inclined to argue, but he looked over the gunwale at the tramp of booted feet on the cobbles. Seeing the Russians charging along the quayside towards them, he hurried below.

  Molineaux, O’Leary, Ogilby and Yorath pounded up the gangplank only a few seconds after Endicott and Hughes came back aboard. ‘All ashore that’s staying ashore!’ yelled Molineaux, dodging through the entry port. Burgess and Attwood dragged the gangplank aboard behind them.

  The Russians reached the side of the quay. One of them kept running, leaping out into space and hooking his hands over the edge of the entry port. As he tried to pull himself up, O’Leary stamped on his fingers and the man dropped into the water with a cry.

  ‘Let go the head rope!’ ordered Killigrew. ‘Take the wheel, Endicott.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  The Russians on the quayside formed a firing line. Killigrew tossed his musket to Molineaux. ‘Put that to good use. Hoist the jib sails, Mr Uren!’

  As the jib sails rose above the foredeck, Molineaux aimed the musket over the gunwale. The officer commanding the Russians ashore shouted an order, and Molineaux ducked down behind the gunwale. A ragged fusillade of musketry rattled out from the quayside, a great cloud of smoke billowing from the Russians’ muzzles. Bullets smacked into the Milenion’s side, or soughed over the heads of the men on deck.

  Molineaux straightened and took his time lining up his shot, while the Russians struggled to reload. He fired, and the officer commanding the Russians was thrown on his back with a fair-sized chunk blown out of his skull.

  The schooner’s bows were already moving away from the quayside. ‘Let go the stern fast!’ yelled Killigrew. ‘Fore braces, tacks and sheets!’

  The non-commissioned officer left in charge of the Russians shouted the order to fire, and another ragged fusillade rolled out across the docks. Molineaux had already reloaded: his next shot took the NCO in the shoulder and spun him round.

  ‘Port the helm, Endicott!’

  The Liverpudlian spun the wheel. ‘Port it is, sir.’

  ‘Haul up the fores’l and mains’l!’

  The men stationed at the fife rails heaved on the halyards, raising the gaffs so that the sails were unfurled. They bellied with wind, pushing the schooner’s stern to port so that her head came round towards the harbour mouth. Without any leaders to guide them, the Russians on the quayside were firing at random. Killigrew heard a couple of bullets smash through the gallery window, but the Milenion was already moving well out from the quay, in danger of running aground on the other side of the narrow harbour. Ashore, the Russians realised they were wasting their time, and started to head back to where the Atalanta was moored. Killigrew took a telescope from the binnacle and glanced across at the paddle-sloop. The men on the deck were clearing for action, getting ready to unmoor.

  ‘Right the helm, Endicott,’ he said.

  ‘’Midships it is, sir.’

  ‘Make for the channel between that island and the shore to port.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The Liverpudlian
looked dubious. ‘Eh… I don’t like to question your orders, sir, but are you sure there’s enough water there?’

  ‘No.’ Killigrew smiled at him brightly. ‘Only one way to find out, though, eh?’

  ‘Apart from stopping to sound the lead,’ said Endicott. ‘And I don’t suppose we’ve got time to do that.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ agreed Killigrew. ‘Sorry.’ The only alternative was to sail to leeward of the island, right under the Atalanta’s guns, and there was no guarantee that the first lieutenant was aware yet that Count Pechorin was on board the Milenion.

  ‘Never mind, eh?’ said Endicott. ‘Here goes nuttin’.’

  From the lie of the land on either side of the narrow channel – Killigrew had to strain to make it out in the darkness – and judging from the Milenion’s lines, he guessed there would be enough water to carry her through, although it was going to be touch and go. But they were either getting out of the harbour this way, or not at all.

  Killigrew glanced across to where Pechorin sat against the gunwale, smirking, as if he knew something Killigrew didn’t. Nothing for it but to brazen it out and hope for the best. His hands clasped behind his back, he surreptitiously crossed two fingers.

  * * *

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ Lieutenant-General Ramsay asked Nekrasoff as Chernyovsky and his men trooped through his office, carrying out boxes of papers.

  ‘Yes,’ Nekrasoff told him curtly.

  ‘But most of those papers are due to be archived… I’ve already given you everything which mentions the Milenion and Lord Bullivant and his family.’

  ‘So say you.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of lying?’

  ‘I’m saying you could have made a mistake. Once it is confirmed that they contain nothing that might embarrass the Tsar… You should be grateful. Were this whole affair to come out, the government would be in need of a scapegoat.’

  ‘If it’s a scapegoat you’re after, you might like to think about Captain-Lieutenant Count Pechorin. He was the one who captured the Milenion.’