Killigrew rubbed his forehead wearily. ‘All right, it’s not your fault. You did your best. We’ll just have to think of a way to—’
‘Killigrew!’ Lord Bullivant emerged from the after hatch, his face suffused with rage and brandy. ‘Killigrew! I’ve a complaint to make!’
Standing with his back to the viscount, Killigrew rolled his eyes so that only Molineaux could see. The petty officer grinned, and the commander turned to Bullivant with a thin smile pasted on his face.
‘A complaint, my lord?’
‘Yes! Against that damned blackamoor!’ He indicated Molineaux.
‘He has a name, my lord.’
‘His name is no concern of mine,’ sniffed Bullivant. ‘All I know is, he’s an impertinent rogue.’
‘On that account I would have to agree with you, my lord. What did he say this time, precisely?’
‘He said—’ Bullivant broke off, looking trapped. ‘Never mind what he said! He was impertinent, that’s all!’
‘If you wish him to be punished when we get back on board the Ramillies, my lord, I shall need to know the full details of the incident when I take him before Captain Crichton. Were there any witnesses?’
‘Witnesses?’ Bullivant looked shifty. ‘What do you mean, witnesses?’
‘Was there anyone else there who can corroborate your story?’
‘Are you accusing me of being a liar?’
‘Not at all, my lord. But Molineaux is a British citizen, and as such he’s entitled to a fair hearing; that’s what makes Britain different from Russia, and I’d like to think that’s what I’m fighting this war for. Otherwise, you see, it’s just a question of your word against his.’
‘Surely the word of a peer of the realm should count for more than that of a nigger petty officer?’
Molineaux clenched his fists and took a step forward. Killigrew stretched out his arm to bar his way to where Bullivant stood, but the petty officer had already caught himself.
‘With all due respect, my lord, I have always considered that true nobility means treating all men and women with courtesy, regardless of their rank or social status,’ Killigrew said tightly.
‘Evidently that’s something you and I disagree on,’ sneered Bullivant.
‘Then I fear your manners do you little credit, my lord.’
‘How dare you criticise my manners? Am I to take it, then, that you do not intend to do anything to punish this man?’
‘Unless you can be a little more precise about the nature of Petty Officer Molineaux’s offence, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.’
‘You’re a disgrace, Killigrew! A disgrace to the uniform!’ Crimson with rage, Bullivant turned and descended the after hatch.
‘Thank you, sir,’ murmured the petty officer.
‘Nothing to thank me for, Molineaux. I will not have the men under my command treated with such discourtesy by anyone, be they a viscount, an earl, a baronet, or a bow-legged conductor of a tuppenny ’bus. Carry on.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Molineaux made his way forward to where Endicott and Hughes stood in the waist.
‘What were all that about?’ asked Endicott.
‘I walked in on his lordship and found him nuzzling the dollymop’s bubbies.’
Endicott and Hughes laughed.
‘Jesus!’ said the Welshman. ‘Can’t say I think much of her taste in men.’
‘I don’t reckon she had much choice in the matter, Red,’ said Molineaux.
‘What… you mean, he was trying to rape her?’
Endicott shook his head. ‘It’s only rape when coves like us do it. When gentry coves take advantage of judies, it’s called “seduction”: “If you want to keep your job, keep me happy”.’
Hughes thrust his jaw out aggressively. ‘You know what that is, don’t you?’
Molineaux and Endicott exchanged glances. ‘Exploitation of the working classes?’ they chorused.
Hughes stared at them in astonishment. ‘How did you know I was going to say that?’
‘Everything’s exploitation of the working classes to you, Red,’ Endicott explained wearily. ‘The bosun orders you to clean the head, it’s exploitation of the working classes. You get overcharged for a tot o’ rum by a bum-boat boy, it’s exploitation of the working classes. There’s weevils in the hard tack, it’s exploitation of the working classes.’
‘Yur,’ agreed Molineaux. ‘’Ceptin’ just this once – for the first time in my life, and hopefully the last – I’m inclined to agree with Red—’
‘Jesus!’ exclaimed Endicott exclaimed, staring past Molineaux to the quarterdeck. The petty officer turned to see Killigrew sprawled on the deck, while Iles stood at the wheel oblivious to what had happened behind him. The three of them ran across to where the commander lay and crouched over him.
‘What happened?’ Molineaux asked Iles.
‘Eh?’ The seaman glanced over his shoulder. ‘Dunno. ’Ee seemed fine a moment ago.’
‘He must’ve had another of his funny turns,’ said Molineaux. ‘Red, go fetch the pill-roller.’
Charlton came on deck and directed them to carry the unconscious Killigrew below to one of the staterooms.
‘Is he going to be all right, sir?’ Hughes asked in concern.
‘I expect so,’ said Charlton. ‘Molineaux, would you be so good as to ask Lady Bullivant’s maid if she has any sal volatile on board?’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Molineaux hesitated before leaving, and nudged Endicott. ‘Make sure he don’t go giving him none of his fancy homeopathic remedies.’
Charlton bridled. ‘Are you questioning my medical expertise, Molineaux?’
‘No, sir. I were just saying, it’s a bit rum, like.’ He turned back to Endicott. ‘T’other day he gave me some explosive chemicals for a headache! Last thing we want right now is Tom Tidley suffering from an attack of spontaneous yooman combustion.’
Molineaux made his way to the maid’s cabin and knocked on the door.
‘One moment!’ she called.
‘It’s kind of an emergency, miss.’
She opened the door and looked out. Her face was dry, but her eyes were still red-rimmed from crying. ‘Have you got any sal volatile, miss?’
‘Sal volatile?’
‘Hartshorn.’
‘Oh! Yes, one moment.’ She rummaged through one of the drawers of the dresser and produced a small, brown bottle.
‘Thanks.’ Molineaux took it from her and raced back to the stateroom where Charlton was attending Killigrew. Endicott and Hughes still crowded the doorway. ‘You two best get back on deck,’ he told them. ‘I’m sure Mr Charlton can manage without you.’
They nodded and made their way to the companion ladder.
Entering the stateroom, Molineaux gave the sal volatile to Charlton, who removed the stopper from the bottle and wafted it under the commander’s nose. Killigrew opened his eyes and blinked, turning his head away from the bottle.
‘Charlton! What the devil are you doing?’
‘You fainted again, sir. Hardly surprising, under the circumstances. It’s been a long day, and you’re under a good deal of strain.’
‘I’ve got to get back on deck.’ Killigrew tried to move Charlton out of the way, but with Molineaux’s assistance he was pushed back down to the pillow.
‘You need rest, sir, and plenty of it,’ said Charlton. ‘You’re no good to anyone if you’re going to keep fainting.’
‘The pill-roller’s right, sir,’ said Molineaux. ‘You get your head down for a couple of hours and have a doss. We can manage without you for a spell.’
‘You’d best get back on deck too, Molineaux,’ said Charlton.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The petty officer returned on deck to find Bullivant, Captain Thornton and Mr Mackenzie conferring on the quarterdeck.
‘Killigrew made me his second in command, sir…’ Thornton was saying.
‘And you take your orders from me,’ Bullivant reminded him. ‘
That’s what I pay you for.’
‘Perhaps we should let one of the navy seamen take command,’ suggested Mackenzie. ‘This is a military situation, after all.’
Bullivant glowered at the mate. ‘The fact had not escaped my attention, Mr Mackenzie. I’m not a complete amateur in military matters, you know.’ He puffed himself up. ‘You may not be aware of the fact, but I happen to be the colonel of the East Rutland Yeomanry.’
‘Yeomanry, eh?’ said Hughes, joining Molineaux at the edge of the quarterdeck. ‘That’ll come in handy, if we meet any Chartists that need riding down.’
* * *
‘Boat ahoy!’ the marine sentry at the Ramillies’ entry port cried.
‘No, no!’ the coxswain of the second cutter replied.
‘Second cutter coming in, sir!’ the sentry called across to the quarterdeck.
Lieutenant Lloyd, officer of the watch, nodded. ‘Inform the captain that Mr Masterson has returned,’ he ordered one of the midshipmen standing on deck. The midshipman nodded and went below. Presently Crichton emerged on deck in time to meet Masterson climbing up through the entry port.
‘What news?’
‘The Milenion’s there right enough, sir, but there was no sign of Killigrew or the first cutter. The officer I spoke to – an over-smooth fellow called Colonel Nekrasoff – told me that the battery at Vitsand Sound had blown them out of the water.’
Crichton turned puce. ‘They opened fire on a boat sailing under a flag of truce?’
‘Nekrasoff claimed there was no flag of truce, sir.’
‘That’s a damned lie!’
‘I know, sir. But what could I do in the face of the fellow’s bare-faced dishonesty?’
‘Russians!’ snorted Crichton. ‘What more could one expect? What about the Bullivants and Lord Dallaway?’
‘Nekrasoff said they were to be tried for espionage.’
‘Dear God! Have these people no conscience?’
‘It would seem not, sir. What are we to do now?’
‘Do? What can we do? I know what I’d like to do – sail right up the inlet and blow Eckness to the devil! But we’re too deep-draughted for that. So we’ll have to take General Bodisco back to the fleet, and inform Old Charlie of what’s happened. Weigh anchor, Mr Pemberton! Lay me a course for Hangö Head, Mr Shearsmith.’ To reach Ledsund, first they would have to round Hangö Head, the tip of the promontory that jutted out from the south-west corner of the Finnish coast.
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ responded the master. ‘We should be able to fetch it on a course of south-west by west, sir.’
‘Very good. All plain sail, Mr Lloyd, course south-south-east. After ten miles, we’ll tack north-west.’ Crichton disappeared below, shoulders hunched in defeat.
By the time the ship’s bell tolled midnight, the Ramillies was under way once more, with all sails drawing. Lloyd took the logboard down from the easel and Adare replaced it with the one he had brought up from the log room.
Lloyd shook his head. ‘Mr Killigrew dead… I can’t believe it.’
‘Me neither,’ Masterson said grimly. ‘You heard what the Old Man said: these Russkis are nothing but a bunch of bare-faced liars. Colonel Nekrasoff told me the body of a British officer had been dragged from the inlet, but when I asked to see it he fobbed me off.’
‘You think Killigrew and the others might still be alive?’
‘God knows, Lloyd. But if he is, he’s certainly a prisoner of the Russkis… in which case, heaven help him.’
Chapter 12
No Way Out
12.05 a.m.–12.48 a.m., Friday 18 August
On board the Atalanta, Colonel Nekrasoff had commandeered Pechorin’s quarters. He had intended to rest, but the truth was he was too anxious to sleep, and too impatient to get under way in pursuit of the Milenion. If he prevented Lord Bullivant’s escape, he would be awarded the Cross of St George; if he failed, however, he could expect a one-way ticket to Siberia.
Pechorin’s quarters were luxuriously appointed, presumably at the count’s own expense. A silver filigree cigar box – stuffed full of fat Havanas – stood on the desk, and four decanters – containing port, brandy, Madeira and sherry – stood on the sideboard. In the cramped cabin, the shelf above the bunk was cluttered with fencing trophies, and there was a daguerreotype of Anzhelika Orlova, the prima ballerina of the Marinsky Ballet Company, framed on the bulkhead.
There was a knock on the door to the day-room at ten minutes past midnight. ‘Enter!’ Nekrasoff called, emerging from the cabin.
The door opened and one of the sloop’s beardless michmanis entered, saluting. ‘Lieutenant Lazarenko asked me to inform you that we now have a sufficient head of steam to get under way, and we’re casting off.’
Nekrasoff nodded curtly and followed the michmani back on deck, where the hands were casting off the mooring ropes.
Lazarenko stood on the quarterdeck. He saluted Nekrasoff smartly, and turned to one of the michmanis. ‘Pass the word to Inzhener Nikolaishvili: turn astern, slow.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The michmani hurried below.
‘We should reach Vitsand Sound within twenty-five minutes,’ said Lazarenko. ‘Unless we overtake the Milenion first. Even with her fore-and-aft rig, I doubt she’ll have made much headway against this south-westerly breeze.’
The deck throbbed beneath their feet as the engineer started up the engines, and the paddle-wheels plashed slowly at the waters of Ekenäs Harbour, reversing the Atalanta out of her berth.
‘Ahead half,’ ordered Lazarenko. ‘Port the helm.’
The helmsman spun the wheel, and the sloop emerged from the harbour into the main channel.
‘Helm amidships! Full ahead!’
As smoke streamed from the funnel into the black night sky, the sloop surged ahead, clipping down the channel at a good eight and a half knots.
‘Remember, Lazarenko,’ said Nekrasoff. ‘I want the Milenion blown out of the water.’
The lieutenant nodded. ‘Clear for action! Gun crew to the bow chaser!’ Smiling, he turned to Nekrasoff. ‘We’ll make kindling of her, sir.’
* * *
‘Ready to go about!’ Thornton ordered as the eastern side of the inlet loomed out of the night off the port bow. In the two and a quarter hours since the Milenion had sailed from Ekenäs harbour she had been forced to tack five times already, the runs between each tack growing shorter as the inlet narrowed towards its mouth at the Vitsand Sound. The moon had risen, a silvery crescent hanging low in the sky above the black silhouette of the trees on the shore.
‘Haul of all! Hard a-lee!’
Ned Yorath spun the wheel. ‘Helm’s a-lee!’
The schooner’s bows turned away from the approaching shore, and the men at the halyards hauled to bring the foresail and mainsail around to catch the wind from the other side.
‘Ease the helm,’ ordered Thornton. ‘Luff and touch her.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Yorath brought the rudder amidships and the Milenion settled on her new heading, due west, diagonally across the narrowing channel. In another ten minutes or so, they would have to tack again when they approached the opposite shore.
‘We should reach the chain cable in twenty minutes’ time, my lord,’ Thornton reminded Bullivant. ‘Should I have the gig hoisted in the davits?’
‘Eh?’
‘The gig, sir. So we can send men ashore to try to break through the cable at the eastern side.’
‘Oh! Yes, yes, I suppose so. Who will you take?’
‘I thought we’d send some of Killigrew’s men.’
‘And some of your own men, Cap’n Thornton,’ said Molineaux, who stood close enough to overhear. ‘Or were you thinking of leaving us behind as soon as we’d cleared the way for the Milenion?’
Thornton bridled. ‘That’s an outrageous suggestion! How dare you?’
‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty of time to wait for your shore party to get safely back on board, Molineaux,’ said Mackenzie.
Full
er hawked and spat. ‘Reckon so, do you, sir?’
‘No one asked your opinion, Fuller,’ growled Thornton.
‘Maybe not, but you’re going to get it anyways. I don’t know ’bout you lot, but I seed the artillery battery on the west side of the channel when they towed the Milenion through Vitsand Sound…’
‘There’s a chance they’ll all be asleep,’ said Thornton.
‘And an even bigger one the Ivans will’ve sent a rider from Eckness to tell ’em to be on the lookout for us,’ said Fuller. ‘They prob’ly got orders to blow us out of the water. And we’ll be under their guns the ’ole time the darky an’ ’is mates are ashore seeing to that there cable. It’ll take ’em at least ten minutes to break that cable, prob’ly more. Even if there’s anything left of the Milenion by the time they do, that’ll be more’n enough time for the Russki paddle-sloop to catch us.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Bullivant.
Fuller jerked his head at Molineaux. ‘Ask him if I’m lying.’
Everyone turned to the petty officer. ‘It’s a long shot,’ Molineaux admitted. ‘But it’s the only chance we’ve got.’
‘Fuller’s right, my lord,’ admitted Thornton. ‘We’ll never get through.’
‘Enough!’ said Bullivant. ‘This is madness. I’m amazed I let things get this far. Stop the vessel, Thornton.’
The master looked relieved. ‘As you will, my lord. Mr Uren! All hands bring ship to anchor!’
‘What the hell are you doing?’ Molineaux asked in horror.
‘We’re going to surrender,’ said Bullivant. ‘This madness has gone quite far enough.’
‘Stand clear of the chain!’ called Uren. ‘Let go the anchor!’
Molineaux unslung his musket and levelled it. ‘I’ll shoot the first man who touches that mud-hook!’
‘By God!’ exclaimed Bullivant. ‘Who the devil d’you think you are, giving orders on my yacht? O’Leary, Ogilby – do as you’re told.’
The two sailors stood stock-still, eyeing the musket in Molineaux’s hands nervously.
‘Take that gun off him, Mr Uren,’ ordered Thornton. ‘Then tie him up below.’
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