Killigrew’s Run

by Jonathan Lunn

  Standing next to them on the quarterdeck, the Atalanta’s second lieutenant studied the bridge. ‘That gap’s too narrow,’ he opined.

  ‘I’m well aware of that, Borislav Ivanovich,’ Lazarenko replied. ‘We will brush aside what remains with our paddle-boxes.’

  ‘The paddle-boxes are too high.’

  ‘Nonsense, man! Are you saying I don’t know my job?’

  ‘Bow chaser ready to fire, sir,’ reported the gunner.

  ‘Excellent!’ gloated Lazarenko. ‘Stand by until I give the word.’

  The Atalanta’s prow came through the gap in the bridge. Once through she would have enough room to turn a couple of points to port to bring the Milenion in her bow chaser’s line of fire…

  The sound of wood splintering was loud enough to be heard above the paddles’ plashing. ‘What did I tell you?’ Lazarenko asked the second lieutenant as the sloop ground its way through the debris. ‘Plenty of room…’

  There came more splintering, and the deck shuddered beneath their feet. Something gave, something else refused to give, and there was yet more splintering as the wheel ground to a crunching halt. The Atalanta slewed to starboard, slamming her stern into the opposite end of the bridge with a deafening crash, and Nekrasoff was thrown to the deck by the sudden impact. He rolled over and over until he came to rest in the scuppers. He lay there gasping for breath, scarcely able to credit that he might still be alive.

  He looked up to see Lazarenko and the second lieutenant pick themselves up and dust themselves down. Nekrasoff stood up to find the Atalanta had become wedged in the debris of the bridge, slewed diagonally across the gap, the remains of the starboard paddle-wheel hopelessly entangled in the timbers of the bridge. Glancing for’ard, he saw the Milenion fading into the darkness where the channel rounded a bend a couple of hundred yards ahead… then it was gone.

  ‘Damage report, Dubrovsky!’ Lazarenko ordered crisply.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The sloop’s shipwright hurried below.

  Nekrasoff noticed the second lieutenant grinning at Lazarenko. The first lieutenant became aware of the grin, and regarded him sourly.

  ‘Told you the gap was too narrow,’ the second lieutenant said smugly.

  ‘Someone coming out of the woods, sir!’ one of the lookouts called.

  Nekrasoff and Lazarenko crossed to the starboard gunwale to see Chernyovsky and his Cossacks emerge from the trees, leading their ponies by their bridles. Handing his halter to one of his men to hold, Chernyovsky stepped on to the south end of the wrecked bridge and looked up at the Atalanta. Then, shaking his head, he chuckled.

  ‘So much for the navy!’

  ‘You were here before we were,’ Lazarenko pointed out. ‘You failed to stop them!’

  Chernyovsky scowled. ‘We’re Cossacks, not sailors! Catching enemy ships is supposed to be the navy’s business!’

  The shipwright emerged from the fore hatch. ‘No damage to the hull, sir.’

  ‘Check the paddle-wheels.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The shipwright detailed two of his men to clamber over the side to check the port-side wheel, while he himself clambered down on to the bridge where he could examine the one to starboard. He shook his head and sucked air in between his teeth. ‘Half the paddle-boards will need replacing on this one, and some of the spokes are damaged too.’

  ‘We have enough spare paddle-boards on board, don’t we? And the carpenter’s crew can repair the spokes.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But first we’ll have to get clear of this bridge so we have room to work.’

  ‘All right, send some men ashore and find something we can belay a cable to. We’ll have to kedge ourselves clear of the bridge. While that’s being done, the carpenter’s crew can saw off any of the bridge’s timbers that are still entangled with the wheel so we can drag ourselves free.’

  ‘And then you’ll still be on the wrong side,’ Nekrasoff pointed out.

  ‘I would have thought it was patently obvious we cannot pass this bridge,’ Lazarenko said coldly.

  ‘I would have thought that was patently obvious from the outset,’ said the second lieutenant.

  ‘I did not ask your opinion, Borislav Ivanovich.’

  ‘No, but I gave it to you anyway. Perhaps if you had not ignored my advice, we would not now be in this mess!’

  The two men who had gone over the port side to check the other wheel reported. ‘Port-side wheel is sound, sir.’

  ‘That’s something, at least.’

  ‘How long is all this going to take, Lieutenant?’ demanded Nekrasoff.

  Lazarenko glanced questioningly at the shipwright. ‘About an hour and a half, sir,’ the latter answered for him.

  ‘An hour and a half!’ exclaimed Nekrasoff.

  ‘Make it one hour, and I’ll see to it that you and every man in the carpenter’s crew gets a schtoff of vodka each,’ Lazarenko told the shipwright.

  ‘We’ll do our best, sir.’ The shipwright made no attempt to disguise that he was affronted by the suggestion they needed to be bribed to work as swiftly as possible. ‘But we can’t work miracles.’

  ‘And all this time the Milenion is getting further and further away!’ glowered Nekrasoff.

  ‘Oh, they won’t get far,’ Lazarenko told him coolly. ‘You see, less than one verst further along, this channel turns to the south-west. And there’s no way Killigrew and his men can sail that yacht against the wind.’

  ‘One verst away, you say?’ Ten minutes’ walk – in broad daylight over open ground, at least.’

  Lazarenko nodded.

  Nekrasoff crossed to the bulwark. ‘Starshina!’

  Chernyovsky looked up at him questioningly.

  The colonel paused to light another cigarette. ‘How would you and your men like a chance to redeem yourselves?’

  * * *

  ‘It’s a deuce of a mess down there,’ Mackenzie reported to Killigrew.

  ‘The shot came through the gallery window of the saloon… there’s glass everywhere—’

  ‘Never mind that! Was anyone hurt?’

  ‘Apart from Ogilby? No. Mr Charlton’s looking at him at the moment.’

  Killigrew would have liked to go below himself to see the extent of the damage, and to make sure the ladies had not been too alarmed by the excitement; although in the case of Lady Bullivant, at least, he very much doubted there was much that could alarm her. But his first priority was to get the Milenion as far away from the Atalanta as possible. They might have lost the paddle-sloop for now, but it could only be a matter of time before the damage was repaired and the chase resumed.

  A few minutes later the channel widened to two hundred yards, and he guessed they were approaching the opposite end. But the channel also bore round to the south, forcing the schooner to sail as close to the wind as she could. Before long, the channel forked on either side of an island: the channel to the right was the broader, but the Milenion could not sail close enough to the wind to take it and there was still no room to tack. The left-hand channel was much narrower, and did not look deep enough for the Milenion’s draught. The island was only about 350 yards long, and beyond it Killigrew could see open water, with more than enough space to tack in; yet for all their chances of reaching it under sail, it might as well have been on Neptune.

  ‘Shorten sail and let go the anchor!’ ordered Killigrew.

  ‘Stand clear of the chain!’ bellowed Uren. ‘Let go the anchor!’

  The chain rattled through the hawsehole as the anchor dropped from the bows to splash into the water.

  ‘Mr Uren, take Iles and Hughes and sound that channel,’ Killigrew told the boatswain, indicating the right-hand fork.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Lower the gig!’

  Once the gig was lowered from its davits, Uren, Iles and Hughes shinned down the lifelines and rowed across to sound the channel with a lead line.

  Leaving Thornton in charge on deck, Killigrew descended the after hatch. He missed his footing on the companion ladder – becaus
e two of the steps had been smashed away – and landed heavily on the deck below. Feeling foolish, but with only some bruises to show for the mishap, he picked himself up and dusted himself down, glad that no one had seen him fall.

  One glance told him what had happened to the missing steps: there was a splintered hole in the door leading to the saloon where the round shot had smashed through the louvered panel, and a similar hole in the door at the opposite end of the corridor. He made his way for’ard to peer through the far hole and found himself gazing into the forecastle, where the ball had passed through the companion ladder in the middle of the compartment before coming to a halt, firmly embedded in the stout timbers of the bows. The wood was grazed on both masts where they descended through the deck above: a few inches to starboard, and the yacht would have been dismasted. It was fortunate for them the Russians had not been using shell: the Milenion would have been blown out of the water.

  He made his way back to the saloon, where he found Burgess surveying the damage. Pechorin still sat on the deck, bound hand and foot.

  ‘His lordship isn’t going to like this!’ said Burgess.

  It was true: had Killigrew been knocked unconscious and woken up in the saloon, he would never have guessed he was on board a luxury yacht. The windows were smashed, the plush velvet curtains torn to shreds by flying glass and splinters, and the glassware, crockery – and just about everything else that was breakable – broken.

  ‘Think you can board up the windows?’ he asked Burgess.

  The carpenter nodded. ‘I’ll tack a piece of canvas to the frame; that should keep the draught out.’

  ‘We’ve stopped,’ Pechorin remarked to Killigrew as soon as Burgess had gone to fetch his tools and some canvas and nails. ‘I suppose we’re at the south-east end of the Odensö Channel?’

  ‘That would be telling,’ said Killigrew.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ admitted the count. ‘When I realised you must be running down the channel, I never thought you’d get past that bridge. What happened to the Atalanta? I presume it was her who fired that round shot?’

  ‘Sorry, Count. I’m afraid she didn’t have as much luck as we did in getting through the bridge.’

  ‘She’ll catch you,’ Pechorin said confidently. ‘The wind’s blowing from the south-west: there’s no way you can sail out of this channel. Even if she has to steam the long way around Odensö and stop to take down the chain cable at Vitsand Sound, she can still head you off.’

  ‘Well, it looked to me as though whoever’s in command of the Atalanta made a mess of her paddle-wheels; and we’ve only got five hundred yards to cover to reach the Skärlandet Channel.’

  ‘Five hundred yards!’ scoffed Pechorin. ‘It might as well be five hundred vehrsty. Why don’t you make it easy for yourself, Commander, and surrender? I am not without influence; perhaps I can have you all spared.’

  Killigrew shook his head. ‘You know as well as I that Nekrasoff wants us all dead; and even he wouldn’t dare try to murder us all without the backing of his superiors in St Petersburg. Now, why do you suppose that is?’

  Pechorin feigned disinterest. ‘I really couldn’t say.’

  ‘Oh, I think you know, don’t you? After all, you were the one who brought the Milenion into Ekenäs.’

  Pechorin just smiled broadly.

  Killigrew checked the ropes binding the count’s wrists and ankles, but he need not have bothered: Molineaux knew all the tricks a man could employ to break free of bonds; consequently, he knew how to tie him so he stayed tied up. ‘Someone on this ship knows something,’ he told Pechorin. ‘Something important; something you and Nekrasoff don’t want our fleet to know. There’s no other reason Nekrasoff would risk the international outcry the murder of Lord Bullivant would cause. Oh, don’t feel obliged to tell me: I’ll find out without your help.’

  ‘It will do you no good,’ said Pechorin. ‘You’ll never make it back to your fleet.’

  ‘You have a lot of confidence in whoever commands the Atalanta in your absence.’

  ‘Lieutenant Lazarenko? I should do. I trained him myself.’

  Killigrew smiled. ‘Pity you didn’t train him not to steam a fifty-foot-wide flapper through a forty-five-foot gap. I’ll take my leave of you now, but before I go let me give you something to occupy your mind to help you while away the tedious hours of your incarceration: why do you think Lazarenko fired round shot into our hull when anyone else would have fired chain shot at our masts, to cripple us?’

  Pechorin scowled, and Killigrew slipped out of the saloon.

  As soon as he had gone, the count took his foot off the shard of glass he had been hiding beneath the sole of his boot. He shuffled forward on his bottom until he could grasp the shard in his kid-gloved hands. Clutching it, he squirmed back against the bulkhead, so that when Burgess returned to repair the hole in the windows the count was exactly where he had been earlier. While the carpenter set to work, Pechorin began surreptitiously sawing at his bonds.

  * * *

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Mr Uren told Killigrew when he reported back on the Milenion’s quarterdeck. ‘The left-hand channel is simply too shallow.’

  ‘How shallow?’

  ‘Less than a fathom in places.’

  Killigrew nodded. ‘Then there’s nothing for it: we’ll simply have to tow her out through the other channel.’

  ‘Tow her!’ Thornton exclaimed incredulously. ‘Do you have any idea how much the Milenion weighs?’

  ‘About a hundred and seventy tons?’ guessed Killigrew. The captain scowled, ‘There’s no other way. Come on – it’s only five hundred yards – it shouldn’t be a problem for big, strong lads like we’ve got. There’s room for ten men rowing double-banked in that gig. You’ll be in charge, Captain Thornton… though I’m afraid you’ll have to pull your weight.’

  The master nodded his acquiescence: this was no time for standing on one’s dignity.

  ‘Take Uren, Endicott, Hughes, Iles, O’Leary, Fuller, Yorath and Attwood.’

  ‘And while we’re breaking our backs? Where will you be?’

  ‘The chances are there’s at least one man on board the Atalanta who knows these waters like the back of his hand, in which case they’ll know we’ll be struggling to get out of this channel while the wind’s blowing from the south-west. They’re less than half a mile behind us. What would you do, if you were the officer in command of the Atalanta?’

  Thornton nodded. ‘Send men through the woods to head us off.’

  ‘Our best bet is to ambush them before they get here: that way I’ll take them by surprise, instead of vice versa.’

  ‘You’re going to take them on single-handed?’

  ‘Lor’, no! I’m taking a secret weapon.’

  ‘Secret weapon?’

  ‘Molineaux!’

  The petty officer had picked up a couple of muskets and two cartouche boxes. He threw one of the muskets to Killigrew, who caught it. He slung the musket over one shoulder, and took a cartouche box and slung it over the other. The two of them shinned down to the gig, where Iles and Hughes waited for them.

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’ asked Hughes.

  ‘Take us over to the west shore,’ Killigrew told him, pointing.

  From where the Atalanta was entangled in the ruined bridge, there was a straight line over the island on that side, whereas anyone trying to follow the channel on the opposite bank would be going the long way around. Besides, if Killigrew had been in Lieutenant Lazarenko’s shoes, he would have sent Chernyovsky and his men to catch them, and the Cossacks would have difficulty getting their ponies across to the mainland with the bridge broken. Iles and Hughes put them ashore on the western tip of Odensö Island, before rowing back to where Mackenzie and Uren were making a cable fast to the Milenion’s bows so they could tow her through the channel to the right-hand side of the inlet.

  ‘Hope they don’t go without us, sir,’ said Molineaux.

  ‘I hope they get the chance,’ replied Kill
igrew. ‘Come on.’ Shouldering their muskets, the two of them plunged into the darkness of the forest.

  * * *

  Burgess had cut a square of canvas and tacked it over the hole in the door of the saloon, and was now working on the windows, when Pechorin finally cut through the rope tying his wrists. Outside, the sound of oars plashing and men singing a sea shanty carried faintly back to the saloon: the Milenion’s crew trying to tow the schooner out through the mouth of the channel.

  The carpenter had almost finished his task, and it was tempting for Pechorin to wait until he was gone before he took any further action. Get off the Milenion, swim back to shore and walk along the side of the channel until he reached the Atalanta… but what good would that do? He could not leave until he had found some way to cripple the yacht.

  On the other hand, he doubted he could take on Killigrew and all the men with him single-handed. But at least killing one of them would even the odds in his favour.

  Burgess worked with his back to the count, engrossed in his labours. Pechorin brought his hands in front of him, still grasping the shard of glass, and began sawing at the ropes binding his ankles: it was quicker than trying to unpick one of Molineaux’s Gordian knots.

  Burgess began to hammer the last tack in place. Pechorin strained at the rope around his ankles, and the last fibres snapped. It was the softest of sounds, yet somehow the carpenter heard it above his own hammering. He whirled in time to see Pechorin leap to his feet. After sitting in the same position for over three hours, the count’s limbs were stiff with cramp and he swayed on the deck, giving Burgess time to throw the hammer. Pechorin barely managed to jerk his head aside, and the hammer crashed against the bulkhead behind him. Burgess lunged for the door, but Pechorin interposed himself, still gripping the shard of glass like a dagger.

  Burgess grinned. ‘So, that’s the way of it, is it, Ivan? If it’s a fight you’re wanting, I’m your man!’

  He snatched a chisel from his sack of tools and tossed it from hand to hand. Not much of a weapon, a chisel… except in the hands of a carpenter up against a Russian aristocrat more comfortable with a sabre than a shard of glass.