Killigrew’s Run

by Jonathan Lunn

  Fedyushin nodded and drew a large dagger from his sash before crawling off through the darkness.

  A couple more shots sounded in the distance, but less muffled this time.

  ‘Some more over here, sir!’ another voice, with a strange accent, called from another direction.

  ‘Good work, Endicott! Try to flush them through to me. Where’s Hughes?’

  ‘Right here, sir!’ Yet another voice, another accent. ‘I think some of the buggers have gone to ground between us.’

  More shots in the distance, in the direction of the Milenion, perhaps.

  ‘My God!’ breathed Vasilieff. ‘They’ve got us surrounded!’

  ‘Idiot!’ snapped Chernyovsky. ‘There are just two men out there, putting on silly voices to frighten us!’

  A ghastly scream sounded in the darkness. Chernyovsky and his men had heard a scream like that once before, when they had been posted to the Caucasus and had been using their daggers to interrogate a captive believed to be an ally of the rebel chieftain Shamyl. They had laughed then; none of them was laughing now.

  Chernyovsky could feel cold sweat dripping from his armpits. ‘Fedyushin?’ he called. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘This Fedyushin, Chernyovsky…’ Molineaux called back to him, ‘would he be a big cove with a pointy black beaver and warts? Sorry, I don’t think he can hear you any more.’

  The starshina tugged his pistol from his sash and fired it in the direction of the voice. Mocking laughter echoed eerily out of the darkness to let him know he had missed.

  ‘To hell with this!’ muttered Vasilieff. ‘I’m getting out of here!’ And before Chernyovsky could grab him, the Cossack had risen to his feet and dashed off through the trees.

  The starshina hesitated, torn between trying to find Fedyushin – or whatever these English bastards had left of him – and going after Vasilieff. He knew that going after Vasilieff was only an excuse for cowardice. But he was not stupid enough to pretend he was not scared: he was a warrior of the Steppes; this close-quarters fighting in the depths of the Finnish forests at night was a new and unnerving experience for him. Maybe Vasilieff had the right idea…

  The devil take Fedyushin, he told himself. Rising to his feet, he dashed through the undergrowth in what he hoped was the direction of the Atalanta.

  The forest lit up for a split second as a bullet soughed past his head, attracted by the noise he made blundering through the bracken. He tripped over a tree root and fell on his face, but something soft broke his fall.

  Something soft and warm.

  And sticky.

  He struck a match, cupping a hand around it to hide the flame, and found himself staring into Vasilieff’s dead, staring eyes. His throat had been cut from ear to ear.

  * * *

  In his panic to get away from the Milenion, Pechorin had made the mistake of swimming to the east side of the channel; or perhaps it had not been such a mistake, for as he made his way along the bank he could hear musket shots and see muzzle flashes amongst the trees on the other side. If people were fighting amongst the trees, it was a fair bet that some of them were Russians, perhaps his own crewmen sent from the Atalanta by Lazarenko, and part of him felt in honour bound to go to their assistance. But he was tired and battered, and his leg was bleeding in spite of the handkerchief he had tied about it as a makeshift tourniquet. Besides, he was a naval officer, not a woodsman. Difficult to see what he could hope to achieve, unarmed, in those black and forbidding woods, other than getting himself killed by one of his own countrymen. His duty was to get back to his paddle-sloop, before that fool Lazarenko sank it.

  A few minutes later he came to where the Atalanta was anchored in the moonlight beyond the wrecked bridge, the sound of hammering and sawing coming across the water from where the carpenter’s crew repaired the starboard wheel. He stuck two fingers in his mouth to emit a shrill whistle, and waved when figures appeared at the sloop’s port bulwark. A dinghy was sent across to pick him up, and within two minutes he was climbing up on deck through the sloop’s entry port.

  A man in the uniform of a colonel in the Third Section strode towards him from the quarterdeck. ‘Captain-Lieutenant Count Pechorin? What the devil have—’

  Pechorin held up a hand to silence him, and turned to one of the michmanis. ‘Would you ask Herr Juschke to report to me in my quarters?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ The michmani hurried below to find the ship’s surgeon.

  Pechorin crossed to where Dubrovsky and his men were repairing the damage. ‘How’s it going, mouzhiki?’

  The shipwright grinned. ‘Another ten minutes, sir, and she’ll be as good as new.’

  ‘Good work, Dubrovsky. Keep it up.’ He strode across to the quarterdeck. ‘Lazarenko!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘My quarters. Now.’

  ‘Count Pechorin!’ insisted the Third Section colonel. ‘I really must protest—’

  ‘Who are you, and what are you doing on my ship?’

  ‘I’m Colonel Radimir Fokavich Nekrasoff, of the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Chancery.’

  ‘Ah, the Peeping Tom Brigade, eh? The recapture of the yacht Milenion is a naval matter, Colonel, so unless you have some advice that will materially assist me in that matter, you will oblige me by waiting until I send for you.’ Leaving Nekrasoff turning puce in his wake, Pechorin descended the after hatch to his quarters.

  Lazarenko was waiting for him. ‘Tell me, Lieutenant, have we run out of chain shot?’ Pechorin asked him, kicking off his boots and unbuckling his belt.

  ‘No, sir.’

  Pechorin stripped off his trousers. ‘Is there no langridge in our shot lockers?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then perhaps you could be so good as to inform me why it was you saw fit to fire a round shot into the Milenion’s stern? Surely dismasting the yacht would have been more efficacious in terms of crippling it to ensure its capture?’

  Herre Juschke entered Pechorin’s day-room. Like most medical men in the Russian Empire, he was of German extraction. ‘You sent for me, Excellency?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pechorin sat down and put his left leg on the desk. ‘Tidy up that mess.’

  As the surgeon set to cleaning Pechorin’s wound, the count turned back to Lazarenko. ‘I’m still waiting for your explanation, Lieutenant.’

  ‘I was acting under the orders of Colonel Nekrasoff.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it must have grieved you deeply to be ordered to fire upon the Milenion with round shot, knowing you were endangering the life of your commanding officer. You cannot wait to supplant me, can you? A word of warning, Mstislav Trofimovich: it will take more than my death to get you promoted to captain-lieutenant.’

  Lazarenko flushed.

  ‘Pass me the brandy, and a glass,’ Pechorin told him.

  The lieutenant fetched decanter and balloon from the sideboard, and the count poured himself a generous measure.

  He winced as Juschke plucked another pellet from his leg with a pair of fine surgical tweezers, and the German dropped it with a clink in a metal kidney dish he had produced from his holdall.

  ‘You know, you really should not be drinking when—’ the surgeon began, until silenced by a glare from the count.

  ‘Not that I mind you trying to murder me,’ Pechorin added pleasantly to Lazarenko. ‘All’s fair in love and war, eh? But there were civilians on board that yacht, including three women, as well you know. They might have been killed.’

  Lazarenko stood ramrod stiff. As I have already told you, Captain-Lieutenant, I was acting under the orders of Colonel Nekrasoff.’

  ‘And since when did the navy take orders from a colonel of the Third Section on the deck of one of its own ships? Get out of my sight, Lazarenko. Go back on deck, and ask Colonel Nekrasoff to join me. Then you can tell Lieutenant Yurieff that he is now first lieutenant.’

  The colour drained from Lazarenko’s face. ‘But, sir—’

  ‘What’s the matter, Mstislav Trofimovich?
Perhaps you feel your honour is impugned? Perhaps you would like to continue this discussion at sabre’s edge?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then go.’

  ‘Sir.’ Lazarenko saluted Pechorin, his eyes full of hate, and retreated from the day-room.

  The surgeon had removed all the pellets he could find by the time Nekrasoff entered the day-room, and was swabbing the wounds with medicinal alcohol. ‘Leave us,’ Pechorin told him. ‘I can do that.’

  Juschke knew better than to argue with the count when he was in this mood. ‘As you will.’ He retreated hurriedly from the day-room, leaving Pechorin alone with Nekrasoff.

  The Third Section colonel tried to seize the initiative. ‘What the devil do you think you were doing, dallying with some Finnish bitch on board the Milenion when your duties were on the Atalanto?’

  ‘Even a captain-lieutenant of the Imperial Russian Navy cannot be on duty twenty-four hours a day. It would not have mattered, had you not permitted the prisoners to escape from your custody.’

  ‘Where is the Milenion now?’

  ‘They’re towing it against the wind towards the mouth of the Odensö Channel, not one verst from here.’ Pechorin began to wrap a bandage around his calf.

  ‘I thought as much! That’s why I sent Starshina Chernyovsky and his men to intercept them. Did you meet them?’

  Pechorin regarded Nekrasoff with a smile and a sceptically arched eyebrow. ‘You thought as much? Or Lazarenko did? As for Chernyovsky and his men, I fancy Killigrew ambushed them on their way to the Milenion. I heard shooting in the woods on Odensö so I followed the channel back here.’

  ‘If just one of them escapes back to the Allied Fleet, Count Pechorin, I shall be sure to inform the Grand Duke Konstantin just who was responsible for the failure.’

  ‘Make sure your own name is at the top of your list, Colonel, and I dare say I’ll agree with you. Anyhow, it may make no difference.’

  ‘No difference?’ exploded Nekrasoff. ‘If the Allies find out about the Ivan Strashnyi—’

  ‘The English prisoners know nothing of the Ivan Strashnyi.’

  ‘You cannot know that!’

  ‘Killigrew wanted to know why you were so keen to kill them all. If he already knew, why ask? If Lord Bullivant or any of his crew knew, surely they would have told him?’ Pechorin shook his head. ‘It seems I made a mistake in bringing in the Milenion.’

  ‘The first of a catalogue of errors.’

  ‘A catalogue of which you are co-author. I had assumed that General Ramsay would merely keep Lord Bullivant and his family and crew captive in Ekenäs, until the reason for their incarceration no longer existed. There was no difficulty, until the Third Section put its dirty galoshes in.’

  ‘Even if Killigrew knows nothing of the Ivan Strashnyi, he knows there is a reason we do not want anyone from the Milenion to get back to the Allied Fleet. He must surely put two and two together, and come up with four. And besides, after all Lord Bullivant and his family have been subjected to now, we cannot let them get away.’

  Pechorin tied off the bandage on his leg. ‘So, we’re not murdering them to protect the Ivan Strashnyi. We’re murdering them to protect you.’

  ‘To protect us, Count.’

  Pechorin grunted and stood up, pulling on his trousers. ‘Any news from Jurassö?’

  Nekrasoff shook his head.

  ‘There is another way, you know.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We capture the Milenion and all aboard her, hold them in custody until we know the Ivan Strashnyi is safe, and then send them back to England unharmed. That will convince the British authorities of our good faith, and dispel any thoughts they may have that we intended to murder them.’

  ‘Convince them of our good faith!’ Nekrasoff echoed scornfully. ‘We are at war, are we not?’

  Pechorin sat down and pulled on his boots. ‘Even in war, there are certain niceties to be observed.’

  ‘Not at the price of victory. I begin to doubt your devotion to the Tsar. You would do well to be warned by your father’s fate, Count Pechorin.’

  ‘My father was no more a traitor than I am,’ Pechorin retorted coldly.

  Nekrasoff smiled. ‘My fear exactly.’

  There was a knock at the door. ‘Enter!’ Pechorin barked, without taking his eyes off Nekrasoff’s face.

  One of the michmanis entered and saluted. ‘Starshina Chernyovsky has returned, Captain.’

  Pechorin nodded and stood up. As the michmani retreated from the day-room, the count held the door open for Nekrasoff to precede him. Pechorin took a fat Havana from the box on his desk before following.

  The three of them went up on deck, where they found Chernyovsky waiting with two of his men.

  ‘Where are the rest of your men, Starshina?’ demanded Nekrasoff.

  Chernyovsky glowered. ‘We were ambushed.’

  Pechorin chuckled. ‘It seems you underestimated Commander Killigrew.’ He turned to the shipwright. ‘How’s that paddle-wheel coming along, Dubrovsky?’

  ‘Just finishing off now, sir.’

  ‘Instruct Inzhener Nikolaishvili to stand by.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The michmani hurried below to the engine-room.

  The shipwright’s crew were replacing the boards on the starboard paddle-box. ‘Heave up the anchor!’ ordered Pechorin.

  ‘Anchor’s aweigh, sir!’

  ‘Set on: turn astern, half!’

  The engine thumped into life and the Atalanta began to reverse away from the bridge. Once he was satisfied that the repaired starboard paddle-wheel was operating as effectively as the undamaged one to port, Pechorin ordered Nikolaishvili to turn astern, full, until the channel was wide enough for the sloop to make a U-turn.

  ‘Full steam ahead,’ ordered Pechorin, snipping one end off his cigar with a cigar-cutter.

  The sloop began to plough back the way it had come, towards the mouth of the Ekenäs inlet.

  ‘If the Milenion reaches the open sea…’ warned Nekrasoff.

  ‘Once they reach the Skärlandet Channel, Colonel, they will have to sail close-hauled until they reach the straits between Odensö and Danskog. They will make slow progress.’ Pechorin struck a match and wafted the flame back and forth across the end of the cigar until it glowed orange. He took a couple of contented puffs of the rich tobacco smoke. ‘We can head them off in half an hour.’

  * * *

  As much as Killigrew had been enjoying his deadly game of hide-and-seek with the Cossacks, he knew he would have to curtail it the moment he heard the first of the shots from the direction of the Milenion. Nevertheless, he could not withdraw and leave Molineaux in the lurch, and headlong flight would only enable the Cossacks to come after them. So he had stuck at it until he had killed three of them, Molineaux had killed as many, and the rest were retreating in disarray.

  But there was no sign of the petty officer. Killigrew dared not call out his name in the darkness – some of the Cossacks might have stayed behind to avenge their comrades – so he headed back to the Milenion, knowing that Molineaux would have heard the shots from the direction of the yacht too, and realise that Killigrew had left. The petty officer was a big boy who had proved he could take care of himself on more than one occasion.

  He proved it again that night. As Killigrew saw the channel where the Milenion had been in the moonlight through the trees up ahead, a shadow detached itself from the trunk of a pine to his right, and before he could defend himself he felt the touch of cold steel at his throat.

  ‘I sincerely hope that’s you, Molineaux.’

  ‘This must be your lucky night, sir.’

  The two of them emerged from the trees, Molineaux replacing his knife in the sheath in the small of his back. ‘I see you got your Bowie knife back.’

  ‘One of the Cossacks had it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Hushed him quicker than he’d’ve been scragged for prigging back in England,’ Molineaux said defensively.

  T
he Milenion was about three hundred yards to their left, past the island at the mouth of the channel; far enough into the open water to be able to sail around the south end of the island. Killigrew stuck two fingers in his mouth and emitted a shrill whistle to attract the attention of the men who still pulled at the oars in the gig. Seeing the commander and petty officer on the shore behind them, they left off rowing and returned to the Milenion, where Thornton and his men went back on board to loose the towing cable while Endicott, Hughes and Iles started to row back to fetch Killigrew and Molineaux.

  ‘That was a fine impersonation you did of Endicott, by the way,’ Killigrew remarked while they waited for the gig to reach them.

  ‘Eh, a Scouse accent’s easy, like,’ Molineaux reprised. ‘Your impersonation of Hughes were pretty smart, I thought.’

  ‘I’ve been known to dabble in amateur dramatics, look you.’

  The gig had almost reached them. ‘What was all that shooting about?’ Killigrew called as he and Molineaux waded into the water to meet the boat in the shallows.

  ‘Pechorin escaped, sir,’ said Endicott. ‘I’m afraid he killed Burgess.’

  ‘How the hell did he get free?’ Killigrew could not believe that Pechorin had wriggled free of any bonds that Molineaux had put on him.

  ‘From what’s left of the ropes, I’d say he cut through them with a shard of glass.’

  ‘Damn! My fault: I saw the glass all over the rug, should’ve realised he’d have wit enough to use some to free himself. Was anyone else hurt?’

  ‘Mr Charlton got bashed on the noodle, but I reckon he’ll survive. Oh, and Charlie Ogilby lost the number of his mess, but that were from his wound.’

  ‘Well, at least his death’s been paid for, with interest. No one else was hurt?’

  ‘Not unless you count Pechorin himself. Lady Bullivant reckons she winged him.’

  ‘Lady Bullivant?’

  ‘She were the one doing all the shooting. It were all over by the time we got back on board.’

  Killigrew and Molineaux had climbed back in the gig now, and Molineaux took a spare oar to help row them back across to the Milenion.