‘Reckon we’re better off without ’im, sir,’ opined Iles. ‘’E weren’t much of an ’ostage, were ’ee? Din’t stop the Russkis from firin’ at our hull, anyrate.’
‘You’re right there, Iles. Still, I’d rather have had him tied up in the saloon than on the quarterdeck of the Atalanta. He’ll do a better job of commanding her than whoever was in charge in his absence, if I’m any judge of character.’
Charlton was waiting for Killigrew by the time they got back on board the Milenion. The assistant surgeon had wrapped a bandage around his forehead and his face was ashen, but his eyes were bright enough.
‘Mr Dahlstedt’s awake, sir. He’s been asking for you.’
‘Thank you, Mr Charlton. How about you? Are you all right?’
The assistant surgeon grinned ruefully. ‘Just about, sir. I’m afraid I’m not cut out for fisticuffs.’
‘Never mind, Charlton: that’s not what the navy pays you for. You did your best, I’m sure. Hoist the sails, Mr Uren!’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘What course?’ asked Thornton.
‘Due west, for now.’
‘You realise the Russians will have repaired the Atalanta by now, don’t you? That they’re probably already steaming the other way around Odensö to meet us?’
Killigrew smiled thinly. ‘The thought had occurred to me. Once we’re past that island over there, we’ll tack south through the mess of islands between Danskog and Skärlandet. With any luck we’ll be able to lose the Atalanta amongst the skerries. You have the watch, Captain Thornton.’
Killigrew made his way below and found the pilot sitting up in the bunk in Lady Bullivant’s stateroom. ‘Hullo, Dahlstedt! Back in the land of the living, eh? How d’you feel?’
‘A bit groggy, sir, but I’ll survive. Where are we?’
‘Just emerging from the south-east end of the Odensö Channel.’
‘And the Atalanta?’
‘Probably steaming around the other side of the Odensö to meet us.’
‘Which way does the wind lie?’
‘Sou’westerly.’
‘Head east, sir.’
‘East?’
Dahlstedt nodded. ‘East, down the Skärlandet Channel. There’s plenty of water, and we’ll be able to run before the wind.’
Killigrew had seen the Skärlandet Channel on charts of the area: ranging between four hundred yards and half a mile in breadth, it ran due east for the best part of ten miles, with the south coast of Finland on one side and two long islands on the other, separated by the tiniest of gaps. Sheltered by the islands, in peacetime it was the main route for shipping travelling between Barösund and Ekenäs.
He shook his head. ‘The Skärlandet Channel is out of the question. The Atalanta will overhaul us long before we reach the end. I thought we’d sail through the islands between Danskog and Skärlandet.’
‘We’ll never grope our way through those islands without a chart, sir, not at night. The captain of the Atalanta will expect us to head west, to join the rest of the fleet at the Åland Islands. The last thing he’ll expect us to do is turn east towards Helsingfors.’
‘He’ll work out where we’ve gone sooner or later.’
‘But we might buy enough time to reach the Fåfängö Gap between Skärlandet and Svartbäck.’
Killigrew frowned. ‘Is there enough water for us to get through there?’
‘Nearly two fathoms. What’s our draught?’
‘Eleven feet.’
Dahlstedt grimaced. ‘It’s going to be tight. But it’s our only chance. And look at it this way: if the Milenion can get through, the Atalanta certainly won’t be able to.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘She’ll have to sail all the way around Svartbäck.’
‘Fifteen miles out of her way,’ agreed Dahlstedt. ‘By the time she gets back, we’ll be on the open sea.’
‘Thank you, Herre Dahlstedt. If you’ll excuse me, I have a change of course to order.’
Killigrew closed the stateroom door behind him and scrambled up on deck. ‘Captain Thornton! Put her about, if you please. We’re heading east, not west.’
‘East? But Hangö Head is south-west!’ To reach the fleet at Ledsund, they would have to sail past the Hangö Peninsula; even if the fleet had moved on since the Ramillies had left it – had it really only been the day before yesterday? – Admiral Napier usually kept at least one ship stationed off Hangö Head, to monitor shipping movements into and out of the Gulf of Finland.
‘You know that, and I know that,’ Killigrew told him. ‘So does Pechorin. So we head east. That way we can run before the wind and give the Atalanta the slip before we turn south and make for the open sea.’
Thornton shrugged. ‘Sixteen points to starboard, Fuller.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The seaman spun the helm.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Killigrew,’ said Thornton, shaking his head.
‘So do I, Captain Thornton, so do I. Molineaux!’
‘Sir?’
‘We need to jettison every ounce of weight we can spare. I want you to take Endicott, Iles and Hughes and root out every useless piece of dead weight on board, and throw it over the side.’
The petty officer grinned. ‘His lordship isn’t going to like that.’ Killigrew lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Why do you think I’m asking you and the rest of our lads to do it, instead of the Milenions?’
‘If we’re getting rid of dead weight, maybe we should start with his lordship?’
‘Don’t tempt me! But since our orders are to take him back to safety, that would rather defeat the object of the exercise. You might start with that round shot embedded in the timbers for’ard. Then all anchors except the best bower, the bath tub, washstands, any furniture that isn’t fixed, all pots and pans in the galley, all crockery, all cutlery, all wine… whatever you can find.’
‘What about the chemicals in the dark room?’
‘Lose them all except the ones Mr Charlton needs to make this explosive chemical he was telling me about.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Seth! Red! Ben! Bear a hand, lads! We’ve got work to do.’
‘Pyroglycerin?’ Charlton asked Killigrew as the four ratings made their way below.
Killigrew nodded. ‘If it’s as powerful an explosive as you say it is, I’ve a feeling it might come in handy before the night is out. You did say you knew how to make it.’
‘I also said it was very volatile.’
‘This is a volatile situation, Mr Charlton.’
‘Before I agree to this, sir, I think there are four things you should be aware of. One: it involves mixing highly concentrated acids; never something one should take lightly at the best of times, let alone in the galley of a ship at sea—’
Killigrew glanced at the glassy waters in the sheltered channel. ‘I’d hardly describe this as “at sea”, Mr Charlton.’
‘Two: the glycerine has to be added drop by drop, and kept cool, because as soon as I start adding it, nitration will take place. The temperature of the compound rises, and if it goes above eighty-six degrees then a deadly poisonous gas called nitrogen dioxide is produced. Three: as I keep saying, this stuff is highly volatile – one tap is enough to detonate it. And four: this stuff is also the most powerful explosive known to man; nearly fifty times more powerful than gunpowder.’
‘Fifty times more powerful than gunpowder,’ Killigrew echoed sceptically. He had heard of guncotton, four times more powerful than gunpowder, when a factory producing the stuff in Faversham had exploded, killing twenty-one workers, stripping tiles from the roofs of all buildings within five hundred yards, and shattering the windows of houses a mile away. And Charlton thought this stuff pyroglycerin was twelve times as powerful as that. And if mixing it was as dangerous as all that – and to Killigrew it sounded as though Charlton was over-egging the pudding – well, weren’t they all in such perilous straits that a little more peril could hardly make any difference at this stage?
‘See what you can do,’ he told Charlton.
‘I don’t think you understand, sir. One slip, and this whole yacht could be blown out of the water.’
‘Then don’t slip.’
Charlton shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’ll need someone to help me.’
‘All right. Tell Molineaux to leave off helping Endicott, Hughes and Iles and to help you instead.’ If the pyroglycerin was as dangerous as all that, then Charlton would need a safe pair of hands to assist him, and he doubted there would be a safer pair on board than those of Wes Molineaux.
Charlton nodded and went below.
Chapter 15
Recipe for Disaster
2.10 a.m.–2.33 a.m., Friday 18 August
Molineaux knocked on the door to the maid’s cabin. ‘Who is it?’ she called.
‘Wes Molineaux. Can I have a word, miss?’
She opened the door and peered out at him, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping. ‘What do you want?’
‘Rags, miss.’
‘Rags?’
‘Tow rags. I thought you might have some.’
She flushed. ‘That’s hardly the sort of question a gennleman asks a lady!’
‘Yur well, you ain’t no lady, and I sure as hell ain’t no gentleman!’ he grinned. ‘Sorry to embarrass you, miss; I wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important.’
She sighed. ‘Wait here,’ she told him, and retreated into the cabin, closing the door behind her. He heard her moving about within, and she opened the door again and thrust a dozen tow rags into his hands. ‘Will those do you?’
‘Plummy!’
She was about to close the door, but he blocked it with a foot.
‘Was there something else you wanted?’ she demanded impatiently.
‘Just to know if you’re all right.’
‘Of course I’m all right. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘It’s just that, after that scene I barged into earlier…’
She grimaced. ‘I’d rather not be reminded, if it’s all the same with you.’
‘When I was on the Tisiphone, the first lieutenant was Lord Hartcliffe. Your mistress knows him. His guv’nor owns a big palace down in Somersetshire. If you wanted to leave Lord Bullivant’s service, I reckon I might be able to find you alternative employment.’
She softened. ‘It’s very kind of you to offer, but I doubt it would make much difference. I’ve been in service since I were twelve, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, all men are the same.’
‘Not Lord Hartcliffe. He’s a straight-up cove; he wouldn’t take advantage of you.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Believe me… you ain’t his sort.’
‘Backgammon player?’ she asked knowingly.
‘You didn’t hear it from me. But he’s as decent a cove as you could ever hope to meet.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
He nodded, and turned away.
‘Molineaux!’ she called after him.
‘Wes, to my pals.’
‘Thanks, Wes.’
‘What for?’
‘For showing an interest. In something other than my body, I mean.’ He grinned. ‘Now, what makes you so sure I ain’t interested in that as well?’
‘Good night, Wes,’ she told him, smiling, and closed the cabin door. Molineaux dropped the tow rags in the steward’s store next to the bottles of lamp oil and emerged to help Endicott, Hughes and Iles, but met Mr Charlton coming down the companion ladder. ‘Ah, Molineaux – Mr Killigrew says you’re to stop what you’re doing and help me mix this pyroglycerin.’
‘The explosive stuff?’ The petty officer grimaced. ‘Very kind of him to volunteer my services like that. All right, how can I help?’
‘I need a saucepan, a basin big enough to rest it in, a spoon, and a thermometer. I’ll fetch the chemicals. Where did you say they are?’
‘Dark room, sir.’ Molineaux indicated the door. ‘Reckon you’ll find most of the things you’re after in the galley. I’ll see if I can find a thermometer.’
‘We’ll also need some cold water… sea water will have to do. Bring me a bucketful.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Molineaux found a bucket and a coil of rope in the stores and carried them both on deck, where he approached Captain Thornton. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Thornton, but could you tell me where I could find a thermometer?’ he asked, tying one end of the rope to the bucket’s handle.
‘A thermometer? What the devil d’you need with a thermometer?’
‘It’s for Mr Charlton, sir.’
‘Oh, all right. There’s one in the chart room, hanging on the wall next to the barometer.’
‘Thanks.’ Molineaux made his way to the side and threw the bucket over, drawing it back on board once it was full of water. Coiling the rope, he carried the bucket below to the galley, where he found Charlton had assembled everything else he needed.
‘There’s your sea water, sir.’
‘Thermometer?’
‘Getting it now, sir.’ Molineaux made his way to the chart-room and took the thermometer down from the wall. Returning to the galley, he presented it to Charlton, who eyed it unhappily.
‘This is a weather thermometer.’
‘What other kind is there?’
‘Never mind, it will do. Can you take the wooden bit off the back of it for me? But be very careful not to break the glass tube!’
Molineaux rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll try not to, sir.’ He found a knife he could use as a screwdriver and removed the screws from the brass brackets that held the thermometer in place. Charlton, meanwhile, half-filled the basin with sea water, and then placed the pan inside it. He put the bottle of glycerine in the bucket, still more than half-full with water. He took off his tailcoat, rolled up his sleeves, and carefully mixed the oil of vitriol and the spirits of nitre in the saucepan, using a measuring cup to get the proportions correct.
‘Be very careful with this stuff, Molineaux,’ he said, stirring the mixture gingerly with a long-handled spoon. ‘It’s acid. If any splashes on you, wash it off at once, d’you hear?’
‘I’ll try to bear that in mind, sir.’
Charlton took the dropper from the medicine chest and filled it from the bottle of glycerine, adding it one drop at a time to the acid mixture, still stirring gingerly with the spoon.
‘Why not dump it all in at once?’ suggested Molineaux.
‘Because it will blow up in our faces,’ Charlton told him.
‘Fair enough.’
His face a picture of concentration, the assistant surgeon continued to add the glycerine drop by drop to the acid mix. Every now and then he would break off and carefully dip the thermometer’s bulb into the concoction.
‘Fifty-nine degrees,’ he said, holding the thermometer out to Molineaux. The petty officer reached for it, but Charlton held it back. ‘Be sure you only hold it by the dry part at the top… and rinse it off at once.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Charlton let him take the thermometer and resumed dropping in the glycerine.
‘This reminds me of how I used to help Mr Strachan with his experiments on board the Venturer,’ said Molineaux.
‘Did Mr Strachan ever complain about your talking when he was trying to concentrate on a particularly tricky and dangerous experiment?’
‘No, sir. As a matter of fact, he used to talk me through it. You know, explain what he was doing, and why, and what the science was behind it. And he always made it easy to understand, without being patronising. Reckon I learned a lot from Mr Strachan, I did.’
‘Yes, well, I’m not Mr Strachan,’ Charlton said in the terse tones of a man sick and tired of being constantly compared with a predecessor, to his own detriment.
‘You saying you’d like me to stow it, sir?’
‘I’d appreciate it ever so much.’
Molineaux watched in silence as the assistant surgeon continued to add the glycerine to the mixture.
Hughes bustled noisily into the galley with a sack, and Charlton crumpled. ‘You need any of this stuff?’ asked the Welshman. ‘Only, Mr Killigrew says it’s all got to go over the side.’
‘Just this stuff here,’ said Molineaux, gesturing to the makeshift apparatus. ‘Anything else you need, sir?’
‘Yes: we’ll need a second saucepan, a funnel, three pint bottles and some baking soda. The rest can go.’
Molineaux rummaged about and managed to find everything else Charlton needed. The assistant surgeon resumed dropping the glycerine in the mixture. Sweat dripped down Charlton’s face, and he broke off to wipe his forehead with his sleeve.
Hughes was reaching up to take the remaining pots and pans down from an overhead rack when the whole lot broke away and crashed to the deck behind Charlton.
The assistant surgeon jumped a foot in the air and responded with language Molineaux had never dreamed a gentleman might be familiar with. He rounded furiously on Hughes. ‘Do you mind?’
The Welshman looked hurt. ‘Sorry, sir. It was an accident.’
‘One more accident like that, Hughes, and we’ll all be blown sky high!’
Hughes pulled a face at Molineaux, who shrugged. ‘Cut along, Red. Mr C needs to concentrate.’
‘Aye, aye, Wes.’ Having stuffed the pots and pans in his sack, Hughes beat a hasty retreat from the galley.
‘Any drinking water?’ asked Charlton.
‘Reckon there’s some in this cistern, sir.’
‘Right: run some off into the second saucepan and let it stand. We’ll need it later.’
‘How much do we need?’
‘No point in filling it above halfway: if that’s too much, we can tip some out when the time comes.’ Charlton laid the medicine dropper to one side. ‘Thermometer,’ he said, holding out one hand. Molineaux passed it to him. Charlton dipped it in the mixture, and frowned as the mercury rose up the tube. ‘Uh-oh.’
‘“Uh-oh”?’ echoed Molineaux. ‘What do you mean, “uh-oh”?’ I don’t like the sound of that “uh-oh”!’
‘Temperature’s up to sixty. We’ve got to keep it cool.’
‘What happens if we don’t?’
‘If it rises above sixty-seven, then the mixture reaches saturation point: no more pyroglycerin can be made, and there’s a good chance that the layer of pyroglycerin that’s already floating on top will explode in our faces. If it rises too quickly, it’ll start giving off nitrogen dioxide.’
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