Killigrew’s Run

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘About twenty minutes… but we’ll be in range of her bow chaser within eight.’ Killigrew’s mind raced. There were still more than four miles to cover before they reached the Fåfängö Gap; at their current speed, it would take them about three-quarters of an hour to reach it. The Atalanta was going to catch them before they covered a fraction of the distance.

  ‘Is there nothing we can do to escape?’ asked Lady Bullivant.

  Killigrew’s eyes fell on the fishing nets arranged on deck. He took the telescope from the binnacle and gazed forward. He could just make out a low skerry in the channel ahead, fifteen hundred yards off, black against the dark waters that shimmered in the moonlight. The main channel ran to the north of the island, a little over two hundred yards wide.

  He handed the telescope to Thornton. ‘See that skerry? I want you to make for the north side of it, as close in as you are. Then come hard about to port to the opposite side of the channel, again as close as you dare. Sheer off hard-a-starboard, and resume our present course.’

  ‘All right.’ From the tone of his voice, Thornton had finally reached the point where he was prepared to take anything Killigrew told him on trust. ‘One point to port, Fuller.’

  ‘One point to port it is, sir.’

  Killigrew crossed to the after hatch and bellowed down it. ‘Molineaux! Endicott! Hughes! Iles! Belay what you’re doing and tumble up! All hands on deck!’

  Three of them emerged quickly and smartly.

  ‘Where’s Molineaux?’ demanded Killigrew.

  ‘Still helping the pill-roller in the galley, sir.’

  ‘Not good enough, Endicott. Tell him I want him topsides chop chop.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The Liverpudlian went below again. He re-emerged on deck within a minute. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but Molineaux says the process has reached a delicate stage, and he hopes you’ll forgive him but he’s not going to leave Mr Charlton until they’re done.’

  Killigrew knew Molineaux would not disobey an order without good reason. ‘All right, we’ll just have to manage without him. Fetch those nets to the starboard bow.’

  ‘We’re going fishing, sir?’ asked Hughes.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What are we hoping to catch?’

  ‘A paddle-sloop.’

  ‘A paddle-sloop!’ the Welshman echoed in disbelief.

  ‘Get one of the nets up on the bulwark, but don’t put it over the side until I give the word. Hughes, help me with the first one. Endicott and Iles, I want you two standing by with the second; get ready to put it over the side as soon as Hughes and I put the last of this net over. Remember, we want to string them out across the channel, so pay them out, don’t just drop them over the side in one bunch.’

  ‘So that’s why you made us bring these nets on board, sir!’ exclaimed Hughes, finally cottoning on.

  ‘It’s called thinking ahead, Red,’ said Endicott. ‘You should try it sometime.’

  ‘Cut off every second float,’ Killigrew told them. If the crew of the Atalanta spotted the cork floats before they reached the nets, the attempt to foul them would be in vain; the fewer floats that showed, the less chance there was of being spotted in the moonlight.

  ‘Reckon ’ee’s goin’ to work, sir?’

  ‘I hope so, Iles. I sincerely hope so.’ Killigrew would have been more confident if the Atalanta had been a screw steamer rather than a paddler: while being a more efficient means of propulsion, screw-propellers had the disadvantage of seeming to be designed to get caught up in fishing nets, whereas a paddle-wheel was more likely to thrust a net under and astern than it was to get caught. Yet sometimes paddle-steamers did get caught up in nets: it had happened to the Tisiphone, once, and it had taken the crew an hour to untangle them.

  But that was the least of Killigrew’s worries: at the rate the steamer was gaining on them, there was a good chance Pechorin would be able to blow the Milenion out of the water before the Atalanta even reached the nets.

  Chapter 16

  The Fåfängö Gap

  2.33 a.m.–3.25 a.m., Friday 18 August

  ‘Milenion in range, sir,’ the Atalanta’s gunner reported to Pechorin on the quarterdeck.

  ‘Load the bow chaser with chain shot and stand by to aim for her mainmast; but don’t fire until I give the word.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The gunner saluted, made an about-face and headed forward.

  ‘If they’re in range, why not fire?’ demanded Nekrasoff.

  ‘Extreme range, Colonel. No point in wasting shot. Don’t worry; they’re not going anywhere. They’re hemmed in: this channel continues for another twelve vehrsty. We’ll be alongside them in fifteen minutes.’

  Lieutenant Yurieff was watching the Milenion through a telescope. ‘Why are they sailing so close to the southern side of the channel?’ he wondered out loud.

  ‘Trying to tempt us into the shallows, I expect, in the hope we run aground. Maintain your present course,’ Pechorin added to the helmsman.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘She’s putting about,’ warned Yurieff. ‘Turning to port…’

  Pechorin frowned. ‘What the devil are they playing at?’

  ‘Zigzagging, sir?’ suggested Yurieff. ‘Trying to make themselves a harder target to hit?’

  ‘Presenting us with their side!’ Nekrasoff said triumphantly. ‘You could hull her with round shot.’

  ‘I could,’ agreed Pechorin. ‘But I’m not going to; not while there are innocent women on board.’ Which seemed an odd thing to say when one of the women had recently filled his leg with buckshot, but he had to admit he had been asking for it. ‘May I remind you that as long as the fugitives are on board the Milenion this is a naval matter, Colonel, and as long as it remains so we’ll do things my way. What you do with the prisoners once you get them ashore is your own affair.’ Which was not to say he did not intend to lobby every senior official to make sure that no harm came to the Bullivants.

  ‘We’ll wait until they’re within four hundred sazhen, and then open fire with chain shot and dismast them,’ decided the count. ‘Once they’re crippled we’ll have no difficulty running alongside and boarding them.’

  ‘They’re putting about again, sir,’ said Yurieff. ‘Turning to starboard now.’

  ‘Range?’

  ‘About five hundred sazhen I should say.’

  Pechorin took out a cigar, snipped off the end and lit it with a match, the epitome of calm. He puffed away contentedly, the only thing that troubled his spirit a strong feeling that this was hardly a worthy opponent. In Killigrew he had a worthy adversary, that much he did not doubt; but a paddle-sloop against an unarmed schooner? For as long as he could remember, he had wanted to prove his mettle in a battle at sea. Now Russia was finally at war with another European power – and he had been given command of his own ship – first he had been ordered not to leave port; and now that he finally been let off the leash, it was to hunt down a yacht!

  ‘Range, four hundred and fifty sazhen,’ said Yurieff.

  ‘Steady as she goes,’ said Pechorin. ‘Tell the gun crew to stand by for my word of command.’

  The deck thrummed beneath their feet as the Atalanta’s paddles churned the water to a millrace on either side of the sloop. The gap was being closed inexorably.

  In spite of the cold weather, Nekrasoff took out a handkerchief and mopped sweat from his brow. ‘Damn it, why don’t you fire?’ he hissed.

  ‘Everything comes to he who waits,’ said Pechorin, and held out his hand to Yurieff. The lieutenant gave him the telescope, and the count raised it to one eye. The gap had closed to four hundred sazhen, just under a thousand yards: close enough to be reasonably confident of a shot. There was no point in holding off now, except to exasperate Nekrasoff.

  The telescope pressed to his right eye, Pechorin waited… and waited…

  ‘And… fire!’

  The captain of the gun hauled on the lanyard and the bow chaser boomed, belching flame and smoke into t
he night. The chain shot whirred into the air. Pechorin strained to see through the cloud of smoke that now wreathed the bows, and was rewarded with the sight of a spray of water, dingy blue-grey in the moonlight, slicing up from the surface of the channel some fifty yards beyond the Milenion, and a little to port.

  ‘Chert!’ exclaimed Pechorin.

  ‘Who taught your men how to shoot?’ scoffed Chernyovsky. ‘Louis Braille?’

  Pechorin ignored him. ‘Reload!’

  ‘Run in!’ ordered the gunner. The gun crew manned the side tackles, drawing the bow chaser back from the gun port. Once the gun was laid in for loading, the right rearman choked the luff of the preventer tackle and the men closed up.

  ‘Sponge!’

  The captain of the gun stopped the vent. Water was sprinkled over the sponge before it was rammed to the bottom of the bore, given a twist and withdrawn.

  ‘Load!’

  A quill tube was inserted in the vent. Cartridge, wad and chain shot were all loaded into the bore and thrust home with the rammer. The captain of the gun pricked the cartridge through the vent with a priming wire.

  ‘Run out!’

  The muzzle of the bow chaser was run out through the gun port. Two of the gun’s crewmen adjusted the sights.

  ‘Point!’

  The gun was lined up on the Milenion’s mainmast, now no more than 750 yards away.

  ‘Elevate!’

  ‘Lower.’ The captain of the gun brought the top of the fore sight in line. ‘So!’

  ‘Ready!’ called the gunner.

  ‘Fire!’

  * * *

  In the galley, Molineaux heard the first boom of the Atalanta’s bow chaser and knew what was coming next. ‘Better put that saucepan down, sir.’

  Charlton complied. They heard the shot slash into the waves.

  ‘Dear God!’ the assistant surgeon exclaimed, looking sick. ‘They’re shooting at us!’

  ‘They tend to do that when there’s a war on, sir,’ said Molineaux. ‘I’d decant that pyroglycerin now if I were you.’

  ‘But what if the next shot comes through the galley?’

  ‘If a round shot comes through the galley right now, reckon it’ll blow up the pyroglycerin whether it’s resting on the worktop or in your hands. But it takes a British gun crew at least a minute to reload a gun, and from what I’ve seen of Russian gunnery so far, they ain’t a patch on the likes of us… so you’ve still got at least thirty seconds, if you look lively.’

  Charlton started to decant the pyroglycerin from one saucepan to the other. His hands shook so much that Molineaux had to reach out and steady them.

  ‘What if they fire one of their other guns?’ asked the assistant surgeon.

  Molineaux shook his head. ‘No can do, sir. They’ve only got three guns, and two of them point out at the sides. They’re coming up from astern, so they can only use the bow chaser.’

  Charlton had barely finished decanting the pyroglycerin when they heard the muffled boom of the Atalanta’s bow chaser. The assistant surgeon whimpered.

  ‘We got an official term for times like this, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yur: sweaty-bum time.’

  Charlton laughed in spite of himself, and they heard the rip of canvas above them.

  Molineaux glanced up at the deck head. ‘It’s all right: that one went through one of the sails. It means they’re going for the masts; using chain shot, by the sound of it.’

  ‘That’s good?’

  ‘It means they’re not aiming for the hull.’

  Charlton nodded soberly. ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Yur. Unless they succeed in dismasting us: then we’re scuppered.’

  * * *

  Pechorin levelled his telescope. When the smoke cleared, he saw a great rent had been torn through the Milenion’s mainsail, the ragged canvas flapping in the breeze, but the mainmast remained intact.

  ‘That should take a couple of knots off their speed,’ he remarked with satisfaction. ‘Reload!’

  The bow chaser was run in, sponged, loaded, run out, pointed and elevated once more.

  ‘Ready!’ called the gunner.

  Pechorin took a deep breath, and—

  A strange groaning noise from the starboard paddle-wheel distracted him. Even as he looked across at the sponson, there came an odd rending sound, like giant stitches popping, followed by something snapping and splintering, and a God-awful crunching sound. A shudder ran through the deck, making Nekrasoff and Chernyovsky stagger.

  ‘What the devil was that?’ demanded the Cossack.

  Pechorin did not reply, as much at a loss as Chernyovsky, but he had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He turned to one of the michmanis. ‘Stop engines!’ he barked.

  The michmani hurried down the hatch and the throbbing of the deck died beneath their feet. The paddle-wheels had already stopped turning. An eerie silence descended over the sloop.

  ‘What the devil happened?’ demanded Nekrasoff.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Pechorin snapped at him, crossing to the after hatch. ‘Nikolaishvili!’ he roared.

  ‘Sir?’ the engineer’s muffled voice came back.

  ‘What in God’s name just happened?’

  ‘Something must’ve jammed one of the paddle-wheels.’

  ‘Yurieff! Check the port-side paddle-wheel!’

  ‘Sir!’

  While the lieutenant climbed on to the port-side paddle-box to peer over, Pechorin mounted the one to starboard, and saw the net entangled with the paddles. ‘Chert!’ He stood up, whipped off his cap, and threw it down to the deck in fury.

  ‘This one’s clear, sir!’ Yurieff called across the deck.

  ‘This one isn’t,’ Pechorin responded heavily. ‘A fishing net!’

  Yurieff frowned. ‘A fishing net, sir? But this is a major shipping lane… who would be stupid enough to lay a fishing net across this channel?’

  ‘Who do you think, numbskull? Killigrew, damn him!’ Pechorin noticed the gun crew standing by, awaiting further orders. ‘What the devil are you waiting for?’ he roared. ‘Fire, damn you!’

  The captain of the gun hauled on the lanyard and the bow chaser boomed, but the Milenion had already moved out of its line of fire and the shot went wide.

  ‘Reload!’ Pechorin jumped back down to the deck. ‘Away the dinghy, Vasyutkin! I want those nets cut away, at the double!’

  The gun crew reloaded, but by the time they were ready to fire again the Milenion was already more than a thousand yards away. Even with the mainsail flapping limply in the breeze she was able to widen the gap with every passing moment. The fourth shot went wide, the fifth fell short, and after that she was out of range.

  ‘Damn that son of a gun!’ Pechorin said, almost to himself, the ghost of a smile creeping across his features as he shook his head in rueful admiration. One of the most advanced vessels in the Russian navy… crippled, by a fishing net! ‘Damn him to hell!’

  ‘Enough of this foolishness!’ spat Nekrasoff. ‘I’m taking command of this vessel.’

  Pechorin looked him up and down contemptuously. ‘You? Don’t be ridiculous! You don’t have the authority.’

  Nekrasoff showed him his warrant card and his orders from the Grand Duke Konstantin. ‘These give me all the authority I need, Count. Stand down. I’m replacing you as commander of this vessel. Lieutenant Yurieff! Fetch Lieutenant Lazarenko and inform him he is now acting captain of the Atalanta.’ He turned to Starshina Chernyovsky’s two men. ‘Escort Count Pechorin to his quarters and keep him there under guard.’

  As the two Cossacks seized Pechorin, several of the matrosy on deck left off what they were doing to go to their captain’s defence. Chernyovsky pulled his pistols from his sash and levelled them.

  ‘To whom do you owe your loyalty?’ Nekrasoff asked the matrosy mildly. ‘Count Pechorin? Or the Tsar? As a full colonel of the Third Section, I am the senior officer on board. Anyone refusing my orders is a mutineer. Do I make myself pla
in?’

  The situation was so ridiculous, Pechorin would have laughed if he had not been so angry. ‘Do as he says, mouzhiki,’ he told his men. ‘Obey his instructions to the letter.’ He turned his contemptuous gaze back on Nekrasoff. ‘Let’s see just how big a mess of things Lazarenko and this Third Section turd can make.’

  * * *

  Killigrew stared up at the ragged sail above him. ‘Mr Uren!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Please tell me you have another mains’l in the stores?’

  ‘Yes, sir. O’Leary, Yorath, Attwood! Help me get that rag unbent from the mains’l gaff!’

  As the boatswain and the three sailors loosed the halyards to lower the gaff, Killigrew turned to where Fuller stood at the wheel. ‘I’ll take the helm, Fuller. You fetch the spare mains’l. Iles, Hughes – give him a hand. Help Mr Uren and the others unbend that mains’l, Endicott.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  The men went to work with a will. The crippled paddle-sloop was fading into the darkness astern, but not fast enough: the ruination of the mainsail had knocked a couple of knots off their speed – knots they could ill afford to lose – and the Milenion crept along at three and a half knots now.

  Mackenzie levelled his telescope astern, holding it awkwardly in one hand. ‘Looks like we’ve lost them,’ he said, trying to sound chirpy.

  ‘For now,’ agreed Thornton. ‘But it won’t take them for ever to untangle those nets.’

  ‘One hour,’ said Killigrew. His palms were damp inside his kid gloves where they gripped the helm. ‘That’s all I ask. One hour.’

  But even he knew that was too much to expect.

  By the time Fuller, Iles and Hughes came back on deck with the spare mainsail, Uren and the others had removed the ruined one from the gaff and boom. The throat-rope was rove through the hole under the jaws of the gaff and secured. They hauled out the head of the sail by the peak-earring. Once it was taut, the lacings were passed through the eyelet holes and round the jack-stay. They seized the bights of the throat and peak brails to the leech and rove them through the blocks on the gaff. The foot brail was seized to the leech just above the clew, and the luff of the sail seized to the hanks around the mainmast. Once the tack was seized to the boom, they hooked on the outhaul tackle with an eye round the boom, reeving through a single block at the clew and then through a sheave-hole in the boom. Within a few minutes, they were hauling the new mainsail back up the side of the mainmast, and Killigrew was pleased to see them working as a team for once.