‘Good work, lads. I’d give the order to splice the mainbrace, but we’re going to need clear heads… for the next hour, at least. You have the watch, Captain Thornton.’
‘Aye, aye, Mr Killigrew.’
The commander made his way below decks to look in on Charlton and Molineaux. He found them in the galley, decanting an oily, yellow-tinged liquid from a saucepan into a wicker-covered bottle with the aid of a funnel.
‘Thought you might like to know the danger’s past,’ Killigrew told them.
‘I wouldn’t go that far, sir,’ replied Molineaux, while Charlton concentrated on what he was doing, the tip of his tongue thrust between his lips.
‘Sorry about the fireworks. If you’ve got any complaints, you’ll have to address them to the Russian Admiralty. Must have been pretty damned nerve-racking for the two of you down here with this stuff, not being able to see what was going on, and wondering if a shot was about to come smashing through the bulkheads.’
‘Molineaux guessed what was happening,’ said Charlton, handing the empty saucepan and funnel to the petty officer. ‘He talked me through it.’
‘Not that he needed it,’ said Molineaux. ‘Nerves of steel, this one, sir. Me, I was wetting myself.’
Molineaux and Charlton exchanged glances, and Killigrew was aware of something unspoken between them that he guessed he would never hear about. He let it pass. ‘You never wet yourself, even when you were a babe in arms, Molineaux.’ He indicated the bottle. ‘Is it ready?’
Charlton nodded.
‘Does it work?’
‘There’s one way to find out.’ Charlton wiped the blade of a knife with a tea towel and put it on the table, away from the bottles. Then he used the medicine dropper to place a single drop of the liquid on the flat of the blade. ‘Anyone got any matches?’
Killigrew patted down the pockets of the Third Section tunic he was still wearing and found the matches he had taken from Leong. He handed the box to Charlton, who struck one and touched it to the drop on the knife. The liquid burned briefly with a clear, blue flame.
Charlton’s face fell. ‘Just what I was afraid of.’
‘Ain’t it no good?’ Molineaux asked plaintively. ‘After all that?’
‘It’s good.’ The assistant surgeon handed back the box of matches.
‘How much have we got?’ asked Killigrew
The assistant surgeon indicated the two bottles. ‘Two and a half pints.’
Killigrew frowned. ‘Will that be enough?’
‘Depends what you want to do with it. If you were planning to move any mountains, you can forget it. But if you want to blow a hole in the side of the Atalanta… well, I think what’s in those bottles will give you a good start.’
The commander eyed the two bottles warily. ‘Perhaps we’d best put them somewhere safe for now. Molineaux, do you think you could find something we could use to pack them? Horsehair from a mattress or something like that?’
‘I know just the thing, sir.’ The petty officer hurried from the galley.
‘Sir… there’s something I think you ought to know,’ said Charlton.
‘Oh?’
‘If we ever make it back to the Ramillies, I’m going to offer my resignation to the Old Man.’
‘I’m not sure that’s allowed, in wartime. Why? What’s brought this on?’
‘I’m not cut out for this, sir. Molineaux was lying – with the best intentions, I know – but he was lying. I haven’t got nerves of steel. I lost control, panicked… if Molineaux hadn’t been here, I’d’ve given up.’
Killigrew had been in the navy long enough to have heard plenty of confessions like this from young men new to active service, and by now he thought he had a good idea of what to say, ‘You’re afraid you’re a coward? Courage isn’t absence of fear, Mr Charlton. We all get scared. Courage is finding the strength to go on in spite of our fears.’
Charlton smiled. ‘Molineaux said how your expecting so much from him and his shipmates made them reluctant to let you down. I suppose that’s why you push them all the time?’
Killigrew shook his head. ‘War pushes us all, Mr Charlton. I just rely on them to do their duty, because I know they will. If anything, knowing that pushes me… because I’m just as frightened of letting them down as they are of disappointing me. At least think it over before you make any decision. We will get back to the Ramillies, I promise you that. When we do, I’ll have a discreet word with the Old Man… and I’ll have nothing but praise for your conduct thus far.’
‘Even though I drugged Mr Dahlstedt?’
‘It was the right decision medically, if not militarily. Medical decisions are your department, military ones mine.’
‘Meaning?’
‘It was my responsibility. I should have known you’d give Dahlstedt something to help him through the pain, and asked you not to. If you’re definite you can’t take the strain any longer, I’m sure the Old Man will understand; he may be as mad as a hatter, but he’s a decent old stick. We can have you transferred to the Belleisle until the fleet sails back to England, get you an appointment ashore if this nonsense drags into a second year, and when the war’s over you can tender your resignation. No blame will attach to you.’
Charlton nodded. ‘Thank you.’
Molineaux returned carrying a crate full of straw. ‘Is this what you had in mind? Lord Dallaway was using it to keep his photographic plates in.’
‘Perfect,’ said Charlton.
They packed the bottles in the straw as tenderly as if they had been tucking a baby up in its cot. ‘Stow it in the bilges, Molineaux,’ said Killigrew. ‘Get Endicott to help you. And make sure it’s secure! We don’t want it shifting every time the boat heels.’
‘You can say that again, sir!’ Molineaux hurried out.
‘The bilges?’ asked Charlton.
‘Below the waterline,’ Killigrew explained. ‘If the Atalanta manages to catch us again and starts lobbing round shot into our hull, that’s where it’ll be safest.’
Once Molineaux had returned with Endicott to stow the crate, Killigrew and Charlton made their way up on deck. With the new mainsail bellying with wind, the Milenion was clipping along at a handsome five and a half knots once more. Three o’clock approached, and already the first traces of the coming dawn were in the sky ahead of them. Killigrew suddenly realised how tired he was. He had reached that peculiarly light-headed feeling a man gets when he has left the familiar realm of exhaustion behind him and entered into the terra incognita that lay beyond. It was incredible to think it was only twelve hours since Kizheh had fetched him from Herre Grönkvist’s house; so much had happened since then, it seemed more like twelve years. Once he got back on board the Ramillies – he could not afford to consider failure as a possibility – he knew he was going to sleep for a month; and if Crichton did not like it, he could lump it.
Once the crate of pyroglycerin had been stowed, Molineaux and the others continued to jettison everything that could be jettisoned, leaving a trail of jetsam in their wake. They rounded the north-eastern corner of Skärlandet Island at six minutes to three, and there was enough light from the rising moon for Killigrew to see the narrow strait between Skärlandet and Svartbäck less than six hundred yards off the starboard bow.
‘Three points to port,’ he told Fuller.
‘Three points to port it is, sir.’
‘Sweet Jesus!’ exclaimed Thornton, realising the commander’s intention. ‘You’re not seriously going to try to take us through there, are you?’
‘It’s our only hope,’ Killigrew told him. Because if they could not get out of the channel here, it would make no difference if it took the crew of the Atalanta one hour or five to untangle the nets tightly entwined about the paddle-wheel: they would still catch the Milenion before she reached Barösund.
‘Heave to, Mr Uren!’ Killigrew ordered when they were a hundred yards off the gap. ‘Away the gig!’
He shinned down the lifelines to the boa
t, and was rowed through the gap by Iles, Yorath, Hughes and O’Leary. He plumbed the depths with a lead line, never recording more than a fathom and three-quarters – ten a half feet – marking the shallowest channel with empty bottles anchored with ropes and makeshift weights.
Once back on board the Milenion, he summoned everyone on deck, including Dahlstedt and Lord Bullivant, who had to be supported by his daughter. ‘Now listen carefully, everyone! I’ll keep this short and simple, if by no means sweet. Our staying alive depends on us reaching the open sea. And our reaching the open sea depends on our getting through that channel.’ He pointed past the bows. ‘There is no other way. If there were, we’d take it. There’s one small problem, however…’
‘Ain’t there always?’ muttered Fuller.
‘The Milenion’s draught – under normal circumstances – is eleven feet. The depth of that channel is ten and a half.’
‘The words “camel” and “eye of a needle” spring to mind.’
‘Indeed they do, Captain Thornton. But we can do this. All we have to do is make the Milenion lighter, so she doesn’t sit so deep in the water. Now, some of you have been hard at work for the past forty minutes, throwing overboard everything that could be jettisoned; enough – at a guess – to reduce our draught damned close to ten and a half feet. But we can’t run the risk of running aground. If we do, the Atalanta will catch us, and… well, I leave it to your own imaginations to guess what happens then. But there’s something on board this yacht that we can still jettison…’
They looked at him blankly.
’You lot,’ said Killigrew. ‘Molineaux, Endicott and I can sail this ship through the gap without help; the remaining sixteen of you are – assuming an average of a hundred and forty pounds each – a ton of deadweight.’ He grinned crookedly. ‘Nothing personal…’
‘So here’s what we’re going to do. Everyone’s going to be shipped to the shore over there until we’ve got the Milenion through the gap. Two trips should do it. When the Milenion’s reached deeper water, we’ll ship you back on board and be on our way. Once we get through the gap, there’s no way the Russians can follow us. It’s more than five miles to the far end of the island to port; by the time the Atalanta has sailed around it, we’ll be safely out to sea.’
Grumbling, everyone clambered down to the gig via the accommodation ladder, or was lowered to it by a hastily rigged boatswain’s chair. As Killigrew leaned over the bulwark to watch Iles and Hughes shove the gig away from the Milenion’s side, Molineaux joined him.
‘What about Burgess and Ogilby?’ the petty officer asked in a low voice. ‘Pardon my graveyard humour, but they really are dead weight.’
‘Wait until Iles and Hughes have taken off the second boatload, and quietly ditch their bodies over the side,’ murmured Killigrew. ‘We haven’t got time for an argument about how they deserve a decent Christian burial. Christ knows, no one would like to give them a proper funeral more than I; but the living must take precedence over the dead, even if some of the living don’t appreciate just how precarious their position is.’
Searle was too badly injured for Charlton to be prepared to permit him to be moved about, so they left him in Araminta’s stateroom, but everyone else still on board apart from Killigrew, Molineaux and Endicott was put in the second boat. While they were being taken off, Molineaux and Endicott brought the two corpses on deck and dragged them to the port bulwark.
‘We ought to say something,’ said Molineaux.
Endicott thought for a moment and whipped off his bandanna, clutching it to his chest. ‘Oh Lord, we commit to Yer care the souls of our… acquaintances… now departed, as we commit their bodies to the deep, like. Take care of them, but not so much that it distracts Yer attention from takin’ care of us, on account of how our need is the greater, as I’m sure Yer’ll appreciate.’
‘Amen,’ said Molineaux.
The two corpses hit the water with a splash.
‘All right, lads,’ Killigrew called from the helm. ‘Loose the headsails!’
The jib and flying jib snapped at the wind, and the Milenion began to creep forward through the gap. Everyone else who had been on board watched from the rocky shore to starboard. The headsails loosed, Molineaux made his way to the bow to shout steering orders to Killigrew at the helm, while Endicott manned the halyards in the starboard waist.
‘Half a point to windward, sir… bit more… that’s it! Keep her steady… steady… handsomely does it…’
Killigrew felt the keel touch bottom through the deck boards beneath his feet. His heart was in his mouth; they had to make it.
The scraping of the keel on the rocks below became more pronounced. He thought about the pyroglycerin in the bilges and wondered if it had been such a good idea to stow it so close to the keel after all. ‘Come on, you bitch,’ he hissed through gritted teeth. ‘You can do it…’
And then the scraping was gone and they were running free.
Endicott grinned at him with relief. ‘Touch and go there, sir, eh?’
A shudder ran through the schooner as they touched bottom again, more firmly this time. Endicott grabbed a backstay to support himself while Killigrew was thrown against the helm.
They were aground.
‘Touch and stay, more like,’ Killigrew said bitterly. ‘Never mind. Perhaps we can kedge her through.’ He took the speaking trumpet from the binnacle and crossed to the starboard bulwark. ‘Bring the gig back across, Captain Thornton! We need eight big, strong lads.’
Thornton brought the boat back out to the Milenion with Uren, Iles, Hughes, Fuller, O’Leary, Yorath and Attwood. ‘Everyone up on deck except Mr Uren, Iles and Yorath,’ Killigrew called down from the entry port. ‘We need to kedge through. Row for’ard, lads, and we’ll lower the anchor to you.’
Once the anchor was on board the gig, Iles and Yorath rowed it out in front of the Milenion, as far as the cable would allow, and dropped it into the water.
‘Man the capstan!’
The men on deck gathered around the capstan and turned it, drawing in the slack of the cable. The anchor scraped along the bottom until it became caught on the seabed. By then Iles and Yorath had rowed the gig back to the schooner’s side. Tying the boat to the side ladder by its painter, they followed Uren up on deck and joined the others at the capstan. They heaved at the bars, feet scraping on the deck, grunting with effort. The cable became taut and the timbers groaned under the strain.
‘Come on, lads!’ urged Killigrew, joining them at the capstan and pushing with all his might. ‘We can do it! Just a few feet!’
He pushed until he thought his heart must burst and his sinews split. But the Milenion would not budge an inch, never mind a few feet. He left off pushing, sinking to the deck with a gasp. ‘All right, lads, belay pushing.’
‘Any more bright ideas, sir?’ asked Endicott.
‘We’re still too heavy,’ said Killigrew. ‘There must be something else we can throw overboard to lighten her.’
Molineaux shook his head. ‘We jettisoned everything but the kitchen sink. And if there’d been one of them on board, we’d’ve jettisoned that too.’
Killigrew nodded. He knew Molineaux would not have missed a trick.
And then he looked up. ‘What about the cooking range?’
‘The cooking range?’ echoed Hughes. ‘It’s cast iron. It’s got to weigh at least a ton.’
‘Exactly,’ said Killigrew, jumping to his feet. ‘Come on, lads!’
They trooped down to the galley, where Killigrew surveyed the scene.
Hughes shook his head. ‘No way, sir. No way. It’s impossible.’
‘You’re in the navy now, Hughes. Nothing is impossible. If Archimedes was ready to have a stab at moving the world, I don’t see why we should be defeated by a cooking range. Fetch Burgess’ tools from the saloon.’ Killigrew pointed to the deck head. ‘I want those deck boards removed. Molineaux, go aloft and rig as many blocks and tackles as you think we’ll need to hoist tha
t stove on the fore gaff.’
Molineaux sucked his teeth in. ‘We’ll need a couple of preventer stays on the fore mast.’
‘Make it so. Give him a hand, Iles. The rest of you, start taking up those deck boards.’
It was the work of a few minutes to make a hole in the deck immediately over the cooking range, while Molineaux and Iles brailed the foresail and rigged up their blocks and tackles. Supervising the work in the galley, Killigrew’s gaze fell on the medicine chest open on one of the worktops, and the bottle of Trubshaw’s Cordial caught his eye. He took it out and stared at the label. At the top it bore the legend: ‘Trubshaw’s Cordial’, and below that was a picture of a Negro petty officer carrying an unconscious man on his back across a snowy wasteland while a polar bear eyed them both from a ridge of ice. Beneath this, in quotes, the words: ‘I can keep going for ever… on Trubshaw’s Cordial.’ And just beneath that, a facsimile of a familiar signature.
‘Molineaux!’ roared Killigrew.
The petty officer’s face appeared at the hole in the deck head above. ‘Sir?’
Killigrew merely showed him the bottle. Recognition showed on Molineaux’s face at once; he might even have blushed.
‘Is that how you paid for your new boots?’ asked Killigrew. ‘And your repeater?’
‘Advertising endorsements,’ said Molineaux. ‘It’s a prime lay. I wonder you haven’t been asked yourself.’
‘A gentleman does not endorse commercial products, Molineaux.’
‘Your loss, sir.’
Killigrew squinted at the bottle again. ‘Is this stuff any good?’
‘Wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole, sir.’
The ropes were lowered through the hole, where Killigrew and Endicott made them fast to the range. They passed up the guy ropes to Fuller and O’Leary before making their way on deck and grasping the heaving lines. Killigrew took off his gloves.
Killigrew’s Run Page 33