Killigrew’s Run

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘Everyone ready? On the count of three: one… two… three, heave!’

  They hauled on the ropes. The blocks creaked, and the fore gaff groaned.

  ‘And again… heave!’

  The cooking range rose from its brickwork bed on the galley floor: only an inch, but it was a start.

  ‘And again… heave!’

  They hauled on the ropes, hand over hand, hoisting the range out of the galley an inch at a time. The blocks squealed in protest.

  ‘That tackle isn’t going to hold,’ Hughes muttered dubiously, gazing aloft.

  ‘It’ll hold!’ insisted Molineaux. ‘Heave, damn you!’

  At last the bottom of the range was level with the deck, then a few inches above it. Fuller and O’Leary took up the slack on the guy ropes to steady it as it swung from side to side.

  ‘Heave! Heave! Heave! That’s it, my buckoes… nearly there…’

  They hauled it up until the bottom was clear of the bulwarks, and then swung it towards the side. The gaff jaws groaned in protest… and the peak span snapped.

  The gaff jerked down, slamming the range against the top of the bulwark, which splintered under the massive weight. The whole ship rocked under the impact. It was too much for the preventer stays to hold. They parted, and the range tumbled from the side to hit the water with a terrific splash. The gaff whipped down like an executioner’s axe. Killigrew saw Molineaux standing directly beneath it and launched himself across the deck. Catching the petty officer around the waist in a rugby tackle, he knocked him clear a split-second before the gaff chopped down on the deck.

  Molineaux sat up and gazed across at the gaff that had come so close to squashing him. ‘Thanks, sir.’

  ‘No more than I owe you a dozen times over,’ Killigrew told him. ‘Besides, I need every man available to get us out of here. Anyone else hurt?’

  The others shook their heads, some still standing, others sprawled where they had thrown themselves clear of the falling spar. Killigrew and Molineaux picked themselves up and dusted themselves down. ‘Right, cut those ropes and tidy up this mess.’

  ‘Eh, I don’t want to worry you, sir,’ said Endicott. ‘But we’re still touching bottom.’

  Killigrew thumped his fist against the bulwark. ‘Damn it to hell!’ All that effort… for nothing!

  ‘That ain’t the half of it, boys,’ said Hughes, pointing off the starboard quarter to where a plume of smoke was visible above the tops of the pine trees crowding the north-east end of Skärlandet Island, black against the dingy blue-grey sky.

  ‘The Atalanta!’ groaned Attwood.

  Chapter 17

  Out to Sea

  3.25 a.m.–8.30 a.m., Friday 18 August

  Mackenzie smiled ruefully at Killigrew. ‘Never mind, sir. It was a brave effort. We did our best.’

  Killigrew stared at him. ‘What the hell are you doing, still on board?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Get back in the gig, damn it! All of you! Back in the gig!’ He dashed for the helm while they scrambled to the entry port, swarming down the side ladder to the boat.

  And ever so slightly the deck began to roll beneath Killigrew’s feet. He could feel each gentle thud as the swells rolling through the gap lifted the keel off the bottom and dropped it down again. But the headsails and mainsail were still full, and each time the Milenion was lifted, she was put down again a couple of inches further along. Slowly she juddered her way forward, and as the bottom shelved away the bumps became fewer and further between, until once again the schooner was floating free.

  Killigrew threw back his head and let out a wild whoop of exultation. ‘We did it!’ He belayed the helm, and ran across to the entry port. ‘We’re through! We did it!’

  The men in the boat huzzahed lustily.

  ‘Everyone back on board except Yorath and O’Leary – you two, row back ashore and collect the others! Take the helm, Fuller. Molineaux, Endicott, Iles and Hughes… get that gaff repaired, chop chop!’

  The Bullivants were climbing back on board by the time the Atalanta steamed into view around the headland off the starboard quarter, less than nine hundred yards off. With only the headsails and mainsail drawing, the Milenion was creeping along. ‘Two points to starboard, Fuller!’ ordered Killigrew, as they breasted the headland at the west end of Svartbäck. ‘Make for the channel between those two islands.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  The Atalanta’s bow chaser fired, hurling a shot towards the Milenion with a shriek like ripping canvas. The shot hit the water fifty yards off the schooner’s starboard bow: the Russians were using round shot again, and aiming at the hull. Thinking of the bottles of pyroglycerin sitting in the bilges brought Killigrew out in a sweat: he had told Charlton they would be safe enough below the waterline, but the truth was that a round shot could be an unpredictable thing once it started bouncing around inside a hull.

  The Milenion was running before the wind, but making slow progress without her foresail, while the Atalanta’s paddles powered her forward to close the gap. The paddle-sloop fired again, this time at a range of seven hundred yards. They could not miss. But they did, putting a ball in the water only a few feet from the stern and drenching everyone on the quarterdeck with spray.

  The Atalanta was still nearly three hundred yards from the gap when she fired again. Killigrew braced himself, and this time felt a sickening lurch in his stomach as another shot slammed into the schooner’s stern, making the deck shudder. It was as well Dahlstedt and the Bullivants were still on deck, crouching ashen-faced in the lee waist.

  As the seconds ticked by, the feeling of helplessness was overwhelming. The gap between the two vessels was still closing. Killigrew could picture the crew of the sloop’s bow chaser working the gun, sponging, reloading and running it out through the port. The sloop was barely four hundred yards astern.

  And then… was it his imagination, or was the gap between the two vessels widening at last? Taking the telescope from the binnacle, Killigrew strained his eyes against the gloom and saw the bottles he had used to mark the channel, bobbing around the Atalanta’s sides. The sloop was stationary: the fools had run her aground!

  But before he could whoop a second time, the sloop’s bow chaser roared again. Another shot slammed into the Milenion’s stern. The schooner could not take much more of this pounding.

  Clear water was opening up to port. ‘Two more points to starboard, Fuller!’

  ‘Two more points it is, sir!’ At least the steering gear was still working.

  The gap was still only five hundred yards, but the Milenion was gathering way as she came off the wind. The next shot skipped across the waves and smashed into the port quarter: the Russians were trying to hull them below the waterline.

  ‘Damage report, Mr Mackenzie!’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The mate hurried below.

  ‘For God’s sake, man!’ protested Bullivant. ‘This is madness! You’re going to get us all killed!’

  ‘You have any better suggestions, my lord?’ Killigrew snapped back. ‘I would have thought it was plainly obvious that the Russians mean to destroy us; I don’t intend to make their work any easier for them by surrendering!’

  Mackenzie came back on deck. ‘We’re hulled at the waterline, sir. Must be two foot of water in the well already, and rising fast.’

  ‘Damn it!’ hissed Killigrew. ‘Did you find the hole?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Port quarter.’

  ‘Can we fother it?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’

  ‘Make it so. Iles, Hughes – man the pumps!’

  Uren, O’Leary and Yorath fetched a spritsail from the sail locker and worked it into a thrummed mat, greasing and tarring it well. They worked swiftly but, with water flooding into the hold, every second counted.

  Another two minutes passed, another shot was fired. Killigrew exhaled with relief when it splashed into the waves several dozen yards to starboard. The Russians were firing the bow chaser through the sternm
ost port in the port bow, but the next shot fell even wider: they could not angle the gun any further round.

  ‘One point to port, Fuller!’

  Fuller gave the helm a twitch. Killigrew gazed amidships, until the Atalanta was in line with the centre of the taffrail.

  ‘Helm amidships!’

  ‘’Midships it is, sir.’

  A second gun crew now worked the thirty-two-pounder abaft the sloop’s port-side paddle-box. It belched flame, and the ball skipped across the waves to port.

  Killigrew wiped his brow with his sleeve. ‘We’re in their blind spot.’ The bow chaser could not be angled any further aft, the port-side thirty-two-pounder no further forward, and with her keel wedged on the bottom the sloop could not manoeuvre to correct the problem.

  Uren, O’Leary and Yorath finished thrumming the spritsail, and Molineaux and Endicott passed a couple of lines under the keel so they could drag it in place and heave it tight against the schooner’s side where she had been holed. The water pressure would force the tarred oakum into the hole and slow the flood of water. That was the theory, at any rate.

  Once the thrummed mat was in place, Mackenzie went below to see how well it was keeping the water out. He re-emerged, soaked to the chest. ‘It’s a shambles down there, I’m afraid Searle’s dead. I don’t suppose he felt much: one of the shots slammed right through his bunk. We’ll be scraping him off the bulkheads for weeks; what’s left of him.’

  ‘Mr Mackenzie!’ Killigrew chided him, flickering his eyes to where the Bullivants stood; but they all looked dazed, they hardly seemed aware of anything that was going on around them, let alone anything that the mate had to say. ‘Any other casualties?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  That was something, at least. ‘What about the fothering?’

  ‘Seems to be working.’

  ‘How much water in the well?’

  ‘Six feet,’ the mate said grimly.

  The commander could well believe it: the schooner was visibly lower in the water. ‘Check the well at five-minute intervals,’ he told Mackenzie.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Killigrew crossed to the taffrail and watched the grounded Atalanta slowly fade astern. The sky was lightening rapidly. He checked his watch, and was mildly surprised to discover it was still only half-past three in the morning. He rubbed his face wearily.

  Araminta came across to stand next to him. ‘Can I talk to you?’

  He managed a wan smile. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘We’re damaged badly, aren’t we?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ He tried to sound chipper. ‘It all depends on whether or not the men working the pumps can keep pace with the water leaking in through the fothering. Of course, the water already on board will slow us…’

  ‘Can we make it to the fleet? And please, I don’t want to hear any lies meant to reassure me,’ she added.

  ‘In that case, ask me again in half an hour. I’ll have a better idea of how badly we’re hurt by then.’

  ‘We’re in a tight spot, aren’t we?’

  ‘I’ve known tighter,’ said Killigrew. ‘No, really,’ he added, seeing the look on her face. ‘We’ve been in spots tighter than this before now, haven’t we, Molineaux?’

  ‘You can say that again, sir. Back in the Arctic for one, the winter before last, stranded a thousand miles from civilisation with a polar bear nipping at our heels.’

  ‘Or that time in the New Hebrides,’ said Killigrew. ‘Marooned on a desert island, hunted by a tribe of savage cannibals, and up to our necks in a quagmire.’

  ‘Hoo, yur! I forgot about the cannibals and the quagmire. That were a tight spot and no mistake.’

  Araminta looked at Killigrew. ‘You’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?’

  He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Well, perhaps not enjoying it per se… but if the djinn of the lamp could whisk me up and put me down in a nice, safe clerk’s job in London right now, you can be sure I’d tell him to go to the devil! At least I’ve got the satisfaction of knowing that in thirty years’ time, I’ll be able to look back and say I’ve lived life to the full; which is more than that clerk can say.’

  She lowered her voice. ‘Something to tell our grandchildren?’

  He surreptitiously slipped his hand in hers. ‘Exactly.’

  The Milenion rounded the east end of Fåfängö Island. ‘What course, sir?’ asked Fuller.

  Killigrew thought for a moment. The wind was still south-westerly, and south-west was the course they needed to follow if they were to reach Hangö Head. ‘South by east,’ he decided. ‘We’ll make a long tack out into the gulf – more chance of falling in with a friendly vessel out there – before we come about when we’re far enough south to make Hangö Head on a heading of west by north.’

  ‘South by east it is, sir.’

  As the next half an hour crawled past, the sky lightened from indigo to a dingy blue. The next island they passed hid the Atalanta from sight, and the archipelago thinned out before them, the open gulf ahead. The pitching of the deck increased as they moved out into less sheltered waters.

  ‘Six foot of water in the well,’ Mackenzie reported at eight bells. ‘Maybe closer to six feet and one inch.’

  Killigrew nodded, feeling sick. If the water was rising at an inch every half an hour, they had perhaps ten hours before the Milenion foundered and sank, maybe not even that much: the more water they had on board, the faster it would pour through the fothered hole in the hull. To get to Ledsund, they would have to tack against the wind, with six feet of water slopping about below decks they’d be lucky to make a knot and a half. They were more than twenty sea miles from Hangö Head, the first place they could be sure of meeting a British vessel. The mathematics of their situation were inescapable: their only chance was to fall in with an Allied vessel out in the gulf before they foundered; or before the Atalanta caught up with them again.

  ‘Molineaux, Endicott – spell Iles and Hughes at the pumps,’ ordered Killigrew. ‘Get a second fothering over the first, Mr Uren. Iles and Hughes, you can bear a hand.’

  ‘Anything we can do to help?’ asked Lady Bullivant.

  Killigrew nodded. ‘Bail.’

  ‘Bail?’

  ‘Find buckets, pails, saucepans, hats if you have to – whatever we didn’t jettison last night – and form a human chain from below decks.’

  ‘Will that make a difference?’

  ‘Every little bit helps.’

  Captain Thornton organised the human chain with the energy of a man determined not to lose the ship he loved.

  Killigrew made his way down the after hatch to see the damage for himself. Mindful of the two steps that had been knocked out of the companion ladder the first time the Milenion had been fired upon, he watched his footing this time, which was just as well because steps ended after three rungs; the rest of the ladder had been blown away.

  ‘A shambles,’ Mackenzie had called it. That was putting it mildly. The breeze blew through the holes punched in the sides, bulkheads had been ripped away, a trough in the deck gaped to reveal the dark, flooded hold below, and splintered timbers lay everywhere. Here and there one or two oil lamps still burned in their gimbals, casting eerie shadows of wreckage that shifted with each roll of the hull. With a couple of round shot, the Atalanta had taken the well-ordered, spotlessly maintained living quarters of the lower deck and transformed them into a scene of hellish chaos, where the remnants of civilised existence strewn higgledy-piggledy ceased to have any meaning amongst the wholesale destruction.

  Gripping the coaming above, Killigrew lowered his legs past the last remaining rung of the companion ladder and swung himself clear of the trough to land on one of the exposed deck beams. He teetered and caught hold of a bulkhead in an effort to right himself, only for it to snap away in his hand. He squatted, putting his hand out to grasp the next beam, and barely stopped himself from falling through into the hold. In the shadows below, he could see the water glinting in
the faint light of an oil lamp. There must have been about three feet of water sloshing about the hold. The bilges would be completely flooded; and in there somewhere, the crate containing the two bottles of pyroglycerin Charlton and Molineaux had gone to so much trouble to make.

  He headed forward, to where the remaining companion ladder was relatively intact, and waited for Araminta to finish passing a bucket of water up to her mother on the deck before climbing through. He crossed to where O’Leary stood ready to man the braces.

  ‘Know anything about carpentry, O’Leary?’

  ‘Not much. If it’s a chippy you’re after, sir, you’d be better off talking to Ned Yorath: he’s a better man with hammer and saw than me.’

  Killigrew thanked him and crossed to where Yorath stood. ‘O’Leary tells me you’re a carpenter.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, sir, but I’ve been at sea long enough to know how to splice a mainbrace.’

  ‘In which sense?’

  Yorath grinned. ‘Both.’

  ‘Some of the pillars on the lower deck have been smashed. Frankly, I’m not sure what’s holding up the quarterdeck any more.’

  ‘Want me to shore ’em up, sir?’

  Killigrew nodded and Yorath headed below.

  The commander made his way aft to where Thornton was taking a turn at the helm. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’ murmured the captain.

  ‘Let’s just say I’ve seen colanders that were more seaworthy than this schooner is now.’

  Killigrew crossed to the bulwark and patted the timbers lovingly. The Milenion had got them this far, in spite of all the odds. Maybe she could yet come through for them.

  ‘Don’t let me down, sweetheart,’ he murmured. ‘A few more hours: that’s all I ask. Just stay afloat a few more hours.’

  * * *

  Pechorin was lounging with his feet on the desk in his day-room, smoking a cigar, when he felt the Atalanta run aground. He checked his watch and had a wager with himself, that the knock would come at the door within ten minutes.