At nine minutes and fifty-one seconds, he was not disappointed. ‘Come in!’
Nekrasoff shuffled into the room. ‘We’re aground.’
‘Really,’ Pechorin said heavily. He tapped ash from his cigar and watched Nekrasoff with studied insolence.
‘And the Milenion got away.’
‘Did she?’
‘Yes.’
‘So? That’s not my problem. You relieved me of command, remember?’
Nekrasoff took a deep breath. ‘I should like you to resume command,’ he muttered.
Pechorin cupped a hand to his ear. ‘Pardon?’
‘I should like you to resume command.’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘What?’
‘You have to say the magic word.’
Nekrasoff sighed. ‘Please.’
‘Thank you.’ Pechorin stood up. ‘To tell the truth, I should like me to resume command too, before that dunderhead Lazarenko sinks my ship.’
‘The Tsar’s ship.’
‘The ship that the Tsar has entrusted to my care. My care, Nekrasoff. Remember that. My resuming command is dependent on our doing things my way from now on, do you understand? Any more interference from you, and I’ll have you clapped in irons, and use your letter of authority from the Grand Duke Konstantin to wipe my backside. I hardly think His Imperial Highness is going to be impressed with the way you’ve used the authority he’s given you so far, do you?’
‘Just get me the Milenion,’ Nekrasoff growled as they made their way up on deck.
‘After the mess you’ve made of things, I’m not sure that’s possible. They must be past Fåfängö Island by now, well on their way out to the open sea.’
‘They must not reach the Allied fleet!’
‘First things first,’ Pechorin told him, climbing up through the after hatch. ‘Ivanets! You will place Lieutenant Lazarenko under arrest. He will stand trial for incompetence at our earliest convenience.’
‘But I was only obeying orders!’ wailed Lazarenko.
‘You were not obeying any orders given by me, Mstislav Trofimovich! Take him below and clap him in irons!’ Pechorin turned to Lieutenant Yurieff. ‘You’ve tried reversing the engines,’ he said. It was a statement rather than a question: he had felt the note of the engines’ vibrations through the deck in the day-room. ‘All right. Let’s unload all the stores, all the shot, everything it takes to get this barge afloat. If that doesn’t work, we’ll try kedging astern.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How long will it take to get us under way again?’ asked Nekrasoff.
‘Not long,’ Pechorin told him acidly. ‘Just a few hours, that’s all.’
* * *
The sun rose at a quarter to five to find the Milenion sailing close-hauled on the starboard tack beneath a pale blue sky dotted with a few ragged tufts of cloud. That was not good: Killigrew had a feeling that Pechorin would not give up so easily, and he had hoped for a thick fog to mask the schooner. The gaff had been repaired, and the foresail bulged with wind. The Milenion was making two knots, as good as could be expected when they were sailing this close to the wind with more than six feet of water in the well.
The Finnish coast was astern, and a few islets and skerries were dotted about to port and starboard, but ahead was only blue water for as far as the eye could see, barring a largish island two and a half miles off the starboard bow. At least now there was more water than land in view. No other ships in sight, either: the depredations of the British fleet were keeping Finnish merchantmen in harbour as well as Russian warships. It was good there was no sign of the Atalanta, but it would have been better to sight a British or French frigate on patrol.
‘You know where we are?’ Killigrew asked Dahlstedt.
The Finn nodded and pointed to a small island less than half a mile to port. ‘That’s Träskö, there. And that island off the starboard bow? That’s Byusö.’
Within half an hour they were level with Byusö, and a larger island came into view beyond. ‘That’s where it all started,’ said Thornton.
‘Hm?’
‘Jurassö.’
Killigrew took the telescope from the binnacle to survey the island, saw rocks, trees, a tall lighthouse rising up at the west end, no sign of the ironworks; certainly no indication that Jurassö housed any kind of military secret that justified Nekrasoff’s determination to stop the Bullivants from escaping from Finland alive. It was tempting to make for the island and send a boat ashore to investigate – Jurassö could not be more than a mile across – but Killigrew’s first responsibility was to the civilians on board. Jurassö could wait for another day.
Mackenzie went to check the level of the water in the well. ‘Six feet and two inches,’ he reported.
An inch in a little less than two hours, despite the efforts of the men at the pumps and the bailing crew. The second thrummed mat was making a difference, but not much. Still, at least now there was a slim hope they might make it as far as Hangö Head before the Milenion foundered.
‘Listen, Killigrew,’ Thornton said awkwardly. ‘I know my attitude hasn’t been as… helpful… as it might have been. I… well, I just want to say I’m sorry, that’s all. We couldn’t have made it without you and your men. We owe you our lives; and I’ll tell Lord Bullivant so.’
Killigrew managed a wan smile. ‘That’s very kind of you. But we’re not home and dry yet.’
‘Difficult to see what can go wrong now. The Russians wouldn’t dare risk one of their ships in the open sea, just to catch us… would they?’
Killigrew gazed speculatively towards Jurassö, wondering what vital secret the island held. ‘That remains to be seen.’
* * *
‘Man the capstan bars!’ ordered Pechorin. ‘Stand by in the engine-room.’
‘What if it doesn’t work this time?’ asked Nekrasoff.
Pechorin looked at him. ‘Then we’re stuck.’
‘For how long? It’s been nearly two hours!’
‘Until the Admiralty sends another steamer to tow us off. And – given that Admiral Rykord will be none too impressed by our running the Atalanta aground – I don’t imagine he’ll be in much of a hurry to spare another ship to free us from our own incompetence, do you?’
‘Engine-room standing by, sir,’ reported one of the michmanis.
‘Set on. Turn astern, full speed.’
The michmani hurried below and presently the engine throbbed into life. The paddle-wheels turned, churning up the water on either side of the hull, but even with most of her stores ferried to the shore of Svartbäck Island – along with all but enough men to work the engines and the capstan – the sloop still refused to budge.
‘Turn the capstan!’
The men heaved at the capstan bars, drawing up the slack of the cable paid out to the anchor dropped in the channel astern of the sloop.
‘That’s it, mouzhiki!’ called Pechorin. ‘I think I felt something that time – heave, damn you! Heave!’
The engine rattled, the men heaved at the capstan, and then Pechorin really did feel something give. With a scraping the count could feel through his feet – he dreaded to think what damage they had done to the copper sheathing on the keel – the Atalanta slid back one foot, then another, and then the movement was constant. She floated free.
‘Stop engines!’ he ordered. ‘We’ve off!’
The men at the capstan cheered, a cheer that was quickly echoed by the men ashore. Pechorin permitted himself a smile. ‘Bring the stores and the men back on board quickly, and we’ll get under way again,’ he told Yurieff, taking out another cigar.
‘Yes, sir!’
Pechorin lit his cigar and made his way below, followed by Nekrasoff and Chernyovsky. In his day-room, he took a chart from the chart locker and spread it on the table, weighing down the corners with four paperweights.
He checked his watch. ‘One hour and fifty minutes since the Milenion sailed through the Fåfängö Gap. Let
’s see, she’ll have headed west, towards the Allied Fleet at the Åland Islands…’
‘Is there any chance we can still catch her?’ asked Nekrasoff.
‘Every chance. The wind’s been blowing steadily from the southwest all morning. Even sailing due west, she’d be close-hauled. I doubt even a fore-and-aft-rigged schooner could make more than two knots that close to the wind.’ Pechorin picked up a pair of dividers and drew an arc on the chart, based on their current position. ‘She couldn’t be any further west than Älgö Island. But I doubt they’d even have got that far.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It’s a long way to the Åland Islands from here. But Allied warships have been sailing up and down the Gulf of Finland constantly ever since they began their blockade. Killigrew’s best chance of safety is to sail south, to the open sea. There they stand a chance of falling in with a British vessel that can protect them. So first, they’ll have headed south; again, sailing close to the wind, no more than two knots. I doubt they’ve got much further than Byusö.’ Pechorin tapped at the island on the chart. ‘Once they reach the shipping lanes, they’ll turn west, somewhere south of Jurassö, and head for Hangö Head.’
‘And how do you propose to catch them?’
‘We sail east, around the far end of Svartbäck, then turn south-east into the open sea before coming around on a south-westerly heading between Träskö and Nothamn to intercept them. If we get the crew and stores back on board by seven-thirty, under full steam we can reach Nothamn within an hour. I doubt the Milenion will be further west than
Jurassö: we should be able to see her clearly enough in this weather. We can steam at four times the speed she sails at: we’ll overhaul them before nightfall.’
‘And if you’re wrong? If Killigrew hasn’t gone south and west?’
‘Then we lose them. But that’s less of a worry than what happens if we should run into a British frigate.’
Pechorin smiled. The Atalanta against a British frigate: it would be a dream come true. He’d show the Allies that the Russian navy could fight; yes, and his masters back at the Admiralty in St Petersburg.
* * *
‘On deck there!’ Fuller called from the masthead. ‘Sail ho!’
Killigrew looked up from the quarterdeck. ‘Where away?’
‘On the starboard beam.’
It was eight o’clock in the morning, three-quarters of an hour since the Milenion had turned to starboard. Now she sailed westwards, close-hauled, with Jurassö just over a mile off the starboard bow.
Killigrew took the telescope from the binnacle and levelled it. Seven miles off, the plume of charcoal-grey smoke on the horizon jumped into view almost at once, rising up from behind the trees on the long spine of Svartbäck Island, which merged with the mainland behind.
‘A steamer,’ grunted Thornton. ‘Headed due east, by the look of it.’
‘Until it reaches the east end of Svartbäck,’ agreed Killigrew.
‘Is it the Atalanta?’ asked Araminta.
‘Most likely.’
They watched the plume of smoke until it emerged from behind the mass of islands to the north-east of Träskö about fifteen minutes later and was revealed to be a paddle-steamer. The ship must have seen them at more or less the same time, for it put about on a south-westerly heading to intercept them. Now there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind.
‘How long before she catches up with us, Kit?’ asked Araminta.
‘An hour, maybe two.’ There was no point trying to shield her.
‘We could put about on an easterly heading, run before the wind,’ said Lord Bullivant.
Thornton shook his head. ‘We’d only be putting off the inevitable… and sailing deeper into the Gulf of Finland.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘We’d best maintain our present heading. Every mile west we sail takes us closer to safety… and there’s always a chance we’ll run into one of our own ships.’ He did not really believe this himself.
‘And when the Atalanta catches us?’
‘We fight,’ Killigrew said simply.
‘For God’s sake, man!’ protested Bullivant. ‘A handful of muskets, against the guns of the Atalanta? It’s suicide!’
‘So is surrendering. Nekrasoff isn’t going to let us live. Not now.’
‘Better to go down fighting,’ agreed Thornton.
‘Oh, heavens!’ Araminta lowered her gaze to the deck.
‘Have courage, Minty,’ Killigrew told her. ‘We’re not beaten yet. I’ve still got one or two tricks up my sleeve. Molineaux!’
‘Sir?’
‘Better get our secret weapon ready.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘You have the watch, Captain Thornton,’ said Killigrew.
Molineaux fetched a coil of rope from a belaying pin and Killigrew was about to precede him down the fore hatch when Charlton caught him by the sleeve.
‘You’re going to get the pyroglycerin we made last night, sir?’
‘You wouldn’t want it to go to waste, would you?’
‘But I thought Molineaux stowed it in the bilges.’
‘That he did, as per my ever-so-brilliant instructions,’ Killigrew admitted wryly.
‘The bilges that are flooded?’
‘Yes, Mr Charlton. The bilges that are flooded.’
Killigrew and Molineaux descended to the hold, where they found themselves hip-deep in the water that sloshed back and forth between the bulkheads. ‘Can you remember where the hatch to the bilges is?’ asked Killigrew.
‘Right along here, sir.’ Molineaux led the way between the storerooms to a part of the hold where hardly any light reached. He fumbled under the water, at last pulling up a hatch cover. ‘Down there, sir.’ Killigrew began to strip off his tunic. ‘Don’t you think you ought to leave this one to me, sir?’ asked Molineaux. ‘You’re supposed to be taking it easy.’
‘Now, you know I’d never ask any man under my command to do something I’m not prepared to do myself.’
‘I know it, sir. That’s why I don’t mind volunteering.’
Someone came down the companion way and waded down the deck towards them. ‘Who’s that?’ called Killigrew.
‘It’s me: Mr Charlton,’ came the reply, and with the next step the figure stepped into a pool of light cast by a hole in the deck head to reveal the assistant surgeon’s face. ‘I’ve just thought of something.’
‘Is it urgent?’ Killigrew asked impatiently.
‘I think you’d better hear me out, sir.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘The bottles of pyroglycerin have been submerged in this water for a few hours now, haven’t they?’
‘Nearly five.’
‘So the pyroglycerin’s probably reached the same temperature as this water by now, hasn’t it?’
‘What of it?’
‘Pyroglycerin freezes at fifty-six degrees Fahrenheit. I don’t know how cold this water is, but I’ll lay odds it’s a lot colder than fifty-six.’
‘So it’s probably frozen in the bottles?’
‘I sincerely hope so. Frozen pyroglycerin is actually quite stable. But partially-frozen pyroglycerin? That’s even more volatile than pyroglycerin at room temperature.’
‘He means even more likely to explode if I knock it about too much?’ asked Molineaux.
Killigrew nodded. ‘Still sure you want to volunteer?’
‘I’m sure I don’t want to leave a job like this to anyone else, if that’s what you mean.’ Molineaux handed the coil of rope to Killigrew and stripped to the waist, passing his jacket, guernsey, shirt and bonnet to Charlton. ‘Hold on to these for me, would you, sir?’
The assistant surgeon nodded.
Killigrew handed the petty officer one end of the rope, and Molineaux passed it around his waist and tied it in place. ‘Is it far to where you left the crate?’ asked the commander.
‘About thirty feet.’
‘What’s it going to be like down there?’
‘Not too bad: pig iron rather than gravel for ballast, at least.’ Molineaux lowered his legs and torso through the submerged hatch, until only his head showed above water.
‘If you get into trouble, give the rope three sharp tugs and I’ll come in after you.’
‘Thirty feet, with nothing between me and the crate but some pig iron and a few timber frames,’ scoffed Molineaux, checking his Bowie knife was still in its sheath in the small of his back. ‘Easy as caz.’
‘Just don’t get cocky.’
‘At least I won’t have to worry about rats: reckon they deserted this ship hours ago.’ Molineaux took a couple of deep breaths, and ducked under the water.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ asked the assistant surgeon.
‘Molineaux? You needn’t worry about him, Charlton.’ Killigrew paid out the coil of rope he held. ‘He’s indestructible.’
‘You’ve known him a long time, haven’t you?’
‘Seven years.’ Even as Killigrew said it, he realised how those years had flown past. Skirmishes with slavers on the Guinea Coast, battles with pirates in the South China Sea, fights with cannibals and escaped convicts in the South Seas, and a struggle for survival in the desolation of the Arctic. Happy days, he thought ironically. ‘He says he’s going to be a bosun one day.’
‘Has there ever been a black bosun in the Royal Navy?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Killigrew. ‘But if there hasn’t, you can rely on Molineaux to be the first. He’s a Henson: he can do anything.’
‘A Henson?’
‘His mother’s maiden name. She resumed it after his father walked out on the family when Molineaux was six. He became a petty thief soon after that. Within ten years he was the finest burglar in England and the toast of the swell mob.’
‘If he was such a good burglar, why did he give it up to become a sailor?’
‘He stole a Grande Amati.’
‘What’s a Grande Amati?’
‘A violin made by the man who taught Stradivarius how to make violins. You don’t steal something like that and carry on with your life as normal the next day. One of his accomplices tried to cheat him by tipping off the police, and he picked the navy as a good place to lie low until the hue and cry had died down. There was a time when half the ratings on a ship like the Ramillies would have had stories like that, if none quite so spectacular.’ Killigrew grinned. ‘I don’t know: somehow the navy just doesn’t seem the same now it’s gone all respectable on me.’
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