Killigrew’s Run

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘Still, that must have been a few years ago. If the navy was only ever a temporary refuge, why did he stay on all this time?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suspect Molineaux wouldn’t be able to give you a straight answer either, if you asked him. But I have a theory.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Molineaux likes a challenge. When he’d risen to the peak of his criminal career while he was still in his late teens, the challenge had gone. So he found another career, and now he’s working to reach the peak of that one. Wouldn’t surprise me if he left the navy after he’s been a bosun for a couple of years.’

  ‘I thought he was in for life.’

  ‘I thought I was in for life, when I joined.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of resigning!’

  ‘As I say, it’s not the same navy it was when I joined. Not the same world it fights to protect. People had different values then. In those days it was all about ideals: liberty and justice, defending the weak and vanquishing the villains. At least, that’s the way it seemed to me at the time. Nowadays it’s all about money. Surely you don’t think we’d go to war to protect Turkey if our commercial interests in India weren’t threatened?’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought about it. Are you so sure it’s the world that’s changed? Are you sure it isn’t you?’

  ‘Grown up, you mean? Perhaps.’

  ‘If you don’t like it any more, why do you still do it? Or are you waiting for the war to finish so you can resign with honour too?’ Killigrew shook his head. ‘The problem I’ve got is that if I resign from the navy, I’m not sure what else I could do with my life. Not all of us are as in control of our destinies as Molineaux, you know.’

  ‘Speaking of Molineaux… he’s been gone an awfully long time.’

  ‘Hm? Oh!’ Killigrew had almost forgotten about the rope he was holding. ‘Well, he hasn’t signalled he’s in difficulties yet.’

  ‘Maybe the rope got snagged around something,’ suggested Charlton.

  Before Killigrew could reply, something bumped against the underside of the deck about thirty feet from where they stood. ‘Well, he’s still alive, at any rate.’ He started to draw the rope in, being careful only to take in the slack without dragging Molineaux: trying to push the crate before him in that cold and pitch-black water, the petty officer had enough problems as it was. ‘Well, the rope’s not snagged, at least.’

  Something surfaced through the hatch, and the crate bobbed up, the lid still securely in place. Killigrew grabbed it before the sloshing water could knock it against one of the bulkheads, and Molineaux’s head broke the surface. He whooped air into his lungs.

  ‘Are you all right, Molineaux?’ asked Killigrew. ‘We were starting to get worried.’

  The petty officer nodded, still struggling for breath. Killigrew and Charlton waited patiently for him to get his wind back.

  ‘Any chance of a cuppa tea?’ was the only explanation they got.

  They made their way back on deck, Killigrew and Molineaux taking turns to hand the crate up to one another through the hatches. By the time they emerged on deck, the steamer was less than five miles off, still on a course to intercept them. Killigrew took the telescope from the binnacle and levelled it at the strange ship. One glance told him all he needed to know.

  It was the Atalanta. If they maintained their present course it would meet them within an hour. This time there was nowhere to run, and nowhere to hide, nothing for it but to stand and fight.

  Chapter 18

  Sloop Versus Yacht

  8.35 a.m.–10.00 a.m., Friday 18 August

  The Atalanta was still more than four and a half miles from her quarry when the Milenion disappeared behind the south side of Jurassö at twenty-five to nine. Pechorin ordered the helmsman to maintain their present course, which would cut across the yacht’s bows on the south-west side of the island. While the Milenion was out of sight, he half expected Killigrew to turn and run before the wind, but the thought did not trouble him: even running to leeward, the yacht could not outpace the steamer.

  But the Milenion emerged on the other side of Jurassö almost on the dot of nine, with less than two miles separating the ships. ‘One point to starboard,’ ordered Pechorin.

  ‘One point to starboard it is, sir.’ The helmsman made a fractional course adjustment to intercept the schooner.

  ‘She should be in range of the bow chaser with another twelve minutes, sir,’ judged Lieutenant Yurieff.

  ‘Beat to quarters,’ Pechorin ordered gruffly. There would be no glory here; he only wanted to get the whole sorry business over and done with as quickly as possible. ‘Clear for action.’

  Nekrasoff smiled. ‘We’ve got them now!’

  * * *

  ‘You’d best go below,’ Killigrew told the Bullivants. Not that they would be any safer below decks than topsides if the Atalanta began to lob round shot at them again. But his plan was to steer clear of the muzzle of her bow chaser, in which case they would have more to fear from muskets fired from the sloop’s tops. ‘You’d best go with them, Mr Charlton.’

  The assistant surgeon nodded and followed the Bullivants down the fore hatch to the forecastle – the one part of the lower deck that was still relatively intact – leaving Killigrew on deck with Thornton, Mackenzie and the sailors. Molineaux, Endicott and Hughes held a musket each, leaving the Milenions to work the sails. Killigrew took the helm himself.

  On the bow, Iles had charge of the crates of lamp-oil bottles Molineaux had taken out of the steward’s stores and brought up on deck: the other Ramillies present had agreed that Iles had the strongest throwing arm. The two bottles of pyroglycerin were there in their crate too, but Killigrew wanted to hold them in reserve: he was not convinced they would even work, so resorting to those would be a final pitch of the dice.

  Iles began uncorking the bottles and stuffing the tow rags into their necks. ‘You sure ’ee’s gonna work, Wes?’ he asked dubiously.

  ‘Can’t fail,’ the petty officer told him, proud of his invention. He called it a ‘Molineaux cocktail’.

  ‘We’re gonna ’ave to get gurt close, sir,’ said Iles.

  ‘You let me worry about that,’ said Killigrew. ‘You just make sure you put them on the Atalanta’s deck. Aim for the gun crews,’ he added. ‘Maybe we can’t win, but we can make them pay dearly for their victory.’

  Whereas a British tar was a jack of all trades who was expected to be able to hand, reef and steer, heave the lead, turn in a deadeye, gammon a bowsprit, fish in a broken spar, rig a purchase, and knot, point, splice, parcel and serve, Russian matrosy were trained to specialise: a man brought on board a ship as a seaman gunner knew how to serve his gun, and that was all. Their seamen gunners even specialised as to what numbers they served as in a gun crew, so that if the number two man was killed, number nine would be at a loss if called upon to take his place. Killigrew and his men might not put the guns out of action, but with any luck they might reduce the enemy to crewing their guns with men who did not know what they were about.

  When the two ships were twelve hundred yards apart, Killigrew spun the helm to port, making straight for the Atalanta. With the wind now broad on the port quarter, the Milenion clipped along at a good two and a half knots, the two vessels speeding to meet one another head on at a combined speed of eleven knots.

  There were four gun ports through which the Atalanta’s bow chaser could fire, two on either side of the prow, but with the bowsprit in the way it could not fire directly ahead. The steamer turned her bows to starboard, and the bow chaser was run out through the first port-side gun port. Killigrew twitched the helm to starboard, keeping the Milenion in line with the sloop’s bowsprit.

  Another course adjustment brought them back under the bow chaser. Nine hundred yards apart now. Killigrew waited until he saw flame shoot from the gun port, and spun the helm to port. The boom echoed across the water, the shot shrieking through the air. Chain shot: Pechorin was going for the masts again.
The shot whistled only feet away to port, slicing into the waves astern.

  Killigrew was already spinning the helm back to starboard, bringing them out of the bow chaser’s line of fire, in line with the bowsprit once more. On the Atalanta’s forecastle, the seamen gunners would be racing to reload: one, maybe two minutes before they fired again. But they would only have time for one more shot before the ships collided, as long as both vessels maintained their current courses.

  Pechorin made no attempt to give the bow chaser another shot at the Milenion; perhaps he was planning to run the yacht down. Everything depended on whether or not Killigrew could second-guess the count. What’s on your mind, you Russian bastard? Was Pechorin going to try to take them alive? How come sometimes they fired with round shot at the hull, and sometimes with chain shot at the masts? The first time, Lieutenant Lazarenko had been in command, and he had used round shot regardless of the fact that Pechorin himself had been a prisoner on board. Then, once Pechorin had had a chance to get back on board his ship, they had used chain shot, but then round shot again at the Fåfängö Gap. Now he was back to using chain shot, for the moment at least. The count did not strike Killigrew as the kind of man who would happily fire round shot into the hull of a ship with women on board. Had he even been in command when the Atalanta had almost caught them at the gap?

  Killigrew watched the paddle-sloop intently. The two ships were only 250 yards apart now, and when the sloop began to turn to starboard again, he was ready. He had guessed that Pechorin would go for the weather gage, even though he had no need of it with his sails furled. Old habits died hard, and a good commander would not rely on steam engines alone. Killigrew turned the schooner to port, but not quickly enough: the bow chaser boomed again; another chain shot, smashing through the mainmast in the blink of an eye. The topmast and mainsail gaff crashed down to the quarterdeck, and he threw himself flat as the debris hurtled down around him. The tattered mainsail crumpled down over the starboard quarter, a tangle of rigging dragging the broken topmast through the water alongside.

  Killigrew picked himself up and lunged for the spinning helm to right the Milenion’s course. Within seconds, the yacht’s neat and orderly deck had been reduced to a shambles of broken spars and tangled rigging. Mackenzie lay beneath one of the spars, pinned to the skylight by the ropes, his shirt stained crimson by the blood that dribbled from his lips with each cough.

  With the headsails and foresail still drawing, the Milenion continued to make headway, although the wreckage trailing over the side dragged her over to starboard and Killigrew had to wrestle the wheel to compensate. ‘Uren, Attwood, Yorath – get that wreckage cut away, chop chop! Fuller, O’Leary – a couple of preventer stays on the mainmast, if you please. Look to Mr Mackenzie, Captain Thornton.’

  The Atalanta was less than 150 yards away now. Even with the mainsail gone and the main topmast trailing in the water, the Milenion was still making one knot, and the two ships raced towards one another at about nine knots, some five yards a second.

  Iles struck a match and tried to light the flambeau he held, but the wind blew it out.

  The Milenions sawed frantically with their clasp knives at the ropes trailing over the starboard quarter. ‘Get that spar free!’ Killigrew hissed at them through gritted teeth. In the next few seconds, he was going to need every ounce of manoeuvrability he could squeeze out of the crippled yacht.

  A hundred and ten yards, one hundred, ninety… would Pechorin sheer off, or just keep coming? There could be little doubt the Milenion would come off worse in a collision. Iles struck another match. This time, the flambeau began to burn.

  Seventy yards, sixty, fifty…

  The last rope attaching the dragging topmast to the yacht was sawn through.

  ‘Clear!’ yelled Uren.

  Killigrew spun the helm to port. Without the mainsail to push her stern to port, the Milenion came around sluggishly. He saw the men on the Atalanta’s forecastle run the bow chaser out through the port-side gun port, and that was when he spun the helm to starboard. Even if the gunners had had time to reload, there was no time to push the bow chaser on its brass racers to one of the starboard gun ports.

  Standing at the starboard bulwark, Iles applied the flambeau’s flame to one of the bottles of oil.

  The Milenion slipped under the steamer’s prow to starboard, less than ten feet away from the bows, in danger of having her stern crushed under the sloop’s paddle-wheel. Iles flung the bottle overarm. It smashed against the gingerbreading on the sloop’s prow, ineffectually dousing the side with burning oil. The seaman swore and grabbed another bottle.

  The two ships were so close, Killigrew could see the faces of the men at the Atalanta’s bulwarks clearly as they stared down at the Milenion in blank incomprehension. Molineaux, Endicott and Hughes blazed away with their muskets, and Killigrew saw a man twist away sharply. The three bluejackets hastily began to reload their muskets.

  Iles threw another bottle, underarm this time, and it sailed through the air to land on the forecastle behind the bulwark. If it smashed, Killigrew neither saw nor heard it. Iles picked up another bottle, lit the oil-soaked tow rag in the neck, and was about to fling it when the sloop’s starboard paddle-box clipped the yacht’s starboard quarter with a splintering crunch. The schooner shuddered and rolled, the stern shoved aside by the Atalanta’s weight, and Killigrew had to grip the helm tightly to stop himself being knocked off his feet. When he had steadied himself, he saw Iles on his back, a burning bottle of oil rolling in an arc from his hand.

  Hughes snatched up the bottle and flung it over the paddle-box.

  Killigrew spun the helm to port, bringing the Milenion’s prow close in to the Atalanta’s stern. Abaft the paddle-box, the muzzle of a thirty-two-pounder projected from a yawning gun port. As the Milenion passed beneath, the gun belched smoke with a deafening crack, but it was loaded with round shot; and the Milenion rode too low in the water for the sloop to depress her guns far enough to hit the hull at that range. Molineaux snatched up another bottle, lit it from the flambeau, and flung it across the water.

  Smoke rose from the sloop’s forecastle now: Iles’ second bottle had started a serious blaze. Killigrew saw a matros, his uniform in flames, hurl himself screaming from the sloop’s bulwarks amidships. He hit the water and floated face down in the wake of the paddle-wheel.

  The yacht was almost past the Atalanta’s stern when an explosion blossomed on the sloop’s deck, driving the starboard thirty-two-pounder through the bulwark. It crashed down into the waves below. The bluejackets cheered exultantly. Molineaux’s bottle must have ignited some cartridges brought up on deck for the gun.

  But Killigrew knew too well they had only scotched the sloop, not killed it. He spun the helm to starboard, sheering away from the Atalanta’s stern. Endicott ran aft with another burning bottle in his hand, aiming to lob it over the sloop’s taffrail so that it smashed against the quarterdeck, but it fell a few feet short and landed in the water.

  The Atalanta turned to port, trying to bring one of her other guns to bear on the Milenion. Molineaux, Endicott and Hughes picked up their muskets and started to reload.

  The sloop was faster than the yacht, but even without the mainsail the schooner had a tighter turning circle. Killigrew kept his turn loose, however: if he could fool Pechorin into thinking the Milenion with her mainsail gone was less manoeuvrable than the Atlanta, he might be able to get under her starboard side for another run.

  Within a couple of minutes, the two ships were three hundred yards apart, circling in to meet one another again. The bow chaser boomed from one of the gun ports in the starboard bows, and the quarterdeck jerked beneath Killigrew’s feet as a round shot slammed into the yacht’s side.

  ‘Damage report, Captain Thornton!’

  The master nodded and raced below.

  The Russians had put out the fire on the sloop’s forecastle. Killigrew could see them pushing the bow chaser to one of the port-side gun ports. Pechorin was
going for the weather gauge again, hoping to sail past the yacht to starboard on this run. Killigrew smiled – got you, you bastard!

  On the schooner’s forecastle, Molineaux, Endicott and Hughes did not wait until the two ships were alongside. They blazed away with their muskets at the men working the bow chaser.

  ‘Mr Uren! When I give the word, I want you to see how far you can swing the mains’l boom out to starboard!’ called Killigrew.

  The boatswain looked bewildered. ‘The mains’l boom? Without the mains’l…’

  ‘Trust me!’

  Uren looked at him, and nodded.

  The two ships were only yards apart again, the steamer’s paddles beating down on the water as she powered herself forward through the waves. Killigrew waited until the last possible moment before spinning the helm to starboard.

  The Milenion slipped under the Atalanta’s prow a second time, sailing past her gunless starboard side. Killigrew spun the helm back to port, bringing her as close in to the sloop’s side as he could. Molineaux, Endicott, Hughes and Iles managed to lob two broadsides of burning oil bottles on to the sloop’s deck as they passed, but this time the musketeers on the Atalanta were ready for them. As bullets slammed down into the deck Endicott fell with blood pumping from a wound in his thigh. Molineaux, Hughes and Iles ran aft to the quarterdeck, each man clutching a burning oil bottle.

  As soon as the yacht’s midships were level with the Atalanta’s stern, Killigrew spun the helm hard-a-port, turning in under the sloop’s taffrail.

  ‘Now, Mr Uren!’