Uren, Yorath and Fuller hauled on the boom guy, swinging the mainsail boom out beyond the Milenion’s starboard quarter. The Atalanta was powering away from them, and Killigrew thought he had misjudged it. But just as the boom was reaching the end of its sweep, the tip smashed against the sloop’s gallery window, shattering the glass and knocking out the leading.
Molineaux, Hughes and Iles were ready. They flung their bottles. One smashed harmlessly against the gingerbreading on the stern, but the other two sailed through the broken window to shatter in the day-room below the quarterdeck.
Killigrew turned the helm to port, running before the wind. Madness to try another pass: they had been lucky to do so much damage as it was. The steamer would soon overhaul them, but for now the Russian crew looked as though it had enough problems of its own: the rigging and sails were all ablaze, and although the engine would be undamaged, smoke poured out of the wrecked gallery window. The sloop was pointed away from them, and showed no signs of turning back.
‘Have Mr Charlton come on deck to tend to the wounded!’ called Killigrew.
Thornton emerged from the after hatch. ‘We’re hulled at the waterline,’ he reported grimly.
‘Fother her, Captain Thornton.’
‘Attwood, Yorath! The pump! Uren, Fuller, O’Leary – fetch ropes and canvas!’
‘Molineaux, Hughes, Iles – give them a hand,’ ordered Killigrew.
While Charlton came on deck to bind the wound in Endicott’s thigh, Thornton and the others did what they could to patch the wound in the Milenion’s side, running ropes under the keel to brace another thrummed mat over the fresh hole.
‘I’m afraid Mr Mackenzie’s dead,’ Charlton reported to Killigrew. ‘I’ve patched up Endicott: he’s lost a lot of blood, but I think he’ll live. I’ve given him an opiate to help him sleep through the pain.’
One dead, one wounded… even though he knew it was nothing short of a miracle they had not suffered worse casualties, it was still too many for Killigrew. Had he been a fool to risk the encounter? He told himself the choice had not been his to make, yet he could not help wondering if there had been some other tactic that might have spared Mackenzie’s life.
‘Can Endicott walk?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m sure he’ll make a complete recovery in the fullness of time, provided the wound doesn’t turn gangrenous.’
‘That’s very reassuring to hear, Mr Charlton, but I was less concerned about the fullness of time than in the next twenty-four hours.’
‘Oh! Not a prayer.’
Killigrew nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Charlton. Iles, Hughes – rig up a litter for Endicott.’
Charlton gazed to where the Atalanta had stopped, her stern still turned towards the Milenion, now slowly falling astern as the stricken schooner limped westwards. The flames were already dying down as the crew assaulted the fires with buckets of water, but a cloud of smoke still wreathed the sloop. ‘Why don’t they follow?’ he wondered. ‘Can we have hurt them that badly?’
‘The fire we started in the captain’s day-room must’ve burned through the ropes controlling the steering gear,’ said Killigrew. ‘But it won’t take them for ever to repair. And next time, Pechorin won’t make the mistake of underestimating us.’ The Atalanta must have suffered casualties; to know what was on the count’s mind, Killigrew had only to look at Mackenzie’s lifeless corpse, and multiply the anger he felt – towards himself as much as towards his enemy – by the number of dead and wounded men on the paddle-sloop. ‘He’ll blow us out of the water as soon as he gets within range.’
‘There won’t be a next time, sir.’ Uren scrambled up through the after hatch. ‘We’ve fothered the hole, but the water’s still rising fast in the well. The Milenion’s dying sir, and there’s nothing we can do to save her.’
‘How long?’ asked Killigrew.
‘Twenty minutes before she founders… half an hour, if we’re lucky.’
Killigrew nodded, and altered course a couple of points to port, making for the nearest land. There was only one road left open to them, and it led to Jurassö.
* * *
As the matrosy cleared the deck of the Atalanta of debris and dead bodies, two of them carried Michmani Gavrilik to the fore hatch on a makeshift litter. The young man reached out to Pechorin as he passed, and the count signalled for them to wait a moment.
Pechorin bent over Gavrilik. The young man’s face was hideously burned. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he whispered. ‘I let you down.’
The count shook his head. ‘You did splendidly, Gavrilik. I’ll see to it you get promoted for today’s work.’
But Gavrilik could no longer hear him. Feeling sick at heart, Pechorin drew down his eyelids and straightened. ‘Take him below,’ he told the two bearers.
The senior petty officer approached, picking his way over the debris, and saluted the count. ‘Make your report, Vasyutkin,’ Pechorin told him.
‘At least four dead, probably more: I saw a couple of men go over the side. We won’t know until we’ve mustered the surviving crew. And sixteen wounded, some of them severely. Herr Juschke says at least three of them won’t last until nightfall.’
Pechorin nodded. ‘Thank you, Vasyutkin. Carry on.’ He took the telescope from the binnacle and levelled it to where the Milenion was sailing towards Jurassö. The schooner was low in the water, close to foundering: she would not get far. But that was little consolation.
‘Count Pechorin?’
He turned to see Nekrasoff standing there.
‘Please explain to me how this happened. A fully armed paddle-sloop, pitted against an unarmed yacht… and yet we managed to come off worse!’
Pechorin could have pointed out that the damage was only superficial, and that unlike the Milenion they were in no danger of sinking, but he knew the colonel had a point. Once again he had underestimated Killigrew, and it had been his men who had paid the price.
‘You’re a disgrace, Captain-Lieutenant,’ Nekrasoff continued. ‘Not fit to command a hay barge on the Neva! You’ll be kicked out of the navy when St Petersburg hears about this; yes, and sent to Siberia too, I shouldn’t wonder—’
Pechorin grabbed Nekrasoff by the lapels of his tunic and slammed him back against the bulwark. ‘With half a dozen of my men dead and another three on their way to join them, do you really think I give a damn about my career right now? When this business is done, you may make whatever report you like to your superiors. But I am going to catch Killigrew, of that you may rest assured. Until I do, this is still a naval operation and I remain in command, so I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. And stay out of my way!’ He spun the colonel round and sent him staggering across the deck.
He turned to Lieutenant Yurieff. ‘Report from the engine-room?’
‘No damage to the engines, sir. We’re ready to get under way just as soon as Dubrovsky’s fixed the steering gear.’
Pechorin nodded. ‘Where is he?’
‘In your quarters, sir.’
The count made his way below and found the carpenter where Yurieff had said he would be, supervising two of his crew as they ran fresh ropes along the underside of the deck head. The day-room was a mess, the timbers blackened and charred glass all over the floor.
‘Took the liberty of coming in here without asking permission, sir,’ said Dubrovsky. ‘Hope you don’t object. I thought you’d want me to repair the steering gear as quickly as possible.’
Pechorin nodded. ‘You did right, Dubrovsky. How long?’
‘Fifteen minutes?’
‘Quicker if I stop interrupting you with foolish questions, eh?’ Pechorin managed a wan smile. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘Appreciated, sir.’
Pechorin went back up on deck. Most of the crew were engaged in replacing damaged spars, burned sails and rigging. It would be another hour before they could sail again. But Pechorin did not mean to wait that long: he still had steam power, and he intended to use it. He levelled the teles
cope at the Milenion once again, already two-thirds of a mile off and disappearing behind a headland that projected from the south-west corner of Jurassö where a tall lighthouse towered over the island. The yacht was visibly lower in the water than the last time he had looked, the waves lapping beneath the shot holes punched in the lower deck: another half an hour, no more.
At last Dubrovsky came back on deck and instructed the helmsman to spin the wheel, while he leaned out over the taffrail to watch the rudder.
‘To starboard… now to port… that’s it. How’s she feel?’
‘Good as new, sir.’
‘Good work, Dubrovsky,’ said Pechorin. He resisted the temptation to ask if the jury-rigged steering gear would hold: when the carpenter repaired something, it stayed repaired. ‘Ready to go?’
‘Ready when you are, sir.’
Pechorin turned to Yurieff. ‘Instruct Inzhener Nikolaishvili: set on, full ahead.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The second lieutenant turned to the speaking tube and relayed the order to the engine-room. The deck thrummed beneath their feet and the paddles plashed into life once more.
‘Five points to starboard,’ Pechorin ordered the helmsman.
‘Five points it is, sir.’
The Atalanta altered course until she was steaming for the headland at the south-west corner of the island. It took them seven minutes to pass the headland, and then the Milenion was in view again, about half a mile off. Killigrew had not run her into one of the coves on the coast of the island, but was sailing east now. The wind had veered to the west and the schooner was running before it. Pechorin wondered what the hell he was playing at: wherever he was headed, the yacht would sink before he got halfway there. He levelled the telescope and made out a figure in a blue jacket and bonnet standing at the helm.
‘Another four points to starboard,’ he instructed the helmsman. He would not make the same mistake twice: this time he would stand off and fire chain shot at the Milenion’s masts until she was dead in the water, before sending a boarding party across.
‘Gun crew to the bow chaser,’ he ordered. ‘Reload with chain shot.’
‘The bow chaser’s gun crew are all dead or wounded, sir,’ reported Yurieff. ‘So’s Stachvanyonok.’
‘Then you will have to stand in for Stachvanyonok, and transfer the port gun’s crew to the bow chaser.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Even with the wind full abaft, the Milenion crept along with her mainmast gone and her hull so low in the water it was a wonder she had not foundered already. It was a matter of minutes before she was within easy range. She made no attempt to manoeuvre; what the devil was Killigrew playing at? The commander had one last trick up his sleeve, of that Pechorin had no doubt. He waited until the yacht was only five hundred yards ahead of him before giving the order to fire.
One shot was all it took. The chain shot slashed through the foremast and it came crashing down on the deck in a tangle of rigging and canvas. The bow chaser’s gun crew cheered lustily: the yacht was dead in the water, completely at their mercy. Pechorin levelled his telescope. The schooner’s deck seemed deserted: even the man at the helm was gone, as if borne to the deck under the mass of tangled debris.
Pechorin could tell himself that he would lobby his superiors in St Petersburg for the Bullivants to be treated properly, according to the laws of war, and perhaps they would even listen. But government bureaucracy moved slowly, and by the time anything was done Nekrasoff would already have had them quietly killed, their bodies burned beyond recognition and buried in unmarked graves in a secret location; he certainly had the authority. Killigrew had probably worked that much out for himself, and he realised he would not be doing the Bullivants any favours by surrendering at this stage of the game. He was the kind of man who would fight to the end, no matter how hopeless the odds. Pechorin would do exactly the same, had their positions been reversed. He could well imagine Killigrew and his men crouching below the bulwarks, ready to repel boarders with muskets and cutlasses. It was tempting to lob a few more round shot into the Milenion’s hull, smash her to pieces in revenge for the men killed on the Atalanta, but he was still mindful there were women on board the yacht. Besides, it was Killigrew he wanted his vengeance on: he wanted to cut it out of him with his sabre, piece by piece, not grant him a quick and clean death that he might risk with round shot.
Yurieff made his way aft to the quarterdeck and saluted Pechorin. ‘Permission to lead a boarding party, sir.’
Pechorin hesitated. Sending Yurieff across with a cutter and two dozen of his best men, armed to the teeth, was the obvious thing to do. In fact, he was tempted to lead the boarding party himself, but as captain he knew his place was on the quarterdeck; his days of leading boarding parties were behind him now, he mused sadly.
Still, there was something not right: something about the dead stillness of the Milenion that made the hairs prickle on the back of his neck.
‘Not granted. Release Lazarenko from the lazaretto and have him report to me at once.’
Yurieff looked crestfallen. ‘Sir?’
‘You heard me, Borislav Ivanovich.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Yurieff saluted and descended the after hatch.
The Atalanta was almost level with the Milenion now, a hundred yards off her port quarter. ‘Stand by in the engine-room to stop her,’ he ordered the michmani at the speaking tube.
‘Yes, sir.’ The michmani blew into the tube, listened for a response, and said: ‘Stand by to stop her.’
‘Stop her!’ ordered Pechorin.
‘Stop her.’
The paddles slowed and stopped, the sloop drifting to a halt. ‘Assemble a boarding party,’ Pechorin ordered Vasyutkin. ‘Two dozen of our best men.’ No need to tell Vasyutkin that when he said their best men, he meant the toughest and most ruthless in hand-to-hand combat, not the ablest seamen or the cleanest living. Not that the crew of the Atalanta had had any experience of boarding hostile vessels before now, but a few of the men had proved their ruthlessness in hand-to-hand combat in brawls with Finnish jägers in the waterfront taverns of Ekenäs.
As the boarding party gathered on deck, Chernyovsky and his two men approached. ‘We want to go with the boarding party.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Pechorin told him coldly. ‘This is a naval operation, Starshina. Frankly, I don’t know why you and your men came on board, or why I let you. Boarding a hostile vessel is dangerous work—’
Chernyovsky grinned. ‘My men and I are used to dangerous work, Count.’
‘Aye… butchering Jews, Poles and Chechens, I suppose! My men work as a team, Starshina; that’s the way I trained them. They don’t need three strangers getting under their feet.’
Chernyovsky fingered his swollen nose. ‘There’s a black petty officer on board I’ve a score to settle with.’
‘Your personal vendettas are no concern of the Imperial Russian Navy, Starshina.’
Yurieff returned on deck with Lazarenko, the first lieutenant looking bewildered and a little apprehensive. ‘Ready to redeem yourself, Mstislav Trofimovich?’
‘Sir?’
‘I’m giving you a second chance,’ explained Pechorin. ‘I want you to lead the party that boards the Milenion. Bring me Killigrew alive, and the Bullivants unharmed, and I’ll have the unfortunate incident of your mutiny expunged from the log.’
Lazarenko’s face brightened. ‘You mean, I’ll be reinstated as first lieutenant? There’ll be no court-martial?’
‘If you bring me the Bullivants unharmed, yes.’
‘I won’t let you down, sir.’
‘Just be careful, do you understand? No heroics.’
‘Against a handful of sailors?’ sneered Lazarenko.
‘Don’t underestimate them, Mstislav Trofimovich. They’ve come this far, haven’t they? Just watch yourself, keep your eyes and your ears open, and be ready for anything, do you understand me? A man like Killigrew doesn’t fight honourably when the odds are stacked against him – he’
s got too much sense for that – so don’t expect him to observe the rules of war. And the moment the Milenion founders – which will be any minute now, by the look of it – get your men off there, get clear until she’s sunk, and then go back in to pick up any prisoners. I want the Bullivants alive, and Killigrew too if possible. As for the rest of them… well, I don’t want to hear about any atrocities, but shoot first and ask questions later, do you understand me?’
Lazarenko knitted his brows. ‘If we shoot them, sir, we won’t be able to ask them any questions if they’re dead—’
‘For Christ’s sake! It’s a figure of speech, Lazarenko. The point is, I’m less interested in hearing the answers to any questions than I am in you and every man in your boarding party coming back alive, do I make myself plain? I’ve lost enough men today as it is. Now get in that cutter, before I change my mind and let Yurieff go in your place; and before the Milenion sinks.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Lazarenko and his men boarded the cutter and set out across the waves to where the Milenion still floated… barely. She was a ruined hulk, battered beyond all recognition and in her death throes. It was a wonder Killigrew had not already abandoned ship: the yacht was a death trap now. What was the commander playing at?
What would I do if I were in his shoes? Pechorin asked himself. He can’t get anywhere on the Milenion, so he needs another ship. The only other ship around here is the Atalanta… has he got some scheme to capture this ship? He can’t have more than a dozen men under his command. What could they do? Swim underwater and climb up the port side while two dozen of my men are on board the Milenion and the rest are at the starboard bulwark, waiting to see what happens now?
Pechorin shook his head. It was too far to swim underwater, and even if all twelve of them made it… even with two dozen men on the Milenion, half a dozen dead and sixteen in the sick berth, Pechorin still had about fifty men under his command. Killigrew could not hope to overpower them all.
Perhaps he would try to overpower the boarding party and take Lazarenko hostage. Again, Pechorin shook his head. Lazarenko was an officer of the Imperial Russian Navy: if he were captured, he would have to take his own chances. Lazarenko would know that, and so would Killigrew. Even he could not be desperate enough to think he could get away with an exchange: Lazarenko for the Atalanta.
Killigrew’s Run Page 37