Chernyovsky Meets His Match
10.00 p.m.–11.00 p.m., Friday 18 August
Molineaux and Iles paused beneath the trees some forty yards from where they could see one of the picquets at the edge of the Russian camp. Huddled against the rain, their collars turned up, the three sentries silhouetted between the tree trunks looked thoroughly miserable.
Molineaux knew how they felt. Far from providing shelter, the trees above him only channelled the rain so it dripped on him in great, fat drops. But he thanked the rain anyway, because it had driven everyone but the sentries to seek cover in one of the makeshift tents. It had also reduced visibility, and it meant that anyone trying to fire a musket was ten times more likely to get a misfire than a kill.
But it would also make it impossible to set off the gunpowder by laying a powder trail to one of the kegs.
The Ivan Strashnyi’s stores were stacked up on the beach about thirty yards beyond the picquet. ‘Any ideas?’ asked Iles.
‘Yur,’ said Molineaux. ‘You stay here. I don’t suppose you’ve got any string on you?’
‘String? No. Us got a reel o’ cotton in us ’ussif, if that be any use?’
‘Ben, you’re a bloody marvel. Give it here.’
Iles rummaged in his pockets and produced his hussif, handing the reel to Molineaux. ‘Us ain’t gettin’ it back, is us?’
‘If we get out of this alive, I’ll buy you a cotton mill.’
Iles grinned, his teeth showing pale in the gloom. ‘Not on a petty officer’s pay, you ain’t.’
Crawling on his belly, Molineaux slithered off through the undergrowth. His misspent youth had taught him everything there was to know about creeping and crawling silently through the blackest of nights, and he passed between two of the picquets without being spotted. Reaching the stores, he crouched between a stack of crates and some barrels. He could just make out the word ‘ВОДА’ stencilled on the side, whatever that meant. He was willing to bet it was not gunpowder: the barrels were too large. More likely the powder was stored in the smaller kegs further along the strand.
Using the stacks of material as cover, Molineaux dashed across to the kegs and scrunched down again. He glanced around to make sure no one had seen him: those sentries who bothered to raise their faces into the driving rain all did so towards the trees. Molineaux took a box from the adjoining stack, and crawled behind the kegs. He took down two, setting them next to each other a few inches apart, and placing the box across them to create a small shelter beneath. He reached for the box of matches Killigrew had given him, took one out, cut off the match head with his Bowie knife and discarded it. Next he unwound some of the thread from the reel Iles had given him and tied it to the matchstick.
Molineaux worked quickly, fingers nimble in spite of the numbing rain, eyes constantly glancing up on the lookout for trouble. He took down another keg of gunpowder, prised off the lid with his Bowie knife, and set it down with its open face towards the small shelter he had created. Some of the powder spilled out and immediately became soaked, but that was no matter.
Next he unslung his shotgun, unwrapping the oilcloth rag he had tied about the hammers to keep it dry, and thumbed one back without cocking it. He inserted the matchstick against the hammer to hold it back, and gently eased his hands away. The matchstick held. Hardly daring to breathe, he eased the barrels between the two kegs so that the muzzles lay in the open keg and the hammers were sheltered beneath the box. He put another keg behind the stock to brace it, and wedged the two barrels on either side of the shotgun to hold it firmly in place. Picking up the spool, he backed away, unwinding the cotton thread as he went. His feet scrunched on the shingle. One of the picquets was bound to notice him, but that did not matter: by the time they reacted, he would have reached the trees and would be far enough away from the stack of powder kegs to risk blowing it.
And then his buttocks slammed into something solid. Something that had not been there when he had looked that way to plan his escape route a few moments earlier.
He froze, then straightened slowly and turned to find himself staring up into Chernyovsky’s bearded face.
Molineaux forced himself to grin. ‘Hullo!’ he said brightly, as if encountering an old friend.
‘And what you think you do?’ demanded the starshina.
Molineaux glanced back towards the stack of kegs. He was only twenty yards away… too close, but he would have to chance it. ‘I was just wondering what the Russian for “duck” is.’
Chernyovsky knitted his brows. ‘Utka?’
Gripping the reel of cotton tightly, Molineaux threw himself flat and braced himself for the explosion.
Nothing happened.
He glanced towards the stack of kegs, and swore.
Chernyovsky reached down, grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him to his feet.
Molineaux held up his hands. ‘Something was supposed to happen there.’
The Cossack smashed a fist into his face.
* * *
Killigrew found himself on the wrong side of the gallery railing, dangling by one hand, his right shoulder screaming with agony. He had dislocated it six years earlier, and now it felt as if he had almost wrenched from its socket a second time. He tried to grab hold of the rail with his other hand, but Czibor leaned over him and tried to smash the stock of his musket into his face.
Struggling to grip the slippery railing, Killigrew swung himself away from the blow, painfully conscious of the long drop to where the breakers smashed themselves furiously against the rocks below. He managed to catch hold of the railing with his other hand and hoisted himself up so he could get his feet on the platform. Czibor drew back the musket to smash the stock into his head. Killigrew swung his feet under the railing, his head dropping below the blow, the sole of his boots smashing into Czibor’s kneecap. The matros collapsed with a scream. Killigrew swung himself back on to the platform, sobbing with relief at having something solid beneath his feet, and the railing between himself and that long, awful drop.
Czibor writhed on the platform, clutching his shattered kneecap. Killigrew grabbed him by the front of his jacket and tried to hoist him up so he could topple him over the railing, but the matros drew his bayonet from the frog on his belt and tried to thrust it into his side. Killigrew dropped him and twisted away, the bayonet’s blade slicing through the fabric of his coat. He turned and stumbled back into the lantern room, scrabbling on the floor in the darkness for the fallen sword.
Czibor managed to haul himself to his feet, struggling to stay upright as he sought to keep the weight off his left leg, and hobbled towards the door. Killigrew forgot about the sword and turned to face him. Jumping up, he caught hold of the lintel and pulled himself up, kicking out with both legs as he did so. His boots slammed against the matros’ chest, driving him back against the railing. Czibor toppled over and plummeted from the gallery with a scream that was whipped away by the wind.
Killigrew slammed the door against the wind and the rain and leaned against it, gasping for breath. ‘Alone at last,’ he muttered.
It was only a matter of time before more men came to relieve the two lookouts. Glancing through the window in the direction of the lagoon, he saw no sign of the diversion Molineaux had promised him. He tried not to worry about it: he knew the petty officer would not let him down.
He descended to the ground floor and barred the door. On his way back up to the lantern room, he paused to search the storerooms on the lower levels until he found what he was looking for: red lead paint. Tucking two of the largest brushes he could find in one pocket, he picked up two cans and carried them back up to the lantern room, where he threw the contents of one against the windows on the north, east and south sides. Then he began to spread it about, holding one brush in each hand, before daubing more paint from the second pot to cover the gaps. After his life and death struggles with the two Russians, the act of painting was oddly soothing. Soon his hands stopped shaking and he found himself whistling ‘T
he Girl I Left Behind Me’.
When he had blacked out the windows as best he could, he collected a hurricane lamp from the living quarters. He patted himself down for his matches, and belatedly remembered he had given them to Molineaux. Well, this was a lighthouse, wasn’t it? The wickies could not light the lantern with prayer. He searched about, but it was almost impossible in the darkness. Then he remembered what the first matros had been doing when he arrived, and made his way down to the kitchen where he lit the lamp’s wick with a glowing ember lifted out of the stove with a set of tongs.
He carried the lamp back up to the lantern room and examined the lantern itself. It was of the Argand type, with two tubes to blow oxygen on to the oil-fuelled wick to give a bright, clear flame with a minimum of soot. There was a parabolic mirror behind the wick, two prisms on either side, and a Fresnel lens in front to concentrate the beam. He checked the oil reservoir: empty.
He made his way down to the oil room to fetch a can, and trudged wearily back up the three flights of stairs and two ladders that led up to the lantern room. He filled the reservoir and replaced the cap.
With the windows blacked out, he had to step out into the wind and rain on the gallery to see if Molineaux had blown up the gunpowder on the beach, but all was dark in that direction. Had the petty officer let him down? Well, he was only human. But he was not the sort of man to quit: if he were still alive, he would be trying to fire those kegs.
Killigrew could no longer wait for the diversion, however. Dawn was only a few hours off, and when it came, the crews of the Ivan Strashnyi and the Atalanta would resume their search, leaving no stone unturned this time. The sooner Killigrew sent his signal, the sooner the frigate stationed off Hangö Head would come to investigate… assuming they could see the light on a foul night like this, and assuming their curiosity was piqued by it. Too many imponderables, too few alternatives. He took the glass flue off the hurricane lamp and used it to light the wick. The flame burned clear and bright, and the apparatus intensified it so much that Killigrew was dazzled even without his face in front of the lens.
The light was already shining in the right direction, but a winking light was more likely to catch the eye than a steady one. He descended to the watch room below and studied the mechanism. As far as he could tell, it operated on much the same principle as the grandfather clock in the hallway of the family home in Falmouth. There had to be a key somewhere. He fumbled about and found it hanging from a nail on one wall. He wound the two weights up as far as they would go, then set the pendulum swinging. The apparatus whirred and grated, and he did not need to stick his head up through the hatch above to know the lantern was rotating on its chariot.
He made his way down to the living quarters and slumped into a chair. He had done all that could be done: all that was left to do was hold the lighthouse against anyone who came to investigate the beam. Even with the windows blacked out around three-quarters of the lantern room, the beam would pick out the slashing rain and be visible from the lagoon… or perhaps visibility was so poor, the men at the lagoon would not notice. Still, the lookouts’ relief was bound to turn up sooner or later. In a while, he would make his way downstairs and plan his defence, but for now he just needed a moment to catch his breath…
And then the mechanism that rotated the lantern also struck the fog bell that hung in the watch room, deafening him.
Startled, he leaped clean out of the chair. It was so loud, they must have heard it on the mainland, never mind down at the lagoon.
* * *
Captain Miles Standish was dreaming of his favourite Haymarket whore when a knock on the door ripped him cruelly from her arms. He sat up in his bunk and found himself back in his cabin on board the second-class paddle-frigate HMS Buzzard.
‘Who is it?’ he yawned.
The door opened and Lieutenant Slater was silhouetted on the threshold. ‘Sorry to disturb you, sir, but the lookouts have spotted a light off the port bow.’
‘What sort of a fight, Mr Slater?’
‘A flashing fight, sir.’
Standish blinked at him.
‘You know, sir… like a lighthouse?’ Slater prompted him.
‘Is there a lighthouse in that direction, Mr Slater?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve checked the charts and there’s one on the island of Jurassö, twenty-two miles west by north of our current position.’
‘Mystery solved, then.’ Standish turned over to go back to sleep. ‘In future please be so good as to refrain from disturbing my sleep with trivialities, Mr Slater.’
The lieutenant hesitated on the threshold. ‘It’s just that… sir, none of the lighthouses on the Russian coast have been in operation since the war broke out.’
‘So?’
‘So why is this one on now?’
‘I really couldn’t say.’
‘It occurred to me it might be a signal of some kind.’
Standish rolled back and blinked at him. ‘What sort of a signal?’
‘I don’t know, sir. And – with all due respect, sir – we’re not likely to find out if we don’t go to investigate.’
‘Admiral Napier’s orders are quite specific, Mr Slater. We’re to maintain position off Hangö Head, observing any shipping movements, until he sends us further orders. I have no intention of abandoning my post to go and investigate some mysterious light. Now kindly be so good as to resume your duties on deck and let me get back to sleep.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
* * *
Chernyovsky growled something at the sentries who left their posts at the picquets to crowd round where the Cossack stood over Molineaux: the petty officer was willing to bet it was something along the lines of ‘Leave him! This one’s mine!’
The matrosy backed off. Chernyovsky drew his Cossack knife from his belt, twisting it so that the wicked blade glinted in the lights from the surrounding tents. ‘I cut you up like slaughtered pig, negr!’
Still seated on his backside – where the starshina’s punch had landed him – Molineaux waved him away irritably. ‘Why is it you coves always have to show off?’ he demanded wearily. ‘For all you know, there could be a dozen of my mates watching you from the woods, getting up to all sorts of mischief that will allow us to escape, but do you think to go and take a look-see? No, you’ve got to start showing off your muscles, playing with your cutlery!’ The petty officer put one hand down on the shingle beside him as if to push himself to his feet, then closed his fingers around a fistful of pebbles and flung them into Chernyovsky’s face.
The Cossack reeled. Molineaux jumped to his feet, drawing his Bowie knife from the sheath at the small of his back. ‘Oh-kay, Don Cossack: you want to play with knives? Let’s play!’ He lunged at Chernyovsky’s face with his blade. The Cossack jerked his head aside, but the lunge had been a feint; Molineaux changed the direction of his attack at the last moment, slashing at the Cossack’s wrist. But Chernyovsky parried it with his own blade.
The two of them backed off, circling. ‘You’ve done this kind of thing before, ain’t you?’ Molineaux said accusingly.
Chernyovsky grinned. ‘Once or twice.’
Molineaux lunged again, but this time he did not bother with a feint, slashing through one of the cartridge pouches stitched to the breast of the Cossack’s tunic. He darted back quickly, but not quickly enough: Chernyovsky’s riposte slashed through the fabric of his sleeve – and the shirt beneath that – to draw blood from his forearm. The petty officer gasped in shock.
The Cossack grinned. ‘Or three times, even.’
The wind drove the rain into Molineaux’s eyes, making him blink constantly. He could hardly see Chernyovsky, let alone strike at him. He tried to circle round so he was the one with his back to the wind instead of the Cossack. But Chernyovsky was aware of the advantage their relative positions gave them, and refused to let him pass.
In spite of the rain, more and more matrosy emerged from their tents to watch the fight. They cheered when Chernyovsky’
s blade darted forward to draw another line of blood from Molineaux’s cheek. The petty officer clapped his right hand to the stinging pain.
‘Why do I always end up playing against the home crowd?’ he wondered out loud in an aggrieved tone. ‘Some of you Ivans might cheer me, you know, just to even things up. Ain’t you never heard of supporting the underdog?’
‘Foolish English sentiment,’ jeered Chernyovsky. ‘Save your breath, negr. you need it to fight.’
‘Save your own breath,’ Molineaux retorted. He stepped in close, stabbing with the Bowie knife, but Chernyovsky’s left hand clamped over his wrist, staying the blow. In the same instant, the Cossack tried to stab him in the heart, but Molineaux caught his wrist with his own left hand. The two of them struggled chest to chest. Chernyovsky had the advantage of both height and strength, and he drove Molineaux back into a marquee that had been set up as a sort of mess for the matrosy from the Ivan Strashnyi. The petty officer tripped over a chest, crashed into a table, and the two of them rolled over it. They broke apart, and when they stood up both had lost their knives.
Chernyovsky at once seized Molineaux’s neck in his massive hands, and slowly began to squeeze. The petty officer drove a fist into the Cossack’s stomach, without any apparent effect. He gripped Chernyovsky’s wrists and tried to prise his hands away from his throat, in vain. All he could see through his swimming vision was the Cossack’s leering face. He felt himself blacking out.
And at that moment the fog bell in the lighthouse tolled sonorously.
The sound made Chernyovsky glance over his shoulder, without loosening his grip on the petty officer’s throat. He said something in Russian to the matrosy crowding behind him.
Molineaux gave up trying to prise the Cossack’s hands from his throat. Feeling his legs turn to water, he fumbled for the box of matches Killigrew had given him. He managed to extract one, and struck it against the side of the box.
At the rasping of the match head, Chernyovsky turned to look at him, and glanced down in bewilderment at the match flaring between them.
Killigrew’s Run Page 42