Molineaux touched the flame to the gunpowder spilling from the cut cartridge pouch on Chernyovsky’s breast.
The Cossack’s eyes grew wide as realisation finally dawned. ‘Nyet!’
The powder flared. Molineaux flung up an arm to protect his eyes. The adjoining cartridge burst, and the one after that. Screaming in agony, Chernyovsky let go of the petty officer to beat at the cartridges that exploded across his chest like a strip of Chinese firecrackers.
Molineaux threw a fist at his jaw, spinning Chernyovsky around. He braced himself against the table behind him and kicked the Cossack firmly in the seat of his trousers, sending him staggering towards the entrance of the tent. The matrosy who crowded there scattered to avoid the flaming Cossack. Chernyovsky staggered across the shingle outside, tripping over to fall across one of the kegs of gunpowder, splintering it.
‘Oh, hell!’ As the first explosion shredded Chernyovsky’s torso, Molineaux pushed over a table and threw himself down behind it.
The rest of the kegs exploded, filling the night with light, heat and noise. The tent was blown away from above him and a wall of hot air slammed the table against him as a roaring sound filled his ears.
As the noise faded and pieces of burning debris fell down all around him, Molineaux looked up to feel the rain against his face, reassuring him he was still alive. There were matrosy everywhere, some of them lying unmoving on the shingle, others staggering around with dazed expressions and smouldering clothes. One of them was shouting, but no sound that Molineaux could hear came from his mouth.
Time to leave.
He picked himself up and sprinted for the trees. None of the Russians followed him: they had enough problems of their own. He thought he had made it when he slammed into a body in the shadows of the woods. He saw a burly figure standing over him, levelling a shotgun at his head.
‘Ben!’ he shouted. At least, he thought he shouted, but the words sounded oddly muffled inside his head.
He saw Iles’ teeth flash whitely in the gloom as he answered, but could not hear him. He realised the explosion must have deafened him.
The seaman repeated the question. Molineaux shook his head and indicated his ears. ‘Can’t hear you! Gone deaf!’
Iles shook his head in exasperation and hauled Molineaux to his feet. The two of them fled into the night.
* * *
Colonel Nekrasoff was fast asleep in one of the cabins on board the Atalanta when the explosion ripped through his dream. He got up, dressed hurriedly, and made his way on deck to see the chaos and confusion ashore where burning debris littered the beach. Pechorin’s gig had been lowered from its davits, and Nekrasoff could see the count being rowed ashore through the driving rain.
He grabbed Yurieff. ‘What’s going on?’
The lieutenant shrugged. ‘There was some kind of commotion on the beach, and then there was a big explosion…’
Nekrasoff’s hand tightened on the fabric of Yurieff’s sleeve. ‘Killigrew! Where’s Pechorin going?’
‘To investigate, I expect.’
‘Get me ashore.’
Yurieff looked dubious. ‘He did not say anything about letting anyone else go ashore—’
‘I don’t give a damn what he said or didn’t say. It isn’t up to him. Now get me ashore, damn you!’
One look at Nekrasoff’s face convinced the lieutenant it would not be a good idea to argue further. ‘Vasyutkin! The dinghy!’
Nekrasoff stood drumming his fingers on the bulwark while the sloop’s dinghy was lowered from its davits. The crew rowed it round to the foot of the accommodation ladder, and Nekrasoff climbed down to take his place in the stern sheets.
On the beach, Captain Aleksandrei was trying to draw order from the chaos, commanding some of his men to re-establish the picquets and others to tidy up the mess. There was little point trying to put out the fires: the rain had all but done that already.
The two Cossacks who had rejoined the Atalanta with Chernyovsky at Odensö Island now stood looking forlornly at the crater where the gunpowder kegs had been stacked. ‘Where’s your starshina?’ Nekrasoff demanded.
‘Gone,’ one of the Cossacks said mournfully.
‘Gone? Gone where?’
Both raised their eyes towards the heavens, the rain hammering against their beards.
‘What does that mean?’ demanded Nekrasoff.
‘He’s dead,’ said one.
‘Blown up,’ said the other.
‘Idiot!’ Nekrasoff made no attempt to make it plain whether he was talking about Chernyovsky or the Cossack who had just spoken. He whirled on his heel and looked about for Pechorin, but the count had vanished into the rain.
He approached Aleksandrei. ‘Where’s Pechorin?’
The captain frowned and looked about. ‘I don’t know. He was here a moment ago.’
‘He said he would not be long,’ one of the matrosy added.
Nekrasoff grabbed him. ‘Did he say where he was going?’
‘No, sir. But I think he was going to the lighthouse.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, he glanced towards it, said “wait here”, and ran off in that direction.’ The matros pointed. ‘He must have seen the light.’
Nekrasoff thought the matros was speaking metaphorically. ‘Light? What light?’ Then he glanced up, and through the rain he saw a faint beam emanating from where the lighthouse was, although the tower itself was invisible in the dark. Then the beam was gone, only to briefly reappear a few seconds later. Had Pechorin turned on the light? No, he had not had time. Why would he turn on the light, anyway? Why would anyone want to turn on the light, for that matter?
‘You and you!’ he called across to the two Cossacks. ‘Come with me!’
Aleksandrei had seen the light too now. ‘Perhaps I should send some more men with you?’
Nekrasoff shook his head. ‘Keep your men here in case it’s a diversion. Three of us should be enough to deal with whoever lit that light.’
* * *
Molineaux had recovered his hearing by the time he and Iles reached the iron foundry, and the pair of them were laughing.
‘When you create a diversion, Wes, you don’t muck about!’ said the seaman. ‘What ’appened to that macky bastard Cossack?’
Molineaux grinned. ‘He finally met his match.’ The petty officer glanced to where the top of the lighthouse was just visible above the trees to their right. He could see the beam of the lantern slicing through the rain each time the lens pointed to the west. ‘Looks like Mr Killigrew managed to get that light on.’
‘Did you ever doubt ’ee would? ’E’s got us this far, din’t ’ee? You know summat, Wes? For the first time since the Russkis fired on us boat at Vitsand Sound, I’se startin’ to think we might just live through this business.’
They stepped through the door of the foundry, grateful to be out of the rain. The interior was as black as pitch. ‘Seth? Red?’ Molineaux called into the darkness. ‘You there? It’s us: Wes and Ben.’
Someone struck a match and applied it to the wick of a hurricane lamp. As the yellow glow filled the large room, Molineaux saw the others huddled on the floor… and a dozen matrosy standing around them, keeping them covered with muskets.
‘Think again, Ben,’ he told Iles wearily.
A man in the uniform of a Russian naval lieutenant replaced the glass flue over the wick and shook out his match.
Four more matrosy stepped up behind Molineaux and Iles, depriving the seaman of his shotgun and tying both men’s hands behind their backs.
The lieutenant stepped up to face Iles and drew a pistol from the holster on his belt, thumbing back the hammer and pressing the muzzle to the seaman’s nose. ‘Where is your Commander Killigrew?’
Iles made a suggestion that would not only have required unusual nimbleness and acrobatic agility on the lieutenant’s part but also a complete lack of shame and self-respect. The lieutenant slashed him across the face with the pistol, the
sight scoring a line of blood across the seaman’s cheek. As Iles sank to his knees with his face screwed up in pain – without giving the Russians the satisfaction of hearing him cry out – the lieutenant turned to his men.
‘It is no matter,’ he said, in English for the benefit of the prisoners. ‘There are not many places he can hide: it will be dawn in a few hours, and we will find him soon enough.’ He concluded with a curt order in Russian. ‘Now, get moving, all of you!’ he added.
The Russians herded their prisoners to the door.
Chapter 22
Mano a Mano
11.00 p.m.–Midnight, Friday 18 August
Killigrew was sitting on the bottom steps of the spiral staircase on the ground floor of the lighthouse when he heard footsteps approaching the door.
As soon as he had recovered from the shock of the fog bell tolling, he had scrambled up the ladder into the watch room to stop it from ringing by taking off one of his kid gloves and pulling it over the clapper; but by then the damage had been done.
He had found the musket in the kitchen and loaded it from the dead matros’ cartouche box. Now he picked it up and levelled it down the passage at the door, waiting, ready to sell his life dearly. The longer the light stayed on, the greater the chance that someone on board the frigate stationed off Hangö Head would notice it. Even if his own life was forfeit, at least he could do everything in his power to make sure the others had a chance to escape; not that that was much.
The footsteps stopped right outside the lighthouse door, and he heard someone try the doorknob. He slipped a finger through the trigger guard of the musket and braced the stock against his shoulder. Why the hell had he decided to come here alone? He should have brought Hughes, Fuller, O’Leary and Yorath with him: then the two matrosy would not have given him nearly as much trouble, and the five of them would have been able to defend the lighthouse much longer than he could hope to alone.
The footsteps retreated, then returned at a run. The door shuddered as someone threw his shoulder against it.
Killigrew remembered what Strachan had told him in the Arctic, what seemed like a lifetime ago: ‘Always got to be the hero, haven’t you?’ And it was true, he had to admit to himself. He could tell himself that it was all part of being a naval officer; but it had been his choice to join the navy, and anything he might say about being from a long line of naval officers was all a load of gammon. He loved his job: the paperwork was a bore, and asinine superiors could be a headache, but it was worth putting up with those minor irritations for the excitement, the danger…
The man outside threw his shoulder against the door a second time, and again it held.
…for moments like this.
Killigrew smiled in the darkness. This was what being a hero was all about: even if he lived to tell the tale, the events of the past few days were unlikely to merit more than a couple of lines at the bottom of the ‘Naval Intelligence’ column in The Times, but he was not in it for the glory. The moment… that was the thing. Live for the moment. After all, it might well be his last.
But not if he could help it.
The door burst open on the third attempt. Killigrew sighted carefully at the figure silhouetted on the threshold, but even as he squeezed the trigger the man threw himself flat on the floor.
Killigrew caught his breath. Was the man dead? He took a cartridge from the cartouche box, but before he could tear it open and empty it into the musket, the man on the floor called out to him.
‘Is that you, Killigrew?’
‘Pechorin?’
‘I had hoped it would end this way: just you and I, mano a mano. By the way, you can stop reloading that musket. You are reloading, aren’t you? I’m afraid I can’t see too well in this light, but there are six rounds in my revolver, and if I empty them all in your direction I think I can be reasonably confident that at least one bullet will hit you.’
‘What makes you think I’m not armed with a revolver?’
‘Give me some credit! I know the difference between a musket and a revolver when I hear one.’
‘Really? I’m always impressed when someone can hear a shot and tell me exactly what make of gun it was. Speaking for myself, I can’t tell a shotgun from a pocket pistol. What makes you think I haven’t got a second musket primed and loaded?’
‘If you had, you’d have fired it already. Even a runner-up in the East Falmouth Junior Pistol Shooting Championship of 1835 couldn’t miss at this range.’ Pechorin stood up. Killigrew could see he was not lying about having a revolver.
‘So, where does that leave us?’
‘At the bottom of a lighthouse that’s light is on when it should be off. I’d be grateful if you’d help me alter that situation.’
‘And supposing I say no?’
‘Then I’ll have to shoot you. Not very sporting, I know, but there is rather more at stake here than our rivalry.’
‘What rivalry? We have no rivalry, Pechorin.’
‘I beg to differ. Now, up the stairs you go like a good boy. And please remember that my revolver is lined up on your back.’
Killigrew turned wearily and ascended the steps once again. Both of them were out of breath by the time they reached the living quarters. Killigrew was about to climb the ladder to the watch room when Pechorin stopped him.
‘Ah, no, I think this is far enough.’
‘The mechanism that controls the light is on the next floor up.’
‘Yes, and you go up first and slam that trap door on my head as I try to follow. I think not.’
‘You can’t blame a chap for trying. Now what? Do you want to go up first?’
Pechorin smiled, and shook his head. ‘An interesting situation, is it not?’ he said, crossing to the small window without taking the revolver off Killigrew. ‘For obvious reasons, you want the light to stay on; I want it off. We both have a good deal at stake. I think this gives you sufficient incentive.’ He opened the window with his free hand. A blast of cold air and rain howled through. Pechorin tossed the revolver out.
‘Intriguing!’ said Killigrew.
‘I see you have your own sword.’
‘Something I picked up along the way.’
‘You know how to use it?’
‘You’re the one who’s the fencing champion of all the Russias.’
‘Afraid?’
‘A tad apprehensive, yes.’
‘Come now, Mr Killigrew. You may act all modest, but I’ve a sneaking suspicion you’re a little more skilled at fencing than you’re prepared to admit. This is good: where would be the challenge, if you were not?’
‘I’m not getting out of this, am I?’
Smiling, Pechorin shook his head.
‘Very well,’ sighed Killigrew. ‘Just give me a chance to catch my breath. I’ve been up and down those stairs a dozen times tonight—’
Abruptly, he lunged across the room and caught Pechorin in a rugby tackle without giving him the chance to draw the sabre. The two of them slammed back against the wall and fell to the floor, grappling as they rolled across the boards. Pechorin rolled on top. Killigrew managed to draw his legs up between them and, placing them squarely against the Russian’s chest, he catapulted him back across the room. Pechorin turned to brace himself against the wall and stood there, gasping, while Killigrew picked himself up.
‘You fight dirty, Mr Killigrew.’ Pechorin put one hand on the hilt of his sabre. ‘But you will die like a gentleman, even if you cannot fight like one.’
Drawing the sabre, he whirled.
In time to see Killigrew’s feet disappear through the hatch into the watch room above.
Pechorin swore and scrambled up after him, pausing at the top of the ladder to thrust his sabre up through the hatchway in case Killigrew was waiting to slam the hatch down on him. But Killigrew had already clambered up the next ladder in the lantern room.
‘“You will die like a gentleman, even if you cannot fight like one”.’ Somewhere above Pechorin, Killigrew mocke
d the Russian’s accent. ‘This is the nineteenth century, Count: no one talks like that any more. Frankly, I don’t believe they ever did, outside of romance novels, and I suspect you’re guilty of reading one too many.’
Snarling with rage, Pechorin flung himself up the second ladder. As his head emerged through the hatch, Killigrew slammed the cover down on him. Pechorin dropped his sabre and fell to the floor below, clutching his head.
‘Seems you were right about me slamming the trap door on you,’ said Killigrew. ‘Sorry about that.’
Pechorin ascended the ladder again, this time thrusting his sabre through the hatch and throwing the cover clear before climbing up into the lantern room. He gazed about, averting his gaze as the lantern’s beam swept over him. There was no sign of Killigrew in the room, which meant he had to be outside on the gallery; the light reflecting off the glass on all sides made it impossible to see out even where the panes had not been painted over. Pechorin reached for the door handle.
Killigrew dropped down from where he had been clinging to the iron stanchions that supported the cupola. Pechorin staggered under his weight, and the commander hooked an arm around his neck.
‘Drop the cutlery, Count, or I’ll break your neck.’
With a roar, Pechorin launched himself backwards. Killigrew was smashed against the glass behind him, once, twice, three times… the panes of glass shattered, but the astragals held firm, preventing the two men from toppling out on to the gallery. The wind and rain howled through. Pechorin broke free of Killigrew’s grip, slashing at him with the sabre. The commander dived to the floor, performing a forward roll around the side of the rotating lantern. He rose to his feet so the lantern was between him and Pechorin. The beam hit the count full in the face, forcing him to avert his gaze. Killigrew drew his sword and lunged, but Pechorin recovered quickly and parried with ease. As the beam swung round towards the commander, he dived for the door and tugged it open.
Killigrew’s Run Page 43