Just when he thought he had covered enough ground to slip past the Russians and make his way down to the lagoon, he heard a twig snap behind him. He rolled on his back to see one of the matrosy standing a few feet away, his musket already levelled. Killigrew brought up the revolver, but too slow. A musket barked, and the sunlight dappling the forest floor sliced the gun smoke that bloomed between the trees into golden shafts. The commander and the Russian stared at one another, and then the blood ran down the hole in the matros’ forehead and he keeled over to reveal that the back of his head had been blown off.
Killigrew twisted and saw two men standing off to his left, both levelling rifled muskets: one with smoke curling from the muzzle, the other pointed at the commander. Recognising the hooped guernseys and bonnets of matelots of la Royale, he dropped the revolver and threw up his hand. ‘Ami, ami! Je suis un officier de la marine britannique!’
‘C’est un anglais!’ one of the matelots exclaimed in surprise, and as the other hauled Killigrew to his feet he saw two dozen more matelots advancing through the trees to engage the Russians. The woods became noisy with the rattle of musketry, and soon the air was thick with the sulphurous reek of gun smoke. The skirmish was short and one-sided: realising they were massively outnumbered and their smoothbore muskets were no match for the French rifles, the Russians turned and fled back to the lagoon.
Some of the matelots made to go after them, but their officer called them back and ordered his men to reform. More matelots were tramping through the trees from the beach on the south side of the island, and those men who had fired their muskets reloaded.
The French officer took advantage of the lull in the battle to interrogate Killigrew. ‘Who are you?’
‘Commander Christopher Killigrew, HMS Ramillies, at your service.’
‘It’s oh-kay, monsewer!’ called Molineaux, running up with the matelots, musket in hand. ‘He’s with us.’
The French officer nodded and proffered a hand. ‘Lieutenant Henri Halévy of the Scaramouche.’ He indicated Molineaux. ‘This man tells me there is a Russian two-decker in the lagoon. This is true?’
Killigrew nodded. ‘The Ivan Strashnyi, but she’s going nowhere. It’s the paddle-sloop Atalanta I’m worried about: she’ll get away, if we don’t hurry.’
‘Alors!’ Halévy waved his men forward with his revolver, and Killigrew took a musket from a dead Russian as the matelots advanced through the trees once more.
News of the Scaramouche’s arrival off the south coast had reached the Russian camp, so that by the time Killigrew and Molineaux charged out of the trees with the matelots, only a handful of the Ivan Strashnyi’s crew were prepared to put up a token resistance. Of the remainder, half were wading or swimming in a vain attempt to catch the Atalanta as she gathered way, steaming out of the lagoon, while the rest sat disconsolately on the shingle, waiting to be taken prisoner. From the look of it, some of the Ivan Strashnyi’s officers had boarded the Atalanta to escape, but Captain Aleksandrei had refused to abandon his crippled command. As the matelots surrounded the men on the beach, covering them with their rifles, Aleksandrei came forward to proffer his sword hilt-first to Lieutenant Halévy.
Seeing the French had everything well in hand as far as the crew of the Ivan Strashnyi was concerned, Killigrew sprinted along the rocky shore until he was able to bound up on to a large boulder overlooking the mouth of the lagoon. The Atalanta was already moving out to sea, but she was still less than a hundred yards away, close enough for Killigrew to make out Nekrasoff standing with his back to him on the quarterdeck.
He brought the musket up to his shoulder, took careful aim – remembering to make allowance for the crosswind – and pulled the trigger.
The hammer fell with a dull snap.
Killigrew was mortified. He thumbed back the hammer and fired again, but again the percussion cap failed to ignite the powder charge. Seeing his quarry escape him, he threw the musket down in rage and frustration. When he looked up at the paddle-sloop, he saw that Nekrasoff had seen him – and recognised him – and was waving a mocking farewell from the taffrail.
Killigrew heard heavy breathing behind him. He twisted to see Molineaux climbing up the boulder to join him, carrying a rifled musket. ‘Is that thing loaded?’
Gasping for breath, Molineaux shook his head.
The commander clenched his fists at the sides and glowered after the Atalanta as she steamed away from the island, heading back towards the Finnish coast. There was still no sign of the Scaramouche.
‘The bastard’s getting away!’
Molineaux put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Never mind, sir. You can’t win ’em all.’
Killigrew shrugged his hand off irritably.
‘Anyhow, reckon we did beat him,’ said the petty officer.
‘And just how do you work that out?’
‘We got the Ivan Strashnyi… or the Frogs did, at any rate, thanks to us. And we’re still alive, ain’t we? And the Bullivants too.’
‘And what about the ones who didn’t make it, Molineaux? Todd, Mackenzie, Attwood, Burgess, Ogilby and Searle? All dead, because of Nekrasoff. Beating him isn’t enough: I want to know this world has been cleansed by his death.’
‘Maybe the Tsar will do the job for you. His superiors will be none too pleased about the way he let us escape. Even if they don’t scrag him, all he’s got to look forward to is a prolonged holiday in the Siberian salt mines.’
‘Not that swine. His kind always finds a way to wriggle out of trouble.’
The petty officer nodded soberly. ‘Reckon we ain’t heard the last of him, then?’
Killigrew shook his head.
‘Good.’ Molineaux shouldered his musket. ‘That means we’ll get another shot at the bastard.’
* * *
There was not room on board the Scaramouche for all the Russian prisoners, so Capitaine Meilhac settled for taking Captain Aleksandrei and his remaining officers on board, and a token three dozen of his matrosy.
‘We cannot afford to have the prisoners on board outnumbering the crew!’ Lieutenant Halévy explained to Killigrew as they prepared to climb into the last two boats to row out to the frigate. Dahlstedt and Endicott had already been sent on board the Scaramouche with Hughes, Iles, Thornton, Uren, Fuller, O’Leary and Yorath, and were having their wounds tended by the frigate’s surgeon.
‘This island is as effective a prison as any we can provide,’ Halévy continued. ‘I doubt the Russians will risk sending any more ships this way before we can return with a couple of transports to pick them all up. As for you and your companions, we should be joining the rest of the fleet before nightfall; you’ll be back on board your ship in time for supper.’
‘You couldn’t make it a little later, could you?’ asked Killigrew. ‘Even in the wardroom, the food on board the Ramillies leaves a lot to be desired, and I’ve always had a fondness for French cuisine.’
Halévy grinned. ‘I’ll have a word with mon capitaine.’
‘We owe you our lives,’ said Lady Bullivant. ‘It is most fortunate you saw Mr Killigrew’s signal.’
The Frenchman frowned. ‘Signal? What signal?’
Killigrew’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean… you didn’t see the light in the lighthouse?’
Halevy shook his head. ‘We just happened to be passing, that is all. We chanced to spy some figures on the coast of an island supposed to be uninhabited, and came to investigate… what is so funny?’
Killigrew had thrown back his head and was laughing heartily.
‘I’m glad you find it so amusing,’ Lord Bullivant said sourly. ‘You’ll be laughing on the other side of your face when Lord Aberdeen hears of the disgraceful way you and your men conducted yourselves. And someone’s going to pay for the destruction of the Milenion—’
‘Rodney?’ interrupted Lady Bullivant.
‘Yes, m’dear?’
‘Do put a sock in it, there’s a good fellow.’ She steered her husband towards one of the boats.
As the matelots pushed it out through the surf, Killigrew realised that Araminta was still on the shore. ‘Aren’t you going with your parents?’
She shook her head. ‘I’d rather go with you.’
Killigrew grinned, and crooked his elbow so she could slip an arm through it. Along with Halévy, Molineaux and Nicholls, they made their way down to the remaining boat.
In the stern sheets, Molineaux sat next to the maid on the thwart in front of Killigrew and Araminta.
‘Makes a nice change, to have someone else rowing me for a change!’ the petty officer remarked. ‘Now, what would you do in this situation, sir?’ He pretended to notice Nicholls sitting next to him for the first time. ‘Ah, that’s it!’ He slipped an arm around the maid’s waist and drew her to him, kissing her passionately. She tried to push him away, then abandoned the pretence and let herself enjoy it. The matelots pulling at the oars cheered them.
‘Nicholls!’ hissed Araminta. ‘There are people watching!’ Molineaux broke off the kiss with a scowl, and turned to address Killigrew. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but you couldn’t follow my lead, could you? Reckon it’s the only way to choke her luff… sir? Sir!’
The commander had keeled over backwards and sprawled on the bottom boards, unconscious.
Halévy felt for a pulse in his neck, and then prised up one of the commander’s eyelids. ‘Out like the light,’ he said. ‘But he lives: he has merely passed out. Exhaustion, I expect, poor devil.’
Nicholls fumbled in her pockets. ‘I’ve got some hartshorn, if you want to try to revive him.’
Molineaux placed a hand firmly on her arm. ‘Let ’im sleep. He’s earned it.’
Afterword
The war that subsequently became known as the ‘Crimean’ War was anything but. At the time – and for a few years afterwards – it was known simply as ‘The Russian War’. It is remembered as the ‘Crimean’ War because that is where the British and French armies focused their activities after they landed there in the autumn of 1854 (having already fought a desultory campaign of sorts in the Balkans) and it was in the Crimea that the best remembered episodes of the war – Inkerman, the Alma, the Charge of the Light Brigade at Balaklava, and the siege of Sebastopol – took place.
But if the British army focused its attention on the Crimea, the Royal Navy attacked the Russian coasts wherever it could reach them. The navy’s fleets were active not only in the Black Sea and the Baltic but also in the White Sea, as well as the Pacific, where an attack on Petropavlovsky was thrown into confusion when the rear admiral commanding the Pacific squadron, David Price, committed suicide in his cabin moments before the attack was due to take place.
It was in the Baltic, however, that Britain’s hopes for a swift conclusion to the war were focused. The Russian capital, St Petersburg, was the prize, lying at the eastern end of the Gulf of Finland. It was never taken: the maritime fortress of Kronstadt barred the way. The Baltic Campaign proved to be the climax – or rather, the anti-climax – of Vice-Admiral Sir Charles Napier’s long and adventurous, if not always distinguished, career. His orders were simple: to prevent the Russian fleet from escaping into the North Sea, and to ‘look into the possibility of doing something in the Åland Islands’. He followed these instructions to the letter, the ‘something’ he did in the Åland Islands being to mastermind their capture, with the invaluable assistance of the French.
But so much more was expected of a man with Napier’s reputation for exceeding his orders. When he did not attempt to reduce Kronstadt and capture St Petersburg, the British public soon became disillusioned with its hero, and turned on him at the prompting of the Admiralty, which needed a scapegoat and found one in Dirty Charlie. It is true that Napier enjoyed poor relations with his subordinates – never a useful quality in a military commander – and that by 1854 he was well into his sixties and had lost his former verve. But one cannot help but be disappointed by Keppel and other senior captains of the fleet who wrote letters home to the press, criticising Napier behind his back for his lack of boldness. To some extent Napier made a rod for his own back before the war started by boasting of how much he hoped to achieve, although as war drew closer he began to warn people not to expect too much. Did Keppel – an otherwise brave, able, intelligent and humane man – really think that an attack on Kronstadt was feasible with the vessels at Napier’s disposal, or was he merely motivated by long-standing dislike of his former captain?
Indeed, was an attack on Kronstadt feasible in 1854? Nelson would have been horrified by the suggestion that wooden ships be pitted against granite-faced shore batteries, but Nelson never had the benefit of steam-driven ships. Napier was not to know that the Russian guns at Kronstadt were hopelessly outdated, or that Russian gunnery was so poor – nor was Keppel, for that matter – but in spite of these, Kronstadt was a strong fortress; stronger than Sveaborg, which was bombarded the following summer, and certainly stronger than incomplete Bomarsund. Even with their poor gunnery and obsolete cannon, the Russian batteries at Kronstadt might have wrought terrible damage amongst deep-draughted Allied ships struggling to manoeuvre without accurate charts in the shoals surrounding the fortress.
As 1854 wore on, Napier wrote to the Admiralty explaining that it might be possible to attack Sveaborg, but not without gunboats and mortar vessels. The First Lord of the Admiralty, Sir James Graham, wrote back instructing him to make the attack, but refusing to commission the gunboats and mortar-vessels he needed. Graham was looking ahead, convinced that after Russia was beaten Britain would find itself at war with its then ally, France, and he did not want to waste money on gunboats and mortar-vessels when the navy should be building ships of the line to meet the French threat. Both Graham and Napier were caught between the rock of British public opinion and the hard place of the Russian batteries: an attack on Kronstadt or Sveaborg might well have resulted in the destruction of a great part of the British fleet, but a failure to attack would lead to outrage at home. Instead of supporting his former friend, Graham passed the buck to Napier, leaving the decision in his hands. There was really only one choice Napier could make: not to attack. On his return to Britain in December 1854, he was effectively dismissed, with the implication that he was a coward, and thus he ended his career with his reputation in undeserved tatters. Only lately have naval historians begun to reassess his abilities: Napier was no Nelson, but he was perhaps one of the best admirals Britain had in the Crimean War, and certainly better than the man who replaced him, Richard Saunders Dundas.
Pioneered by Samuel Hahnemann in the first half of the nineteenth century, homeopathic medicine is much older than most people realise. Pyroglycerin – which has a number of different chemical names, but is today best known as nitroglycerine – was invented by the Italian chemist Ascanio Sobrero in 1846. Tested by Drs Hering, Davies and Jeanes at the Hahnemann Medical School in Philadelphia, it was recommended for treating a number of diseases, and used by homeopathic practitioners to cure headaches, toothache and neuralgia.
Perhaps the most intriguing phenomenon of the Crimean War – and indeed of warfare of the mid-nineteenth century as a whole – was that of the ‘war tourists’. Aficionados of the memoirs of Sir Harry Flashman will know that Fanny Duberley thought nothing of travelling with the army to the Crimea, but then her husband was the paymaster of the 8th Hussars, so this was perhaps excusable. Indeed, it was nothing unusual for soldiers’ wives – from the colonel’s lady to Judy O’Grady – to travel with the regiment. Less easy for modern minds to comprehend was the behaviour of those gentlemen of leisure who took their yachts to the Baltic to watch the British fleet in action: Lord Lichfield and his friend Lord Euston, later the sixth Duke of Grafton, with the Gondola of the Royal Yacht Squadron; Lord Newborough with his iron steam yacht Vesta, who took his female cook and housemaid with him; a Mr Campbell on board the Esmerelda of the Royal Western Yacht Club; the owners of the schooner Mavis and the yawl Foam, and last but by no means least – in ghoulishness, at any rate
– the Reverend Robert Hughes, Fellow of Magdalene College, Cambridge, and his brother, aboard the Wee Pet of the Royal Thames Yacht Club.
After the capture of Bomarsund, Hughes and his brother went ashore to have a good gawp at the corpses of some Russian soldiers killed in the bombardment. ‘Those are the first Russians I have seen clean and sober yet,’ was his brother’s light-hearted remark. The Hughes brothers later made a nuisance of themselves by sailing too close to the Russian batteries during the bombardment of Sveaborg, and had to be towed clear by a British warship, but none of these tourists was, to my knowledge, ever captured by the Russians; it would have served them right if they had been. Perhaps their ghoulish curiosity is not so difficult to explain: they did not have the benefit of satellite television to beam pictures of the slaughter into their homes even as it happened.
The Reverend Robert Hughes is also one of our informants on the activities on the less-well-recorded civilian ships that accompanied the fleet. Some, like the cutter Sparrowhark, sold French brandy and Dublin porter to sailors with the fleets; others provided services only hinted at in the journals and diaries of the officers accompanying the fleet. ‘Three times service, one of these “no go – too much of anything is very bad”,’ Lieutenant Emil Theorell, an officer of the Swedish navy who served with the British as an interpreter, wrote in his diary for 30 July 1854; while Dr Edward H. Cree, ship’s surgeon on board the steam frigate Odin, cryptically remarked: ‘Some of our lieutenants went boarding strange ships’ in his journal for 20 April. Of course, it may well be these ‘strange ships’ were the venue for tea parties and games of whist; I leave it to the reader to make up his or her own mind.
Acknowledgements
Last year saw the tragic death of James Hale who had been my literary agent ever since I wrote my first novel. Over the past thirteen years he edited every novel I have written to date; negotiated publishing contracts for all that were fit for publication; provided the best possible advice on matters both professional and personal; was enthusiastic in his encouragement whenever I had a good idea for a book, and firm but gentle whenever I had a bad one; a convivial and witty host. Without him, this book would never have been written.
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