Killigrew and the Incorrigibles

by Jonathan Lunn

  But not tonight. Tonight, he realised with a shock, he just did not care. Let Starbuck pull the trigger and kill him. It made no difference to Killigrew. In many ways he would have welcomed death, and if dying in a street brawl were a comedown for a decorated naval officer, at least it would not carry the disgrace of suicide.

  Then he realised he did care; he wanted Starbuck to pull that trigger.

  The young man obliged.

  Killigrew flinched as the sound of the shot filled his ears, and he felt the wind of the bullet as it soughed past his head.

  ‘Jesus!’ gasped a man in the crowd behind Killigrew. ‘I… I’ve been shot!’

  ‘Goddamnit!’ Starbuck muttered irritably. He pulled back the hammer of the revolver with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and took aim again.

  Letting himself get killed was one thing, but it was not in Killigrew’s nature to stand by and let innocent people get hurt. He threw the knife.

  It spun through the air, turning end over end, and buried itself in the young man’s throat. Starbuck clapped a hand to the wound, gurgling horribly, and went down with blood gouting from his neck. A woman screamed.

  Killigrew hobbled to where the young man lay in a pool of blood and crouched over him. Starbuck was still alive, but the life was pumping out of him, and even if the best surgeon in the world had been present there was nothing he could have done for him.

  The lieutenant shook his head sadly. ‘You stupid bastard,’ he murmured softly, his face twisted with contempt. ‘You poor, stupid bastard.’ He hated Starbuck then: hated him for the way he had treated Wadrokal, hated him for forcing Killigrew to kill him, but most of all he hated him for being a rotten shot.

  Someone laid a hand on Killigrew’s shoulder and the lieutenant looked up to see a pair of burly constables standing over him. ‘Better come with us, sir,’ said one.

  Killigrew nodded and rose to his feet.

  Chapter 2

  Trying Times

  ‘You’ve got quite a reputation, haven’t you, Mr Killigrew?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘Sir?’ Although this was by no means his first appearance in a court of law, Killigrew was having difficulty concentrating; not least because of the man who sat in the gallery, glaring at him with murder in his eyes. Dressed in a double-breasted black frock coat and a glazed hat, he was an unprepossessing individual: neither tall nor short, fat nor thin, young nor old, it was difficult from looking at him to pick out any one physical feature that would aid future recognition. Then he unfolded his arms, and Killigrew saw that in place of his left hand he wore a steel hook on the stump of his arm.

  ‘Awarded the Humane Society’s silver medal when you were eleven years old, for crawling down the shaft of a collapsed tin mine to take food and water to some trapped miners. Received the Royal Navy’s General Service Medal for taking part in the Syrian campaign…’ The coroner looked up from his notes. ‘That was ten years ago. How old are you, Mr Killigrew?’

  ‘Twenty-five, sir.’

  ‘So you’d’ve been fifteen when you were at the bombardment of Acre?’

  ‘Just turned sixteen, sir.’

  ‘Hm.’ The coroner referred to his notes once more. ‘Received the China War Medal in 1842 and you attracted favourable notice for your services in suppressing slavery on the Guinea Coast…’

  Killigrew squirmed. He had done his duty over the years, it was true, but the coroner’s litany was making some of the younger ladies in the court look at him as if he was some kind of hero. Not that he did not enjoy the company of young ladies, but all too often he got the uncomfortable feeling they expected him to be something he was not.

  The senior naval officer in Van Diemen’s Land, Captain Erskine of HMS Havannah, had assured him – after bawling him out for getting into a brawl in the first place – that the inquest was purely a formality. Violent scenes such as the one that had taken place on Murray Street three nights ago were commonplace in rough and ready Hobart Town, however much the more genteel inhabitants of the colony might deplore it. This was perhaps something to be expected in a colony where free settlers had only lately started to outnumber the convicts and ticket-of-leave men.

  For a naval officer to be involved in one was something of a novelty, which explained why the gallery was packed out. But there were plenty of witnesses who had already testified to the effect that Killigrew had acted in self-defence, so why the coroner felt it necessary to establish the lieutenant was a young man of good character was beyond him.

  The coroner disabused him of this notion with his next statement, however. ‘And in London three years ago you were found guilty of manslaughter. “The Pall Mall childkiller”, I believe you were called in the papers. And you were court-martialled and dismissed from the service.’

  Killigrew grimaced. ‘That was a… misunderstanding.’ He did not want to go into details. ‘I was subsequently declared innocent of all charges, and reinstated to my former rank.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Mr Killigrew. Then there’s this matter in Hong Kong last year…’

  ‘The conspiracy I helped to uncover?’

  ‘No, Mr Killigrew. I was referring to the sinking of a clipper; and the death of a young lady.’

  The lieutenant clenched his fists. ‘An informal enquiry cleared me of all culpability, your honour.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Mr Killigrew, it seems to me that people do have the unfortunate habit of dying by violent means in your presence. I wonder if you can account for that?’

  Killigrew gritted his teeth. ‘Just lucky, I guess.’

  The coroner banged his gavel against the bench before him. ‘Mr Killigrew! I will not tolerate flippant remarks in my court! This inquest may have been brought forward to accommodate Commander Robertson’s request that his ship be allowed to sail on Thursday with its second lieutenant on board, but if you persist in provoking me I shall have no hesitation in having you locked up for contempt of court until after the Tisiphone has sailed. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ The coroner took a deep breath before continuing. ‘And now we come to the incident of Friday the twelfth of April, in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty. We have already heard that four members of the crew of the United States’ whaling ship Lucy Ann were seen leaving the Harbour View Hotel. Two of them were carrying a third between them. You were then seen emerging from the alley at the rear of the premises. Perhaps you’d like to tell the gentlemen of the jury in your own words what happened next?’

  ‘I attempted to carry out an arrest.’

  ‘Did you inform them you were an officer of Her Majesty’s navy?’

  ‘I was in uniform, I’d’ve thought it was pretty obvious—’

  ‘Answer the question, yes or no?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Hm. I assume that as an officer who has carried out several arrests in the course of his duties you are aware that even felons have rights? You must therefore be aware that for an arrest to carry legal weight, the suspect must be informed that he is under arrest. Did you inform these men that such was your intention?’

  ‘There wasn’t time. They turned to attack me and—’

  ‘Yes or no, Mr Killigrew?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Hm! Then what happened?’

  ‘I was successful in rendering two of the men hors de combat.’

  ‘Hors de combat! A very pretty phrase. By that I take it you mean you broke the jaw of one and crippled the other for life by smashing his kneecap?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Does the phrase “reasonable force” mean anything to you, Mr Killigrew?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is it your considered opinion – and I advise you to think most carefully before your answer – is it your considered opinion that you used “reasonable force” on the night of Friday the twelfth?’

  Killigrew indicated the crutch he was leaning on for support. ‘The gentlemen in question h
ad just thrown me out of a first-floor window…’

  ‘Yes or no, Mr Killigrew?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have some experience of handling violent situations. I judged that the three men I was dealing with were of a violent and ruthless disposition and needed to be dealt with accordingly.’

  ‘“Some experience of handling violent situations.” I see. If I may interrupt your narrative briefly, perhaps I can ask you about your feelings on the subject of slavery?’

  ‘My feelings on the subject of slavery are a matter of record, sir. I think my actions on the Guinea Coast speak for themselves.’

  ‘Oh, they do indeed, Mr Killigrew. Volumes. So it would be fair to say you are passionately opposed to slavery?’

  ‘It’s contrary to the laws of both God and the British Empire, sir.’

  ‘So when you saw these three men attempting to recapture a deserter from their ship, you automatically assumed they were slavers and acted accordingly.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And it never occurred to you to stop and enquire the details further? To find out that the coloured man known as Johnny Blubbermouth was in fact an indentured labourer, and that Mr Starbuck had every right to apprehend him?’

  ‘You can call it indentured labour if you wish, sir. It’s still slavery.’

  ‘I beg to differ, Mr Killigrew. There are no laws in the British Empire against the employment of indentured labour. And the captain of the Lucy Ann had a contract signed by Mr Blubbermouth.’

  ‘His real name was Wadrokal, sir. And any fool can draw a cross and write “Johnny Blubbermouth, his mark” beneath it.’

  ‘Duly signed and witnessed.’

  ‘By other members of the Lucy Ann’s crew?’

  ‘Nevertheless, the document was legally binding. But let us return to the night of the twelfth. Having rendered Mr Vasques and Mr… ah… Squanto “hors de combat”, as you so poetically put it, what did you do next?’

  ‘I attempted to arrest Mr Starbuck.’

  ‘And what did he do?’

  ‘He presented a revolving pistol at me.’

  ‘Did that surprise you?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You attacked two of his companions, seriously injuring one and crippling another, and then you advanced on him holding a knife. Were you surprised that he then drew a revolver?’

  ‘It surprised me when he took a shot at me.’

  ‘So you killed him.’

  ‘In self-defence. And in defence of others. His shot might have missed me, but as we’ve already heard, it injured a man in the crowd. Mr Starbuck clearly had every intention of firing a second shot.’

  ‘So you killed him. You, an experienced naval officer of thirteen years’ service – a man who, by your own admission, has “some experience of handling violent situations” – killed a young man of sixteen.’

  ‘He was old enough to pull a trigger, sir,’ Killigrew said tightly.

  ‘And there was no way a man with your “experience of handling violent situations” could have disarmed him without killing him? You could not conceive a less fatal manner of resolving the situation? There was no way you could perhaps have thrown the knife so that it dashed the pistol from his fist, perhaps?’

  ‘I’m a naval officer, sir, not a circus performer.’ That won Killigrew a chuckle from some of the people in the gallery, but the coroner scowled.

  ‘Perhaps you could have thrown the knife at his leg?’

  ‘I could have done, but then he would still have been capable of squeezing off a shot. He had already wounded one onlooker. I felt it was my duty to prevent any further injuries. There might even have been a fatality.’

  ‘There was a fatality, Mr Killigrew: the unfortunate Mr Starbuck.’

  ‘Someone who didn’t deserve to die, I mean,’ said Killigrew. As soon as the words were past his lips, he realised he had made a mistake.

  The coroner’s eyebrows shot up. ‘“Someone who didn’t deserve to die”! Mr Killigrew, are you telling me you took it upon yourself to act as judge, jury and executioner over this young man?’

  ‘No, sir. What I meant to say was, I did not want any other innocent bystanders to get hurt.’

  ‘I see. Very good, Mr Killigrew. I think we’ve heard enough. Please stand down. Well, I don’t think we need waste further time on this matter. The facts of the case speak for themselves, and in the light of the evidence given by the other witnesses, I have no choice but to find that Mr Christopher Killigrew acted in self-defence and therefore I shall not be bringing an indictment against him…’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Killigrew saw the hook-handed man get up and leave the gallery.

  ‘However, I do feel it incumbent upon me to reprimand him publicly for excessive use of force,’ continued the coroner. ‘I find it appalling that an experienced naval officer should, in the first instance, provoke a street brawl and then, in the course of that brawl, put himself in a situation where he felt he had no choice but to deprive a fellow human being – a young man of sixteen – of his life. It is a shameful indictment of the standard to which the young officers of the Royal Navy have sunk, and it is my most sincere hope – aye, and recommendation – that Mr Killigrew’s superiors discipline him most severely. This inquest is now closed.’

  Killigrew was glad to emerge from the stuffy atmosphere of the court-house. Commander Robertson was waiting for him outside. A burly man somewhere in his forties, the commander was notorious for his gruffness. Someone had once accused him of not having a good word to say for any of the men under his command, prompting him to retort that he could think of plenty of good words for some of them. The Tisiphone’s ratings called him ‘Tommy Pipes’ because his stentorian tones could easily drown out the shouts of boatswain’s mates to whom that nickname was usually given. But such was Robertson’s temper that it was when he lowered his voice you knew you had to watch yourself: it was the ominous calm before the storm.

  Today the commander was in a thunderous mood, but for once Killigrew was not the object of his wrath. ‘That coroner was a damnable disgrace! He acted more like the counsel for the prosecution at a trial than a coroner at an inquest…’

  ‘Mr Killigrew?’

  They both turned to see the hook-handed man who had been sitting in the gallery.

  ‘Yes?’ said Killigrew.

  ‘I thought I’d take the liberty of introducing myself,’ the man said cheerfully. He spoke with the nasal twang of a New Englander. ‘I’m Quested. Captain Barzillai Quested, master of the Lucy Ann. Peleg Starbuck was one of my crew. He was also my nephew.’

  Killigrew was not quite sure what to say. He had killed plenty of men in his time, but this was the first time he had ever had to confront a grieving relative of one of his victims. Not that Quested seemed to be grieving much. For a man who had lost a nephew only three days earlier, his smile was frighteningly broad. ‘I don’t suppose it’s much consolation, Captain Quested, but all I can say is I’m truly sorry…’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ Quested’s smile did not falter for an instant. ‘How many men have you killed, Mr Killigrew? Ten? Twenty? What’s one more to a man like you?’

  ‘If there’s anything I can do…’

  ‘Anything you can do? Can you give me back my nephew?’

  ‘Captain Quested, please try to understand. Your nephew gave me no choice—’

  ‘And you gave him no chance. I’ll tell you what you can do, Mr Killigrew. This isn’t a request for a favour, though. It’s a piece of advice. Remember me.’ Quested tapped him on the chest with the curve of his hook. ‘Because I’ll remember you.’

  ‘I hope that isn’t a threat, Captain Quested,’ growled Robertson. ‘In the British Empire we take a very dim view of threatening behaviour.’

  ‘Oh, of course. Unless it’s soldiers and sailors like you bullying foreigners. That’s acceptable, isn’t it?’ Quested turned back to Killigrew. ‘One day we’ll meet again,’ he hissed softly. ‘One day soon, I hope. And we
won’t be in the British Empire when it happens.’ He turned abruptly on his heel and marched away.

  ‘Damned impertinent fellow!’ spluttered Robertson. ‘You know, for a few seconds there I was feeling sorry for his loss?’

  ‘If anyone got Peleg Starbuck killed, it was him,’ Killigrew said bitterly. As captain of the Lucy Ann, he must’ve been the one who kidnapped Wadrokal. And he was probably the one that put the gun in his nephew’s hand.’ The two of them started to walk back to Sullivan’s Cove, Killigrew leaning on his crutch to preserve his twisted ankle. ‘By the way, sir, did you find out what happened to Wadrokal?’

  ‘Forget about it, Second. It’s over. The matter is closed.’

  Killigrew stopped abruptly, and stared at the commander. Robertson halted and turned to face him.

  ‘He was handed back to that fellow Quested, wasn’t he?’

  ‘You heard what the coroner said: an indentured labourer. I’m sorry for it, but there it is. The law is the law, Second.’

  ‘Then the law is an ass, sir.’ They resumed walking. ‘Let me go aboard the Lucy Ann tonight, sir. If Quested’s using slave labour, I’ll soon find proof.’

  ‘You’ll do no such thing! The Lucy Ann is an American vessel. Do you want to provoke an international incident?’

  ‘The Lucy Ann may be an American vessel, sir, but she’s moored in British territorial waters. We have every right to search her.’

  ‘Not without a warrant.’

  ‘“Reasonable suspicion”, sir. If I find slaves aboard, it will prove I had grounds for—’

  ‘You’re not thinking, Second. If you find slaves aboard, don’t you think Quested will have indentured contracts for every one of them, the same as he did for Wadrokal? Listen, Killigrew, I’ve seen other officers act the way you’ve been behaving these past few months. They’re perfectly good officers – a little foolhardy, perhaps, but what young officer worth his salt isn’t? Then something happens to them. A prize court judgement goes against them. They get passed over for promotion by men with less experience but more “interest” at the Admiralty. They see a comrade killed in action, or – ’ Robertson looked away, but gave Killigrew a sidelong glance – ‘a sweetheart. Something snaps inside them. They decide they’re fighting a losing battle, and then they stop trying. They become slovenly. They take to drink. They become careless. They start taking foolish risks.