Killigrew and the Incorrigibles

by Jonathan Lunn

  The horse was still fresh and the overloaded carriage moving so slowly that with within a quarter of a mile Killigrew was less than a furlong behind and gaining on it rapidly. There were still five convicts on the roof, including the driver, and another one clinging to the side of the carriage on the right-hand running board. Killigrew was close enough now to see that two of the convicts on the roof had muskets. And he himself was unarmed but for an empty musket.

  He remembered what Robertson had told him back in Hobart Town about taking unnecessary risks. Perhaps it was true: perhaps after Hong Kong he had grown weary of his own life. Then he remembered that Mrs Cafferty was almost certainly still a hostage in that carriage. It would take Robertson time to get back aboard the Tisiphone, and even if he sent Hartcliffe to signal the sloop from the signal station with instructions to get her engines started, it would still take the best part of two hours to get steam up from cold boilers; the Tisiphone would have to get to Cascades Bay under sail. If the convicts managed to get aboard whatever ship awaited them off the north coast, the chances were they could sail away into the darkness long before the navy sloop could head them off. The Tisiphone’s chances of finding the ship the next day without knowing which direction she had sailed in would be minimal. And who could say what kind of scum were amongst the convicts Mrs Cafferty would find herself with on that ship?

  One of the convicts on the roof levelled his musket and there was a flash, a bang, and something soughed past Killigrew’s head. Yes, he was taking a risk, but there was no doubt in his mind it was a necessary one. He goaded the horse on even faster. Another musket sparked, another bullet winged in his direction, but without hitting him, and now the convicts were as unarmed as he was.

  Except there were six of them on the outside of the carriage – and almost certainly another five crammed inside with Mrs Cafferty – and he was alone. He had faced much worse odds, but usually in the knowledge that he had two dozen bluejackets and marines at his back. This time it was all up to him.

  He had almost reached the back of the carriage. The road they were on forked, and the carriage took the right-hand branch, which angled up the side of one of the hills that surrounded Kingston. There was a rock-face to the right of the carriage and not enough room for Killigrew to pass on that side, so he passed on the other, on the narrow space between the carriage and the drop to his left, with the left-hand fork of the road below and getting further below with every passing moment.

  The carriage had to slow on the gradient, so it was easy for Killigrew’s horse to draw level and keep pace. He stood up, balancing himself in the stirrups. One of the convicts on the roof tried to slam the stock of a musket into his face. He ducked and the musket swept over his head, but almost lost his balance. He steadied himself with his left hand on the pommel of the saddle, and braced himself to jump.

  It was then he saw a hand protruding from one of the carriage windows, pointing a revolver at him.

  Before he could leap, one of the carriage’s wheels hit a pothole. The hand holding the revolver was jolted, there was a flash and a bang, and Killigrew’s horse stumbled. He felt himself flying through the air; a second later he crashed against the road, rolled over a few times and felt his legs sliding out into space. He clawed at the dusty track with his hands, caught hold of a spur of rock and found himself dangling over the left-hand fork of the road, about thirty feet below.

  He scrabbled at the rock face below him with the toes of his half-boots, and managed to pull himself up to safety. The carriage was already a hundred yards up the track and getting further away with every passing second.

  Killigrew crawled across to where his horse lay on its side. The beast was still alive, but it had been wounded in the shoulder and its breath issued raggedly from its nostrils. He swore, and glanced after the carriage again. The road turned to the right, heading up a steep slope to the crest of the hill above them, and the carriage followed it. And slowed, losing its momentum on the gradient.

  Killigrew was back on his feet in the same instant he realised he was not yet out of the running. As his long legs powered him up the slope, a twinge in his ankle reminded him of his injury of three weeks ago, but he ignored it. He had to catch the carriage before it cleared the crest of the hill; nothing else mattered.

  The road was steep and Killigrew was badly out of condition – too much alcohol and tobacco – and his ankle protested at the effort. Within seconds a stitch in his side pained him, and his lungs were on fire. He blocked out the pain, concentrating on that carriage, the convicts who had stolen it, thinking of what he was going to do to them when he caught up with it.

  What was he going to do to them when he caught up with it? Alone, against eleven of them? He had no idea.

  The pain was excruciating – his ankle, his thighs, his lungs – and the carriage was still fifty yards ahead of him, almost cresting the brow of the hill. Every nerve in his body seemed to be telling him to give up, he was wasting his time, he would never catch them. But Killigrew would rather have died than give up.

  Then he saw that the carriage had come to a standstill just below the crest of the hill, the tired horses straining at the traces. The sight renewed his hope and he tapped hidden resources of strength to redouble his efforts. Four of the convicts jumped down from the roof and pushed at the back and sides of the carriage, while the man on the driving board urged the horses to pull them the last few feet to the level ground on the plateau beyond.

  Forty yards… thirty yards… the convict who had been standing on the running board took something from someone inside the carriage and pointed it at Killigrew. There was a flash and a crack, but Killigrew did not even try to zigzag: at that range the man was wasting his time with a handgun.

  Twenty yards… at last the carriage was starting to move again. It crested the brow of the hill, and the four convicts who had been pushing it scrambled back on to the roof. Killigrew was close enough to hear one of them shout ‘Come on!’ at the man with the revolver. The man squeezed off another shot at Killigrew. This time the bullet came close enough for the lieutenant to feel its wind. As the carriage moved off, the man tucked the revolver in the waistband of his trousers and stepped on to the running board.

  Fifteen yards… ten yards… Killigrew was oblivious of the pain now, conscious only of the carriage and the men aboard it. It was gathering pace, but slowly, and he was still gaining on it.

  Nine yards… six yards… four… three… the carriage gathered momentum; the gap was still closing, but more slowly.

  Four yards… five yards… the gap was widening now. He had lost it. He had come so close, but a miss was as good as a mile. He cursed himself: if only he had put a little extra effort into it…

  No, damn it! I’m not going to let these bastards get away now!

  He remembered when he had been a midshipman aboard his first ship, the first time he had been ordered into the rigging. He had made it to the maintop, but then his fear of heights had overcome him and he had frozen, petrified. In the end, the topmen had been forced to tie a rope about him and lower him to the deck. For days afterwards he had been known as ‘Quit Killigrew’, until finally the taunting had forced him to overcome his fear. In the end he had proved himself more nimble at skylarking than any of his shipmates, including the topmen. And he had sworn then he would never give up again.

  Four yards… three yards… two yards…

  He leaped.

  His hands touched the luggage netting at the back of the carriage and he twisted his fingers into claws, entwining them amongst the leather straps. He missed his footing on the ground and his legs were dragged through the dirt, but his grip on the netting was firm. He hauled himself up, lifting up his legs until he could brace them against the back of the carriage.

  Made it! The thought filled him with strength and he forgot all about the pain in his legs. He started to climb up the netting to the roof of the carriage. Above him, one of the convicts tried to slam the stock of his musket in
to Killigrew’s face.

  The lieutenant let go of the netting with his right hand, rolling away and dangling from the other, while the musket missed his face by inches. He caught the musket by the stock and gave it a jerk. The convict lost his balance and fell from the roof, tearing the musket from Killigrew’s grip and tumbling in the carriage’s wake. Killigrew gripped the brass rail that ran around the roof, braced his feet against the back, and sprang up amongst the remaining three convicts crouched behind the driver.

  All three of them were so astonished he had time to knock one off the roof of the carriage with a right cross before any of them had time to react. Another swung a musket at his head. Killigrew ducked, and the musket connected with the head of another man, and he too disappeared over the side. The convict with the musket was still staring in shock at what he had done when Killigrew caught him around the waist and pushed him down on to the roof of the bucketing carriage.

  The convict was stronger, though, and filled with rage at his own carelessness in knocking one of his friends off the carriage. He pushed Killigrew away and rolled on top, pressing the barrel of the musket against the lieutenant’s throat. As he felt himself choking, Killigrew could see another convict climbing up from the right-hand running board. Through the scarlet haze that threatened to swamp him, he recognised Ned Wyatt. With one hand on the brass rail, Wyatt stopped when his waist was level with the roof – he must have had his feet on the sill of one of the windows – and reached for the revolver tucked into the waistband of his trousers.

  Killigrew gave up trying to push the musket away from his neck and landed blow after blow on the other convict’s ribs, but the convict just kept on grinning savagely, forcing the barrel of the musket harder against the lieutenant’s throat.

  Wyatt levelled his revolver at Killigrew’s chest.

  Killigrew pinched the flesh on the underside of the other convict’s upper arm through the fabric of his chequered jacket. The convict let go of one end of the musket with a yelp, enabling Killigrew to clip him on the jaw with a right hook. He pushed the convict off and to his left just as Wyatt fired. The convict shuddered, his face frozen in an expression of shock. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but only a thin trickle of blood came out.

  Killigrew swivelled on his back and braced his shoulders against the rail on the left-hand side of the roof, using his feet to thrust the corpse at Wyatt. The coiner dropped out of sight and the corpse rolled over the low rail, but a moment later Wyatt was climbing up again. Killigrew kicked him in the jaw, snapping his head around, but the coiner kept on coming. He levelled the gun again. Killigrew kicked his wrist, sending the gun spinning into the night, and aimed another kick at his head, but this time Wyatt caught hold of his ankle and used it to pull himself up on to the roof. He punched Killigrew in the crotch, and fire exploded through the lieutenant’s loins.

  ‘Think you’re tough, eh, pretty boy? I’ll show you tough!’ He kneeled over Killigrew with one knee on the lieutenant’s groin, caught him by the collar with his left hand and drove a succession of blows into Killigrew’s face with his right. Killigrew fought back, but his blows seemed to make no impression on the convict. A prison diet had left Wyatt emaciated, but he was tough and wiry for all that.

  The convict seized Killigrew by the lapels and drew his head back to butt him on the bridge of the nose, but Killigrew butted him first. Wyatt lost his grip on his lapels and fell on his side. Killigrew pushed him on his back and tried to climb on top of him, but Wyatt braced the soles of his boots against his chest and pushed him off. Killigrew tripped over the rail and felt himself falling through space. He flailed wildly, managed to catch hold of the rail with one hand. The jerk almost pulled his arm out of its socket, but he clung on tightly, dangling from the side of the wildly swaying carriage. He got his feet on the running board and managed to grip the rail with his other hand. Through the open window in the carriage door, he could see Mrs Cafferty wedged between two convicts on the back seat. Fallon sat between Jarrett and another convict on the seat facing them.

  ‘Kit?’ she asked in astonishment.

  ‘Hold on, ma’am. Have you out of there in a brace of shakes!’

  Then one of the convicts interposed his snarling face between Killigrew and Mrs Cafferty, and drove a fist into Killigrew’s jaw. Something smashed agonisingly into the lieutenant’s fingers where they gripped the rail above. He glanced up and saw Wyatt standing over him, aiming a kick at the fingers of his other hand.

  Killigrew pulled himself up with his arms and boosted himself back on to the roof of the carriage, butting Wyatt in the crotch as he did so. The two of them sprawled on the roof of the carriage, Killigrew on top of Wyatt. The convict seized the lieutenant by the neck with both hands and squeezed. Killigrew clawed at Wyatt’s face, but the coiner pushed him off and punched him repeatedly in the face: a right jab, another right jab, and a left hook that came out of nowhere to send him slithering over the back of the roof. He managed to get hold of the luggage netting and was climbing up again, but Wyatt was waiting for him.

  ‘You made a big mistake when you decided to take on Ned Wyatt, pretty boy!’ The convict kicked Killigrew in the head. It was fortunate for the lieutenant that he was unconscious when he hit the ground.

  Chapter 8

  Cliff-hanger

  The carriage emerged from an avenue of trees and Lissak reined in and jumped down. He opened the door and thrust his grizzled face through. ‘Cascades Bay!’ he declared like a London omnibus driver. ‘End of the line! Everyone out!’

  Ned Wyatt jumped down from the roof. The lower half of his face was smeared with blood. ‘What happened to you?’ asked Jarrett.

  ‘What do you mean, what happened to me?’ snarled Wyatt. ‘I had a fight with that bastard navy officer, that’s what happened to me! I didn’t see you climbing up to help.’

  ‘I had every confidence in your ability to deal with the situation,’ Jarrett said smoothly.

  Lissak looked Wyatt up and down. ‘One man did that to you?’ He gave a high-pitched, hooting chuckle. ‘You’re getting slow in your old age, Ned.’

  ‘Cheese it, Sol. I got the better of him, didn’t I? I don’t think that bastard will be giving us any more trouble. Fingers, Swaddy: bring the girl.’

  As the convicts exited the carriage, the two men who had sat on either side of Mrs Cafferty – one of them an ill-favoured man who had spent the entire carriage-ride sucking his fingers noisily – dragged her out after them. Along with Fallon, there were only six convicts now: Wyatt, Jarrett, Sol, Fingers, Swaddy, and a plump little Indian who looked as if he would not hurt a fly.

  Fallon followed and nodded to a cottage that stood a short distance away. ‘Is that where Cusack lives?’ Jarrett nodded. ‘I’ll go and fetch him.’ He set out for the cottage, but Wyatt caught him by the arm and dragged him back.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t. Sol can get your pal Cusack. You’ve got to signal the ship, remember? If it’s still there.’

  Fallon nodded and reached into the holdall he had been clutching throughout the carriage ride. Jarrett caught him by the wrist and stopped him.

  ‘I can’t be signalling the ship without my bull’s-eye now, can I?’ said Fallon.

  Jarrett tore the holdall from Fallon’s grip and groped inside. He pulled out a second revolver. ‘Are you quite certain this isn’t what you were looking for?’

  Fallon said nothing. Jarrett threw the revolver to Wyatt and pulled a bull’s-eye lantern from the holdall, thrusting it into Fallon’s hands. ‘Go and signal that ship.’ He pointed across a greensward to where a wooden derrick stood atop a precipice. Fallon walked across to the cliff top.

  ‘I’ll go and get Cusack,’ said Lissak, and headed off to the cottage.

  ‘Meet us by the derrick,’ Wyatt called after him. Lissak nodded.

  Wyatt, Jarrett and another convict followed Fallon towards the derrick, and Fingers and Swaddy started to drag Mrs Cafferty after them. She realised that once they got her on
board the ship she was as good as dead; now was her last chance to escape. It was in a spirit of desperation rather than in any hope of success that she suddenly pulled her arm free of Swaddy’s grip, balled her hand into a fist and drove it with all her might into the convict’s jaw. She had had cause to slap a few men in her time, but this was the first occasion she had ever punched anyone and she was surprised by how much it hurt. Nevertheless, Swaddy stumbled and fell, dazed.

  Fingers pulled her towards him and grabbed her right wrist. She lifted her knee into his crotch, the way she had once seen Lady Florentia Sale deal with an excessively brutal guard during their captivity at Budeeabad. The trick worked equally well on Fingers and he let go of her, clutching at his loins as he sank to the grass with a high-pitched scream.

  She turned and ran. She could drive a carriage, but she knew the other convicts would catch her before she could climb on to the driving board and turn the carriage round. She headed for the trees instead. She knew that if she hid amongst the bushes in the darkness beneath the boughs, the convicts would have difficulty finding her before sun up; and they would not want to wait around until then.

  She had almost made it when something slammed into her from behind and she pitched forwards on her face with a cry. Someone climbed on top of her and pinioned her to the ground. He rammed something hard into the small of her back. ‘You know what this is?’ Wyatt snarled into her ear.

  ‘I very much hope it’s the muzzle of your pistol.’

  ‘Very funny!’ He climbed off her and dragged her to her feet. ‘Try that again and I’ll croak you. After I’ve let Fingers and the others have their fun with you, of course. You know what Fingers was lagged for, don’t you? Raping little bitches like you. He likes to hurt ’em. He’s been five years on this bloody island, and that’s a long time to go without a woman.’ He stroked her cheek with the back of one hand, and leered. ‘Come to think of it, I might have a go myself.’