Killigrew and the Incorrigibles

by Jonathan Lunn

  A rope ladder had already been lowered from the gangway. A man appeared above them. ‘Everything oh-kay, Cap’n?’

  ‘Everything’s fine, Mr Macy. We seem to have picked up a few more passengers than we’d originally anticipated, but no problems other than that.’ He indicated Mrs Cafferty. ‘We’ll need a bosun’s chair here.’ He turned to the three oarsmen in the boat. ‘Soames, Rodman: you two stay in the boat. There’s no sign of the Tisiphone yet. As soon as the rest of us are on board the Lucy Ann, you two row back to the shore and pick up Jeffries and Mr Fallon. We’ll keep an eye out for the Tisiphone or the garrison. If either shows up, we’ll signal you – you forget about those two men and come straight back here, follow me?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  While the sailors on deck rigged a chair and hoist to lift Mrs Cafferty into the ship, Quested and the Polynesian sailor climbed the ladder to the gangway and were followed by Cusack and the six convicts. The boatswain’s chair was lowered from a yard, and Soames and Rodman helped Mrs Cafferty into it. Once she was safely over the deck of the Lucy Ann, the two oarsmen started to row back.

  Two sailors came forward to help Mrs Cafferty down from the boatswain’s chair, both swarthy-looking Latin types, but a glance around the deck revealed that, in addition to Quested and one of his officers, six of the other seven men she could see were Anglo-Saxon. The seventh was a Polynesian, a muscular man whose savage, tattooed face was at odds with his Western-style, almost dandified clothing.

  Quested turned to a subordinate officer. ‘Get the telescope from the binnacle and keep a sharp lookout, Mr Forgan.’ He pointed off the port quarter. ‘When the Tisiphone comes, she’ll heave into view round that headland. If she gets here before Rodman and Soames get back with Jeffries and Fallon, sing out.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Want me to send up a rocket, or just signal them with a lantern?’

  ‘Neither. If the Tisiphone puts in an appearance, we’ll have a hard enough time giving her the slip as it is, without waiting for those lubbers to reach us.’

  * * *

  Killigrew saw stars. After a while, they stopped dancing and assumed their fixed places in the heavens. He recognised the constellations well enough – Aquila, Serpens, Ophiuchus.

  He searched himself all over for broken bones. A large bump had risen on his temple where Wyatt had kicked him, and he had put his knee through his pantaloons in the fall from the speeding carriage. The skin beneath was badly grazed, but the injury was hardly life-threatening.

  He tried to get up, and at once pain lanced up through his neck to explode in his skull like a feu de joie. He settled back down with a groan. He had thrown at least three of the convicts from the roof of the carriage; that was more than his fair share. Someone else could…

  Mrs Cafferty.

  ‘Christ!’ Ignoring the pain, he leaped to his feet and broke into a hobbling run. It was bad enough to have the death of one young woman he had failed to protect on his conscience: he certainly did not want to add another.

  A hundred yards further on he came to a crossroads, but it was easy to see which way the carriage had gone: even in the moonlight he could see the tracks it had left in the dusty road. He turned left and followed it.

  He jogged when he had the energy and walked when he had not. He was still winded from the dash up the hill after the carriage and the fall had left his knee stiff and aching. Under any other circumstances he would have given up and turned back to Kingston for a hot bath and a glass of whiskey. A very large glass. But a woman’s life was at stake.

  He had not gone far, however, when he heard hoof beats behind him and turned in time to see a horseman galloping up. Killigrew flagged down the rider, a young ensign from the garrison, who fumbled clumsily for a pistol which he dropped to the ground in his panic. ‘Who goes there?’ he squeaked, struggling to draw his sword.

  Killigrew stooped to gather up the fallen pistol and proffered it to the ensign. ‘Lieutenant Killigrew, HMS Tisiphone.’

  The ensign relaxed and bent down to take his pistol. Killigrew seized him by the wrist and pulled him from the horse before swinging himself up into the saddle in his stead.

  The ensign picked himself up and tried to straighten his shako, which had fallen over his eyes. ‘I say! What the deuce do you think you’re doing with my prad?’

  ‘Just borrowing it.’ Killigrew dug his heels in the horse’s flanks and galloped away.

  It only took a couple of minutes to cover the remaining distance to Cascades Bay, but even as the houses came into view he knew he was wasting his time: the convicts would be long gone. The chances were he would find Mrs Cafferty’s body with its throat slit; either that, or they would have taken her on board for their vicious amusement.

  He goaded the horse on.

  He entered a tunnel of trees and saw the gleam of the deep purple night sky, only light by comparison with the starkly silhouetted trees up ahead. The whitewashed cottages of the settlement at Cascades loomed in the moonlight beyond, and he reined in and dismounted at once. If the convicts were still there, he did not want the clop of his horse’s hoofs to alert them to his approach. He tied the horse’s halter to a tree and continued hurriedly on foot.

  There was no sign of anyone in the settlement. Breakers boomed over rocks somewhere in the distance, but otherwise the night was silent. He looked around, at a loss, and then heard a horse whinny softly in the night somewhere ahead of him. He followed the sound to the far side of the settlement and, seeing the carriage abandoned in the starlight, walked across to it. He did not expect to find any of the convicts still inside, but braced himself before looking through the windows, dreading to find Mrs Cafferty’s mortal remains in there.

  It was empty.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ a voice with a Yankee accent said close by; close enough to startle him. ‘If we winch the boat up here, and they get out and winch us down – who’s going to winch them down?’

  ‘They’re sailors, aren’t they?’ Killigrew recognised Fallon’s brogue at once. ‘They can shin down the cable.’

  The voices came from beyond the carriage. Killigrew peered around it to see Fallon standing by the derrick, switching the sword from his cane at the grass as he watched a second man, wearing a striped jersey and an oilskin hat, turning the winch. Out at sea, Killigrew could just make out a three-masted ship hove to in the moonlight.

  ‘Why didn’t your lot just shin down the cable as soon as the boat landed?’ grumbled the American at the winch. ‘That would’ve saved the trouble of winching the boat all the way up and down.’

  ‘And ruin my perfectly good suit?’ Fallon brushed fastidiously at his lapels. ‘Heaven forbid, me old son!’

  ‘Suit my eye!’ grumbled the American. ‘You’re scared of heights!’

  ‘It’s not the height that bothers me, Mr Jeffries. It’s all those nasty, jagged rocks waiting at the bottom.’

  Jeffries had his back to Killigrew and was so engrossed in his work he did not hear him approach, but Fallon whirled abruptly, bringing up his sword. Killigrew raised his hands. ‘You wouldn’t kill an unarmed man, would you?’

  The American turned at the sound of his voice, but Fallon motioned him away. ‘You just keep turning that winch, me old son. I’ll be dealing with this feller here.’ Smiling, he threw his sword to one side, and raised his fists in the traditional boxing stance. ‘I should warn you, I used to box for Stonyhurst.’

  Killigrew raised his own fists, and the two of them circled on the cliff top. ‘Lower deck rules?’ asked the lieutenant.

  ‘Lower deck…?’

  Killigrew kicked Fallon in the crotch and punched the Irishman in the side of the head as he went down. ‘Not very sporting,’ groaned Fallon.

  ‘There’s a time and a place for being sporting,’ said Killigrew. He kicked Fallon in the head, knocking him out. ‘And this isn’t it.’ Killigrew realised the ratchet had stopped clicking, and glanced up to see that Jeffries had left off turning the winch to run
for Fallon’s sword. Killigrew ran after him, but the American got there first and turned to face Killigrew, slashing at him with the blade. Killigrew jumped back beyond the reach of the arcing tip. Jeffries slashed again, but again the lieutenant dodged the blow easily.

  Killigrew was grinning. ‘Come on, man! Let me have it! Surely it can’t be that difficult to kill an unarmed man? Don’t slash, thrust! Have you never heard the saying: “The point always beats the edge”? Run me through, damn your eyes!’

  Jeffries lunged. Killigrew side-stepped and caught him by the wrist. The two of them grappled chest to chest on the cliff-edge, but the American was stronger. He grinned as he gradually forced Killigrew around so that his back was to the precipice. The lieutenant’s feet slipped on the loose turf, and Jeffries gave him a push. Killigrew teetered, his arms flailing wildly, and he caught hold of the only thing within reach: Jeffries’ neckerchief.

  The American was caught off balance. He staggered forwards, crashed into Killigrew, and the two of them went over the cliff together.

  Chapter 9

  The Lucy Ann

  Killigrew and Jeffries fell about ten feet from the top of the cliff and then a hard edge smashed against the lieutenant’s side. He hooked his arms over it in desperation – agony shot through his shoulder, a painful reminder of an old injury – and was aware of Jeffries spinning over and over to where the breakers crashed against the rocks ninety feet below.

  He clung to the gunwale of the whaleboat suspended from the derrick, where the two sailors sat, dazed. Impelled by his impact, the boat swung outwards, and then swung back like a pendulum. It crashed against the cliff face – or rather, would have done, if Killigrew had not acted as a human fender. Pain exploded in his chest and he slipped, catching hold of the gunwale with his hands barely in time to stop himself from plunging to his death.

  The sailors recovered from their shock. ‘It’s a goddamn navy officer!’ said one.

  An oar was smashed against one of Killigrew’s hands where they gripped the gunwale. He tried to haul himself up, got one arm over the gunwale and jerked his head aside before a second blow from the oar landed. He grabbed the oar and tried to haul himself up, but the sailor quickly released it. Killigrew dropped back down, dangling from the fingers of his left hand. He let go of the oar and it fell towards the rocks below.

  A head appeared above him. He reached up behind it and pulled it down with his right hand, forcing the sailor’s throat against the gunwale. The sailor gurgled horribly as Killigrew used his head for purchase to pull himself up into the safety of the boat. The other sailor tried to pull his friend up; Killigrew butted him in the chest with his head and fell on to the bottom boards.

  The three of them sat facing one another in the wildly swaying boat: Killigrew in the bows, the two sailors in the stern, one of them rubbing his Adam’s apple gingerly. Killigrew noticed that Fallon’s sword had fallen into the boat, and he snatched it up, panting hard. ‘You’re both under arrest.’

  Then he noticed a musket lying under the thwarts between them. He made to grab for it, but one of the sailors got there first and raised the stock to his shoulder, levelling the barrel at him. The sailor pulled the trigger, and grimaced when nothing happened: the hammer had not been cocked. He wasted precious seconds drawing it back, while Killigrew shrank into the prow and carefully hooked his feet under one of the thwarts.

  His musket cocked, the sailor took careful aim once more.

  Killigrew slashed at the ropes on either side of him with the sword. They parted and the boat swung down, suspended vertically by the stern. The two sailors fell headlong past the lieutenant, screaming.

  Hanging upside down by the toecaps of his half-boots, Killigrew let go of the sword and caught hold of another thwart with his hands. He unhooked his toes from under the first thwart and dropped his legs until he hung the right way up. He dangled there, his heart pounding in his chest as the boat swung sickeningly. Then, when he had caught his breath, he started to climb up the thwarts as if they were the rungs of a ladder. When he reached the stern he managed to grasp one of the ropes supporting the boat and hauled himself up agonisingly.

  Then he saw Fallon standing on the cliff-edge, peering down at him.

  The Irishman took a clasp knife from a pocket and started to saw at the cable that ran from the winch to the derrick. Seeing his peril, Killigrew started to shin up the cable to the peak of the derrick arm, but it was at least fifteen feet above him and he knew the cable would part long before he got there, hurling him to his death on the rocks below.

  Hoof beats sounded, and a lone horseman came galloping out of the trees. It was another officer from the garrison. He quickly took in the situation, drew a single-shot percussion pistol from a holster, and thumbed back the hammer.

  Fallon had stopped sawing at the cable and whirled to face him. Seeing the gun in the officer’s hand, he threw down the knife and spread his arms.

  The officer took careful aim, his tongue protruding between his lips as he concentrated.

  ‘No, you fool!’ Killigrew roared in horror.

  The officer fired. Fallon’s head was jerked back and he stumbled to slump across the drum of the winch with blood dripping from his head.

  Killigrew shinned the last few feet to the peak of the derrick arm.

  When he had reached it he sat astride it and edged down it as cautiously as an old maid. He had taken enough chances for one night; enough for a lifetime. Once he was well clear of the precipice, he dropped to the ground and lay there, sobbing for breath, until he was aware of the officer standing over him. The officer blew across the muzzle of his pistol as if to clear away the smoke, which the sea breeze had long since dispersed.

  ‘Not a bad shot, what? Even though I do say so meself.’

  ‘Were you aiming for his head?’ asked Killigrew.

  ‘Of course!’ The officer smirked. ‘I always aim to kill!’

  ‘We needed him alive.’ Killigrew gestured wearily to where the ship out at sea braced her sails to the wind, moving away from the island. ‘He was the only one who could have told us where they’re sailing with Mrs Cafferty.’

  * * *

  Quested snapped the telescope shut by pressing it against his chest with his right hand, and passed it back to Forgan. ‘Set royals and t’gallants and spread stuns’ls,’ he ordered crisply.

  ‘Hold hard!’ Cusack protested as the nine sailors on deck hurried to obey Quested’s orders. ‘What about Fallon? And your three men?’

  ‘They won’t be joining us, Mr Cusack. Not ever.’

  ‘So say you! I want to see for myself.’

  Quested looked inclined to refuse him at first, but then shrugged as if he could see no harm in it. ‘Let him have the telescope, Mr Forgan.’

  ‘What course, Cap’n?’ Forgan asked Quested, as Cusack levelled the telescope over the taffrail.

  ‘North-west. We’ll run before the wind, get as far away as possible before the Tisiphone gets here.’ He glanced up towards the night sky, and pointed to where a dark band of clouds rolled towards the full moon. ‘Be sure there are no lights showing. With any luck we’ll lose any pursuers in the darkness.’

  Standing with the other six convicts, Solomon Lissak watched as Cusack lowered the telescope. The Young Irelander looked sick at heart and Forgan had to relieve him of the telescope before he dropped it.

  ‘Satisfied now, Mr Cusack?’ asked Quested. The Irishman nodded. ‘Good. Now perhaps you’d like me to show you to your cabin?’

  ‘What about Mrs Cafferty?’ asked Cusack.

  ‘We’d best put her in my stateroom,’ said Quested. Seeing that Cusack looked inclined to protest, he added: ‘I’ll have to move into the berth in your cabin set aside for Mr Fallon.’

  ‘What about them, Cap’n?’ Forgan indicated the convicts.

  Quested glanced at them over his shoulder, as if he had forgotten all about them, and called across to the Polynesian with Western clothing and a tattooed face. ‘Utumat
e! Show the rest of our guests to the fo’c’sle. Tell Doc to give them something hot to eat, and dig a change of clothes for them out of the slops chest. They look like a bunch of half-starved scarecrows. Then sling some hammocks for them and let them sleep until the forenoon watch. Tomorrow they go to work: three in one watch, three in the other.’

  ‘Keeping us separated, Captain?’

  Quested grinned. ‘Spreading your inexperience, Mr Wyatt. You’re in my world now – the world of the whale road. I’d advise you not to forget that, if you want to live to see California.’

  * * *

  Killigrew sat on the greensward atop the cliffs and watched helplessly as the barque hoisted her sails and moved off into the darkness. He heard hoof beats behind him and a moment later Price arrived on horseback with some more officers from the garrison.

  ‘What happened?’ the commandant demanded crisply.

  ‘They got away.’ Killigrew gestured to the barque.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe half a dozen of them.’

  Price turned to one of the officers. ‘Check Cusack’s cottage.’ The officer nodded and hurried off.

  ‘This man’s still alive!’ called one of the officers, crouching over Fallon’s body.

  Killigrew was on his feet in an instant. The light of a bull’s-eye revealed that the bullet had merely creased his skull, and while the blood that covered one side of his head made him look ghastly, he was still breathing weakly.

  ‘Take him to the cellar beneath the old gaol,’ ordered Price. ‘Put him on the frame with a tube-gag. Maybe he can tell us where that ship is headed.’

  Killigrew had no idea what the frame or the tube-gag were, but he did not like the sound of either. ‘He needs medical attention. Shouldn’t you take him to the infirmary?’