Killigrew and the Incorrigibles

by Jonathan Lunn

  Fallon grinned. ‘But as you said yourself, the further away he gets the less chance you have of catching him. So I guess it’ll have to be later rather than sooner.’

  Price sighed. ‘This is going to take longer than I thought,’ he told Killigrew, handing him the folders. ‘Two, maybe three hours.’ He checked his watch. ‘But I’ll wager you ten guineas he talks before noon.’

  Killigrew had seen more than enough. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  Price nodded and turned to the overseers. ‘All right. Let’s have him up and put him in the scavenger’s daughter.’

  In the courtyard upstairs, Killigrew gratefully pushed the door to behind him and sucked the fresh air into his lungs, biting back the bile that had risen to his gorge. He was no stranger to bloodshed, but there was something about the very thought of one man deliberately and cold-bloodedly inflicting pain on another that always made him sick and angry.

  He left the old gaol and found Strachan on the sea wall, gazing out across the lagoon. ‘Don’t talk to me!’ the young Scotsman snarled when Killigrew joined him. ‘Torture! In this day and age! It’s barbaric, I tell you!’

  ‘What’s barbaric, Mr Strachan?’ asked Killigrew. ‘Interrogating a prisoner to find out where Mrs Cafferty’s being taken? Or leaving that poor woman in the hands of scum like Ned Wyatt and Jemmy Fingers? Don’t talk to me about Fallon’s rights. It’s thanks to Fallon that Mrs Cafferty is a helpless captive in the hands of that scum – assuming they haven’t already raped her, slit her throat and thrown her into the sea. What about her rights? It’s easy for us to condemn a man like John Price—’

  ‘“Easy” is too mild a word for it. It’s our duty, damn it. If the people back in the comfort of their homes in Britain knew what was going on out here…’

  ‘Did it ever occur to you that the reason the people back home in Britain are able to live in such comfort and security is because of men like John Price who do Society’s dirty work?’ Killigrew asked his friend. ‘Nearly everyone we met in Hobart Town spoke highly of Price’s ability as a penal administrator. You know, just maybe he knows what he’s doing. It can’t be easy keeping control of an island full of men like Ned Wyatt. You don’t get the better of men like that by playing the game by the rules, Strachan. The villains of this world win every time, because they’re not hidebound by the same rules of decency as the rest of us, whatever Dr Arnold might say. So the only way to beat them is to be even more ruthless than they are.’

  ‘And become as bad as they are? So what happens? You rid the world of evil men, and find you’ve replaced them with men even more evil than the ones you set out to replace.’

  ‘Evil’s rather a subjective word for a scientific man like yourself, Strachan. Where does it fit into your atheistic philosophy, exactly?’

  ‘I don’t have to be a God-fearing Christian to know that there are certain rules Society must impose on its members if we’re to maintain any semblance of civilisation. That’s what sets men apart from animals; most men, at any rate.’

  ‘Exactly my point. Not all men are so very different from animals. The only way to protect your society against them is to employ men with a little bit of the animal in them.’

  ‘Men like John Price, you mean?’

  ‘What would you prefer? John Price torturing criminals here on Norfolk Island? Or men like Jemmy Fingers raping innocent young women back in Britain?’

  ‘I’d rather do without both, if it’s all the same with you.’

  ‘But if you had to choose?’

  ‘Price, of course.’ Strachan was nothing if not a pragmatist. ‘But what if the Law makes a mistake? Suppose an innocent man gets wrongfully convicted, and ends up in a place like this through no fault of his own? That’s why even criminals must have certain rights.’

  Killigrew thought of the man who had killed the woman he had loved in Hong Kong; the one who had put a bullet in her skull, at any rate. ‘I don’t see the necessity.’

  ‘Jings, Killigrew! You’re a cold-blooded bastard. I’m starting to wonder: is it Price we’re talking about, or you?’

  Killigrew had no reply to that. Strachan turned his back on him and walked away, stopping occasionally to pick up a stone and skim it across the lagoon. Killigrew took a pull from his hip flask and lit a cheroot.

  Robertson returned after half an hour. ‘Everything sorted out, sir?’ Killigrew asked him.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, yes. That damned scoundrel de Winton wanted me to falsify my report to protect himself and Price!’

  ‘It might not be a bad idea to go along with them, sir,’ Killigrew said quietly.

  ‘You’re joking, I take it?’

  ‘Not at all, sir. Otherwise as soon as we’ve gone they might just agree to make sure their reports both put the blame on you.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I am partly to blame – not that it’s my responsibility to help Price keep his convicts locked up.’

  ‘We were the ones who brought Fallon here.’

  ‘Acting under the lieutenant-governor’s orders. Anyhow, I’m damned if I’ll falsify an official report.’

  It suddenly occurred to Killigrew that perhaps one of the reasons Robertson was still only a commander in his mid-forties was his total incorruptibility. He wondered what he would do if he ever found himself in a similar situation: would he sacrifice his whole career to maintain a truth which no one back in England wanted to know about?

  Robertson noticed the folders under Killigrew’s arm. ‘Are those the files on the convicts who escaped with Cusack?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Killigrew held them out to Robertson, who shook his head.

  ‘You hold on to them for now, Second. What about Fallon? Did Price interview him yet?’

  ‘Interview him!’ snorted Strachan, who had hurried across the moment he had seen Robertson talking to Killigrew. ‘Torturing him, more like. They’ve got a scavenger’s daughter in the cellar there!’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Strachan,’ said Robertson. ‘This is eighteen fifty, not fifteen eighty. The Spanish Inquisition ended a long time ago.’

  ‘But it’s the truth, sir! If ye dinna believe me, go see for yourself!’

  Astonished by Strachan’s vehemence, Robertson glanced at Killigrew. The lieutenant knew that if Robertson found out what Price was doing, he would try to stop it – he might even succeed. In a battle of wills, it would be hard to judge which of the two would win – and then they would have no chance of catching the Lucy Ann. But he could not deny it, either. Part of him wanted the torture to stop, to find a more humane way to learn which way the Lucy Ann had gone. ‘It’s true, sir,’ he admitted.

  Robertson set his jaw. ‘Right. We’ll see about that.’ He began to stride across to the old gaol. Strachan followed, but Robertson rounded on him. ‘Not you, Strachan. I want to speak to Price alone. You go back aboard the Tisiphone; I’m sure you have duties to attend to. You too, Second. I want a full report of what happened last night waiting for me on my desk by the time I come back on board.’

  Killigrew and Strachan climbed into the gig and sat in silence as they were rowed back to the ship. Neither of them felt much like talking to the other. Killigrew preceded Strachan up the side-ladder to the entry port and ordered the coxswain of the gig to go back to wait for Robertson.

  Hartcliffe and Ågård were talking to Able Seaman Molineaux until Killigrew stepped on to the quarterdeck. Killigrew exchanged ‘good mornings’ with Hartcliffe, and turned to the quartermaster. ‘You used to be a spouter, didn’t you, Ågård?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘The ship we’re after is a whaler. Any notion of where it might be headed?’ Killigrew was thinking that the best place to hide a whaler was in a fleet of whalers.

  ‘I was on the Greenland Fishery, sir, hunting right whales. Here in the Pacific, chances are the ship we’re after is a Yankee, a sperm whaler. Not that it makes any odds: whalers don’t usually hunt in packs.’

  ‘But what waters would we f
ind them in? Don’t whales have seasonal patterns of migration or something like that?’

  Ågård grinned ruefully. ‘Maybe they do, sir, and maybe they don’t. No one knows it for sure, though I heard tell that some Yankee is making some kind of study into the subject. If he can tell whalers the best place to find whales at any given time of year, he’ll be a rich man.’

  Killigrew smiled sadly. ‘That’s not much help to us, Ågård; but thank you anyhow.’ He turned towards the after hatch when Molineaux called after him.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Molineaux?’

  ‘Reckon I could hazard a guess at where they’re headed, sir.’

  Killigrew smiled with amusement. That was Molineaux all over: always trying his best, even when it was hopeless. ‘Go on, Molineaux.’

  The seaman spoke at length, and with all of Killigrew’s interjections it took him nearly ten minutes to finish. When he had done so, Killigrew stood in thought for a few moments.

  ‘What do you think, sir?’

  Killigrew turned to the yeoman of the signals. ‘Signal the shore, Flags. Tell Commander Robertson that we might just know where the Lucy Ann’s headed.’

  * * *

  When Mrs Cafferty woke up it took her a moment to realise where she was. The sun shone behind the small curtain drawn over the porthole, and there was enough light for her to take in her surroundings. She lay on a bunk in a cabin about eight foot by six, with a wardrobe, desk, and a shelf with some books on. At first she thought she was back on board the Tisiphone, and that the events of the previous night had all been part of a bad dream. Then she realised that this stateroom was different from Killigrew’s cabin, and that she was a prisoner on board the Lucy Ann.

  She glanced down at herself: she lay on top of the covers, still fully dressed in the evening gown she had been wearing to the dinner party at Government House on Norfolk Island. It seemed more like days than hours ago. She kneeled on the bunk to draw the curtain and peer out of the porthole: the sun dazzled her. If it were morning – and she did not think she had been asleep more than a few hours – then the Lucy Ann was heading north. No matter which way she craned her head, she could see neither land nor any other ships, only mile after mile of rolling blue ocean.

  She was amazed that she had been able to sleep at all, given her situation; but exhaustion had overcome her. The nights on board the Tisiphone had been long, as each day took her nearer to her long-awaited confrontation with John Price. Now that the ordeal was over and done with – and somehow she did not feel disappointed that she had been unable to kill him – the tension had oozed out of her.

  Now all you’ve got to do is escape from a whaler crewed by a gang of savages, cut-throats and convicted criminals in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and make your way back to civilisation, she thought ruefully to herself.

  At least it was obvious they meant her no immediate harm. If Cusack and Quested had any intention of allowing Wyatt and his cronies to rape her, then it would have happened last night. The fact that they had not already slit her throat and dumped her body over the side gave her some reassurance; perhaps they intended to let her go when they no longer needed her as a hostage. But now she could identify Quested and his ship, she wondered if he would let her go. As an American citizen, he might consider himself beyond the reach of British law, and once Cusack had been safely delivered to San Francisco it was unlikely that the Royal Navy would put much effort into hunting down the men who had helped him escape. That would be closing the stable door after the horse had bolted, and the ructions with the US State Department likely to arise from such an act would outweigh the benefits of seeing justice done.

  On the other hand, perhaps Quested and his crew were simply squeamish about killing a woman, and were putting the deed off for as long as possible.

  But if they thought she would let them kill her without putting up a fight, they had another think coming. She knew it was unrealistic to expect the Tisiphone and her crew to come to her rescue, the way Sir Richmond Shakespeare and his Kuzzilbash cavalry had rescued her and the other captives at Bameean seven and a half years ago. If the Tisiphone were going to catch the Lucy Ann, it would have done so by now. If anyone were going to get her out of this predicament, it would have to be herself. She knew there was no one on board the whaler she could trust, but she might be able to play them against one another. She would have to use her wits if she was going to stay alive for the next few weeks.

  She studied the room she was in, hoping it would give her some insight into the kind of man she had to deal with in Captain Quested. His personality seemed to leave little stamp on the stateroom. There was no smell of tobacco, so he did not smoke, and there was no evidence that he was a drinker. No framed calotypes or daguerreotypes of loved ones, no personal letters in the drawers of the desk. The clothes in the wardrobe were sober and unostentatious, but of good quality. He was a man who liked neither to stand out in the crowd nor to spend money on luxuries, but clearly he preferred to spend good money on something which would last him. There were no novels amongst the books on the shelf – a disappointment, as she knew this might prove to be a long voyage and would have liked something to take her mind off her woes – just tomes of maritime law, and a few books of political philosophy including (rather worryingly) Machiavelli’s The Prince.

  There were two doors leading out of the stateroom. The first led only into a privy. She tried the second door, and was surprised to find it unlocked. She opened it, cautiously at first, to reveal the great cabin beyond. It seemed rather larger than she had remembered it to have been the night before, until she realised that the bulkhead between it and the compartment forward of it was nothing more than a partition which folded up against the deck head. A large window looked out astern with a window seat below. There was a large table in the centre of the compartment, and the fact that two of the chairs surrounding it did not match the other four suggested that the table was not used to seating more than four at a time.

  The door out of Quested’s quarters was on the other side of the great cabin. She tried the doorknob, but it was locked. She crossed back to the window and tried to open it. It would not open, although there was no lock: it seemed to be jammed, with oakum wedged round the frame.

  She looked around the cabin, searching for something she could use as a crowbar to pry the window open. There was a rack of muskets in one corner, but they were securely held in place with a padlocked chain that ran through the trigger guards.

  Mrs Cafferty returned to the cabin. A board ran down the side of the bunk, to stop the occupant from being tossed out of bed at night, but the board lifted out of its slots. She took it into the great cabin, braced one end of the plank against the backrest of the seat below the window, and hooked it behind the handle. She pulled on the top end of the plank, but the window would not budge, even with her full weight on it. She braced a foot against the window frame, exerting all her strength, and the board creaked and suddenly there was a loud snap. She fell back, cracking the back of her head against the table, and sprawled on the deck.

  She lay there for a moment, thinking that she had broken the plank and that all she had achieved was the lump she could feel rising on the back of her head, and a splitting headache. Then she felt a fresh draught of air, and when she looked up and saw the window swinging open she forgot all about the headache.

  She scrambled back on to the seat and thrust her head out of the window. Still she could see nothing but sea in all directions. Then she heard a key turning in the lock behind her, and withdrew her head from the window in time to see Quested enter.

  He glanced at the open window with a faint smile. ‘If you’re going to jump out and swim for Norfolk Island, I suggest you do so now,’ he told her. ‘It’s twenty-five miles astern, and falling further behind with very passing minute. And you won’t find any other land within five hundred miles of here.’

  There was something about the whaling skipper that made her feel uneasy – a
sense that he for one would not be squeamish about murdering a woman, should he consider it necessary – but she was determined not to let him see how frightened she was.

  Quested was followed into the great cabin by a chunky negro who approached the seat where Mrs Cafferty kneeled. ‘Uh… excuse me, ma’am?’

  She thought he wanted to close the window, but when she climbed off the seat to get out of the way, he lifted up the seat itself to reveal a capacious locker below. He lifted out two hampers – one containing a tablecloth and napkins, the other glassware and crockery – and a case of cutlery. As he started to set six places at the table, a man Mrs Cafferty did not recognise at first entered. Tall and well built, his hair neatly brushed in waves and lightly pomaded, his whiskers trimmed, he was dressed in a bottle-green frock coat, marbled pale grey trousers, a white muslin cravat and kid gloves. He grinned at her.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Cafferty. I trust you slept well?’

  Only when he spoke did she recognise him from his Irish accent, and even then it was difficult to marry the handsome gentlemen before her with the rough-looking individual in grey convict fatigues she had met the evening before. ‘Mr Cusack?’ she stammered in astonishment.

  ‘What do you think?’ He turned this way and that, preening himself like a peacock, so she could admire the cut of his clothes. ‘I’ve lost a little weight since I was arrested, but not a bad fit for all that.’

  ‘You look… very handsome,’ she said weakly.

  He beamed proudly. ‘Thank you. You look very well yourself this morning, under the circumstances.’

  She realised he was just being polite. ‘I must look a fright.’

  ‘You, ma’am?’ Cusack pulled out a chair for her, and she sat down. ‘Inconceivable. Although, if there is anything you require while you’re on board this ship, I’m sure Captain Quested will have no objections to your imposing on him.’

  ‘This is a whaling ship, not a ’tarnal enamelling studio,’ growled Quested. ‘She’s already got my stateroom so she can use the cuzjohn in privacy. What more can she ask for?’