Killigrew and the Incorrigibles

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘It could be the SS Great Britain for all we know,’ said Killigrew, not unkindly. ‘These waters are well travelled, Mr Cavan. Whalers, sandalwood ships… we can’t have the men beat to quarters every time we sight a strange sail. If it’s the Lucy Ann, I don’t imagine she’ll get here for a good five hours. We’ll wait until she gets closer and Ågård can take a better look at her; then we’ll decide what to do, if anything.’

  ‘It won’t take her four hours to get here if she’s a steamer, sir.’

  Killigrew pulled his cap down over his eyes and lay back against the bole of the coconut palm behind him. ‘If she’s a steamer, Mr Cavan, then she’s not the Lucy Ann. Is Mr Strachan keeping out of trouble?’ Few men could be more feckless than Jack Tar on a run ashore, but in Killigrew’s experience the unworldly assistant surgeon was one of them.

  ‘He’s sketching a ficus prolixa, sir,’ Cavan replied heavily. He had evidently made the mistake of enquiring what Strachan was doing.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Banyan tree, sir.’

  ‘Ah. You’re sure? He hasn’t sneaked off to take a closer look at that volcano, has he?’

  Cavan shook his head. ‘I detailed Private Hawthorne to keep a discreet eye on him.’

  Killigrew nodded approvingly. It seemed like only yesterday that Cavan had been a first-class volunteer on board the Tisiphone when she had set out on her two-year spell of duty with the West Africa Squadron, a callow boy of twelve going to sea for the first time. But that had been five years ago, and now the midshipman was a young man of seventeen. When they got back to Britain at the end of the year, he would be ready to receive the queen’s commission as a mate; and rightly so, for he had proved he had the aptitude for a career as a naval officer.

  ‘Then if everything is in order, you might as well take off your jacket, sit down and relax,’ Killigrew told Cavan. ‘Dawton will signal Yorath and O’Houlihan if—’

  ‘Shark!’ Endicott’s unmistakable Liverpudlian accent, high-pitched with terror. ‘There’s a shark in the bay!’

  Pandemonium. The placid scene was turned into a churning tumult of fourteen seamen and marines all fighting to wade out of the surf at once. Killigrew leaped to his feet and drew his pepperbox from his belt, his eyes searching for that unmistakable fin cleaving through the waves as he ran to the water’s edge, but the struggling men blocked his view. Gamel’s sandcastle was trampled in the panic.

  ‘All right, quickly now!’ yelled Killigrew. ‘Line up in your messes! Did everyone get out of the water? Where’s Powell?’

  ‘Here, sir.’

  ‘Take a head count, Mr Cavan,’ ordered Killigrew. While the midshipman counted heads – and limbs, for that matter – Killigrew turned back to the water, searching for the shark’s fin, a slick of blood that would betray the fact that one of his men had fallen prey to the shark. But the waters of the bay had turned calm once more.

  ‘I don’t see any bloody shark,’ grumbled one of the seamen.

  ‘I saw it, I tell you!’ insisted Endicott. ‘Swam right past me, it did! Forty foot long if it was an inch.’

  ‘There, sir!’ called Molineaux.

  Killigrew looked in the direction the seaman had indicated and saw a grey shape zooming in through the shallows: then it broke the surface and stood up. Sharky grinned, showing his pointed teeth.

  Killigrew hooked his pepperbox to his belt once more. ‘There’s your shark, Endicott,’ he said wearily.

  A seaman cuffed the Liverpudlian roughly around the back of the head. ‘You bloody daft lobscouser!’ he snarled, and suddenly everyone was laughing at Endicott in a massive release of tension. Panic over, the seamen started to drift back into the water. Sharky climbed the trunk of a palm tree that leaned out over the beach in its search for sunlight, put his jew’s-harp in his mouth and started to pluck away tunelessly.

  Within a couple of minutes, only Endicott and Molineaux were left on the beach with Killigrew and Cavan. ‘Not going back in the water, Endicott?’ asked Killigrew.

  ‘You’re pulling my leg, ain’t you, sir?’ muttered the Liverpudlian. ‘It was a shark, I know it was. One o’ them great big white ones. What are they called?’

  ‘A great white?’ suggested Killigrew.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘It was your imagination, Endicott. A trick of the light.’

  ‘Oh aye? Well, this trick of the light had black eyes and massive fins and a great big gob full of razor-sharp teeth,’ insisted the Liverpudlian. ‘Sir,’ he added truculently.

  Killigrew sat down to supper with Strachan, Cavan and Richards at two bells in the first dog watch, as the sun was sinking below the mountains to the west of Port Resolution. While the men were content to eat their meals sitting on the beach, the officers dined nearby at a rough-and-ready but perfectly serviceable table knocked together by the carpenter’s mate. A couple of bottles of hock were produced from one of three crates of wine landed from the Tisiphone, while in the absence of the ship’s cook, the meal itself was prepared by Molineaux, who had started in the navy as a cook’s mate. Unlike the cook himself, who had lost any enthusiasm for cooking after having to prepare meals for a hundred officers and men three times a day for years on end, Molineaux enjoyed the luxury of only occasionally being called upon to use his culinary skills, and he took characteristic pride in his cooking. This was their second evening at Port Resolution since the Tisiphone had sailed, and once again the seaman excelled himself. That morning he had borrowed Richards’ hunting rifle and had procured some fresh meat with the help of a native guide, and taking a collection from his shipmates, he managed to get enough chewing tobacco to barter with the natives for fresh yams.

  ‘This is excellent, Molineaux,’ Cavan complimented him as the officers tucked into their meal. ‘Tastes like chicken. What is it, coq au vin?’

  ‘Renard volant au Molineaux,’ the seaman replied, with a conspiratorial wink at Killigrew.

  ‘Renard volant,’ mused Cavan. ‘Wait a minute! That means…’

  ‘Flying fox,’ said Strachan, before shovelling more into his mouth. ‘Mmm! Absolutely delicious. You’ve excelled yourself, Molineaux. Not hungry, Mr Cavan? I’ll have that if you’re not eating it. Waste not, want not, as my guv’nor never tired of telling me.’

  Twilight was giving way to dusk by the time they had finished eating. The men who had replaced Ågård and the other lookouts on Mount Melen reported that the approaching ship, still more than ten miles from the southern tip of the island, had lit lanterns, so they would have no difficulty following her progress in the dark. Night fell, and Killigrew watched Cavan muster the first watch before retreating to his hammock in the tent he shared with the midshipman and Strachan.

  He slept fitfully, his mind troubled by anxiety for Mrs Cafferty – he knew that in all probability she was already dead, but he could not give up on her until he was certain – and when he did sleep he was tormented by nightmares. One was so violent he almost tumbled out of his hammock, and when he caught his breath and realised it had been nothing more than a bad dream – apparently flying fox agreed less well with his digestion than it did with his palate – he was glad that neither of the other two officers were in their hammocks to see the state he was in.

  He struck a match so he could check his fob watch, and was disappointed to discover it was still only just ten o’clock. Cavan was on duty, of course, and Killigrew was not due to relieve him until midnight, but being reluctant to go back to sleep he used Strachan’s absence as an excuse to get dressed.

  Part of him hoped that the assistant surgeon had gone off to study the volcano. Despite the paradisiacal surroundings, even after only three days on the island Killigrew was hungry for some excitement to relieve the tedium of doing little more than waiting. But for once Strachan disappointed him: the assistant surgeon was still at the table, discussing palaeontology with Richards over a bottle of evil-looking whisky. Or rather, lecturing Richards, who had fallen asleep at the table; given that Strachan’s
boyish enthusiasm for science could breathe life into the driest of subjects, Richards’ snores were probably a testimony to the strength of the whisky. Even Strachan, who could put whisky away with the best of them, must have been affected, for he had failed to notice the unconscious condition of his audience.

  Killigrew glanced across to where he could see Cavan talking to Molineaux and Endicott, who had taken over lookout duties on Cook’s Pyramid, in the light of the half-moon.

  The lieutenant approached the table and touched his friend on the shoulder. Strachan blinked up at him blearily, then glanced to where Richards was slumped over the table. The assistant surgeon picked up the bottle of whisky and put on his spectacles to read the label. ‘Laphroaig, it says! If this fousome stuff is Laphroaig, then I’m Lola Montez.’

  ‘Capital!’ Killigrew poured himself a glass of the putative Scotch and sat down with his feet on the table, lighting a cheroot. ‘We could do with some feminine company around here. Don’t you think you ought to get some sleep?’

  ‘I’m no’ sleepy. What about you? From those bags under your eyes, I’d say you’ve not bowed an eye in days.’

  Killigrew yawned cavernously. ‘I don’t need much sleep.’

  Strachan took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. ‘Hullo,’ he said, glancing down the beach towards Cook’s Pyramid. ‘Here comes Mr Cavan. Always in a hurry, that boy.’

  Killigrew glanced over his shoulder. Cavan was indeed running full pelt across the sand towards the table; as he drew near, the look on his face in the light of the torches lit around their camp alerted the lieutenant that all was not well. Sloughing off his exhaustion, Killigrew stood up and turned to meet the midshipman.

  ‘Something wrong, Mr Cavan?’

  ‘The ship, sir. The one Ågård saw earlier. It’s disappeared!’

  ‘Ships don’t just vanish into thin air, Mr Cavan. How long is it since they last saw it?’

  ‘About a quarter of an hour, sir. The lookouts were following its lights when they disappeared behind a headland on the south side of the island. They waited for the lights to emerge on the other side, but… they never did.’

  Killigrew frowned. It was not impossible that the lookouts on Mount Melen had made a mistake, but they were both reliable men. The moon was low in the night sky to the east, which would throw the eastern coast of the island into shadow; but the only possible explanation for the disappearance of the lights was that the ship had moored behind the headland, or her lights had been extinguished. In either case, it was damned suspicious.

  ‘Ågård!’ roared Killigrew.

  Richards woke up abruptly at the yell, and fell backwards off his stool. He promptly fell asleep again on the sand.

  Ågård emerged from the barracks-tent, naked but for a pair of woollen drawers. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Beat to quarters, Ågård. We’re going for a moonlight cruise.’

  Chapter 16

  Decoyed

  ‘Heave to and lower my boat, Utumate,’ ordered Quested. He spoke barely above a whisper, and instead of passing on the instructions in his usual, booming baritone, the specksnyder padded across the deck on his bare feet to order the hands to box the sails in a low voice.

  Quested turned to the second mate. ‘This looks like a perfect opportunity to try out your newfangled toy, Mr Forgan.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’ Grinning, the mate scurried below.

  It was a dozen minutes or so after two bells in the middle watch – not that the Lucy Ann’s bell was being rung that night – and the darkness was blacker than pitch. Vickers and Lissak had been on deck during the last dog watch, and in the dying twilight they had seen the island they were approaching. Now they were somewhere off the west coast – not that Lissak could see a thing beyond the gunwale – but Quested and Macy seemed to know exactly where they were.

  It was two and a half days since the Lucy Ann had fallen in with the Wanderer at the Bay of Crabs. Lissak had no idea what Quested and Thorpe had discussed for so long in the great cabin, but it had been obvious that they were old friends; at least, they had been when they gone below. When they had re-emerged Quested had ordered Macy to chart a new course, before assuring Cusack that the woman was all right, and no longer any concern of theirs. The Irishman seemed to accept that, but an argument had ensued about the change of course. Apparently it was Quested’s intention that they break off their voyage for a couple of days to trade in sandalwood.

  ‘Sandalwood!’ Cusack had protested. ‘We’ve half the Royal Navy after us, and you want to trade in sandalwood?’

  ‘You’ve no need to worry about the Tisiphone, Mr Cusack,’ Quested had replied calmly. ‘She’s on her way to Thorpetown – where we were bound, as it happens, so we were lucky to run into the Wanderer, otherwise it would have been the Tisiphone we ran into. The deal I had with your Mr Fallon was that we would be allowed to stop and lower boats if we saw any whales on our way to California, to defray the cost of the voyage. Well, the deal Mr Thorpe has just put in my way is worth the oil of a hundred whales to me, so I don’t see why the same principles shouldn’t apply. Don’t worry; Erromanga’s practically on our way. All we’ve got to do is take the sandalwood to Thorpetown, and then we can resume our original course.’

  ‘I thought you said the Tisiphone was at Thorpetown?’

  ‘She is. But Mr Thorpe will see to it she’s long gone by the time we get there on Sunday.’

  Lissak had never heard of Erromanga until that day, but since then spouters on the Lucy Ann had told him all about the island; or, to be more precise, the cannibalistic savages that inhabited it. ‘Is that Erromanga?’ he asked Pilcher nervously, jerking his head in the direction he guessed the coast lay.

  ‘No, that’s Tanna,’ snorted the boatsteerer.

  ‘But I thought we were going to Erromanga.’

  ‘We are,’ Pilcher promised them. ‘But first we’ve got to pick up trade goods from Tanna. The Erromangoans won’t welcome us with open arms if we turn up empty-handed. Or at least, if they do, it will be as their supper.’

  ‘What sort o’ trade goods are we picking up?’

  ‘Hist!’ Pilcher winked. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Belay that gassing!’ snarled Macy.

  A boat had been lowered from the starboard quarter by the time Forgan came up on deck carrying something Lissak could hardly make out in the darkness, even with eyes attuned to seeing in the dark. It looked like a harpoon gun of some kind. Quested and Forgan climbed down into the boat with four oarsmen. They pushed off and rowed away with barely a sound, the oars muffled in the rowlocks. A moment or two later the darkness had swallowed up the boat.

  Then all was silent but for the gentle lapping of the waves against the Lucy Ann’s hull. The hands on deck crowded the starboard gunwale, staring into the darkness expectantly; Lissak could not even begin to guess what they were waiting for.

  When it came, it was such a shock after the silence on board that Lissak almost jumped out of his shoes: a flat crack, a white flash reflected on the water, and then a brighter flash, further off, followed less than a second later by a loud crack. In the split second of the flash, an image of trees and native huts was burned into Lissak’s eyes, only a couple of hundred yards distant: the Lucy Ann was closer to the shore than he had realised.

  The seconds ticked by. Perhaps a minute later the twin bangs and flashes were repeated, and this time the second flash silhouetted illuminated Quested’s boat, with a figure standing in the bows.

  Now there were yells drifting faintly from the shore, and voices crying out in a heathenish jabber Lissak could not understand. The next flash set fire to a native hut that turned into a roaring inferno in seconds, and in its light Lissak could see the naked figures of savages running back and forth.

  Awoken by the noise, Wyatt, Mangal and Jarrett joined Lissak and Vickers on deck to watch the fireworks display. Then Cusack emerged from the after hatch, wearing a tasselled nightcap and nightshirt. ‘What’s going on?’ demanded t
he Irishman.

  ‘Damned if I know,’ said Wyatt. ‘Quested and some of his crewmen climbed into a boat and rowed towards the island; now they’re shooting bombs at a native village ashore.’

  ‘What!’ Cusack turned to where Macy was watching the attack on the village through a telescope; he snatched the telescope from the chief mate to look for himself.

  With the village in flames, Lissak could see things more clearly now. In the boat’s bows, Forgan was firing bombs from the harpoon gun as quickly as he could ram the projectiles into the barrel and prime the breech. The light from the flames gave him something to aim at now, and each shot found its mark, setting another hut ablaze. One native running through the huts was caught by a blast, and was picked up off his feet and thrown into a somersault. His screams reached the Lucy Ann clearly; so did another sound, a manic laughter coming from the boat.

  ‘Jaysus Christ!’ Cusack exclaimed in horror, and turned to Macy. ‘For pity’s sake, man! What’s he doing? It’s cold-blooded murder!’

  ‘Calm down, Cusack,’ snapped Macy. ‘They’re only kanakas.’

  ‘Only kanakas!’ spluttered the Irishman. ‘Jaysus Christ! Are they not God’s children, the same as the rest of us?’

  ‘God?’ spat Macy. ‘Those heathen devils know nothing of God, Mr Cusack. Those savages would as soon run you through with a spear or bury the head of a tomahawk in your skull as look at you, so don’t go wasting your pity on them.’

  Forgan sat down again and the oarsmen rowed the boat back to the Lucy Ann. Cusack was waiting for them at the gangway by the time they climbed back on board, laughing and slapping one another on the back as if they had been enjoying a good joke.