Killigrew and the Incorrigibles

by Jonathan Lunn

  ‘Wes?’

  ‘Not now, Foxy.’

  ‘Wes, there’s something I think you ought to know…’

  Ignoring his old mentor, Molineaux pulled the trigger. Forgan flinched. But there was no percussion cap under the hammer.

  ‘What were you trying to tell me, Foxy?’ asked Molineaux. ‘No, wait: let me guess. The barker ain’t loaded?’

  ‘Sorry, Wes.’

  Utumate snatched the musket from Molineaux and smashed the stock into his face. A twenty-one-gun salute went off in the seaman’s head, but he managed to cling on to consciousness as he crumpled to the sand with blood running from his nostrils.

  ‘Utumate payim you back, black man.’

  ‘That’s for what you did to Utumate,’ said Quested, levelling his revolver at Molineaux’s face. ‘And this is for Eber, Ike, Andy, Jeff, and Obed…’

  Lissak moved between Molineaux and the muzzle. ‘If you’re going to shoot him, Cap’n Quested, you’re going to have to shoot me first.’

  ‘Oh-kay. I got plenty of bullets, Mr Lissak.’

  The old lag moved hastily aside, but continued to plead for his protégé. ‘Don’t you see? He ain’t one of them. Oh, he might be togged up like a lagger; but he’s one of us at heart. Ain’t that right, Wes?’

  When Molineaux said nothing, reluctant to confirm or deny the accusation, Lissak turned to Wyatt as if the coiner might give a one-time snakesman a more sympathetic hearing. ‘He’s a flash cove, Ned! A snakesman! Me and Wes were partners, I tell you. He… why, he’s Cowcumber Henson, damn it!’

  ‘Cowcumber Henson?’ said Wyatt. ‘Didn’t there used to be a darky snakesman called that in London about ten, fifteen years ago?’

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ admitted Molineaux.

  ‘I don’t care if his name’s Banana Benson,’ snarled Quested. ‘I’m going to kill this sonuvabitch.’

  ‘Wait a minute, Captain.’ Wyatt leaned over Molineaux. ‘If you’re Cowcumber Henson, you’ll know Slack Jack.’

  ‘Nice try, Wyatt. You know as well as I Slack Jack Barrett was cramped years before I was born.’

  ‘Voker romeny?’

  Molineaux was still dazed from the blow in the face Utumate had given him; the incongruity of hearing thieves’ cant spoken on an island in the South Seas only added to his confusion. But eleven years ago it had been a language he had spoken as fluently as his native English. ‘I granny the flash patter dab enough, bit-faker. I’m down as a hammer.’

  Wyatt laughed, and pushed aside Quested’s revolver. ‘He’s down, all right. Put the barker away, Captain. We can trust him.’

  ‘Maybe you can…’

  ‘You don’t understand, skipper. That there’s Cowcumber Henson, the cleanest snakesman that ever cracked a crib. He’s one of us. And I ain’t going to stand by and let you burke him.’

  ‘He may have been one of you, Mr Wyatt. But you’ve only got to take one look at those navy pusser’s slops he’s wearing to see that now he’s one of them.’

  Wyatt shook his head. ‘Once a prig, always a prig, Captain Quested. Right, Solly? Henson ain’t going to cross us.’

  Quested sighed, and put away his revolver so he could take out his fob watch and glance at it. ‘It’s now just coming up to midnight. We can expect the Vanguard here within the next two hours, brim to the gunnels with bluejackets looking for a fight. I want the Lucy Ann to be as far from here as possible when she arrives, which means I haven’t got time to argue. However, since I’m short-handed thanks to this nigger… I suppose we could take him along as ballast. But I’m holding you responsible if he tries to cross us, Mr Wyatt.’ Quested turned to Utumate. ‘And you keep an eye on our newest recruit. If he looks like he’s even thinking about ratting on us, kill him. Slow as you like.’

  ‘When Utumate kill enemy, him take long time to die,’ the Polynesian said with relish. But Quested was already striding back across the black sand to where the boat waited.

  Utumate leaned over Molineaux. ‘You fool Wyatt. Maybe you fool Cap’n Quested, too. But you not fool Utumate.’

  Molineaux could see that his enmity with Utumate was going to be a problem. He had two choices: either he could try to ingratiate himself with the Polynesian and win his confidence, or he could just accept he had an enemy. For a man like Molineaux, that was no choice at all. ‘If you’re going to speak English, speak it properly, you skirt-wearing fat-head,’ he sneered.

  Utumate looked as if he might dash the stock of the musket into Molineaux’s face a second time, but Wyatt caught the musket by the barrel and gestured for the Polynesian to follow Quested. Utumate gave Wyatt and Molineaux a glance that suggested that both of them put together were not worth the effort, and turned away.

  Wyatt clasped Molineaux by the hand and hauled him to his feet. ‘Come on, Wes. Don’t mind Utumate. He ain’t so bad – for a heathen – once you get to know him.’

  They pushed the boat out from the beach and Molineaux climbed aboard, unsure if he had tricked his way into the crew of the Lucy Ann or if Lissak and Wyatt had inveigled him into joining them. It felt more like the latter.

  Chapter 19

  Robbery With Violins

  They climbed on to the deck of the Lucy Ann and Quested ordered the boat hoisted into the davits before turning to the chief mate. ‘Well, Mr Macy? I saw you raise the lantern to the masthead. I take it you have something for me?’

  Macy nodded and turned to Doc, the chunky negro cook. ‘Tell Gog and Magog to bring him up on deck.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Doc disappeared down the after hatch.

  ‘All right, heave up the anchor,’ Quested told Utumate while they waited.

  ‘Hold your horses,’ said Macy. ‘What about the others?’

  ‘They won’t be joining us, Mr Macy. He killed them.’ Quested indicated Molineaux.

  ‘And who’s he?’

  ‘Cowcumber Henson,’ Quested said with a faint smile. ‘The cleanest snakesman that ever cracked a crib, whatever that may mean.’

  ‘And you’re going to let him join the crew? Just like that?’

  ‘Maybe. For now. Both Mr Wyatt and Mr Lissak seem to have a high opinion of him.’

  ‘That’s hardly a recommendation!’

  ‘No. But the fact he managed to kill five of my best men is. I can use a man like that…’

  The after hatch opened and one of the biggest, ugliest men Molineaux had ever seen emerged. He turned back, and dragged something out after him. It took Molineaux a moment to recognise the bundle of rags as a human being; even longer to recognise the human being as Killigrew. The lieutenant’s lip was swollen and split, his left eye had swollen up so much it had closed entirely, and his cheek was covered in dried blood from a cut over his eye. At first glance, Molineaux could not tell if the lieutenant was dead or alive.

  Once Killigrew had been dragged out of the after hatch, a third man followed him up: the spitting image of the first. Molineaux remembered what Richards had said about a gigantic pair of twins. Gog and Magog, presumably named after the two titanic statues outside Guildhall in London.

  Quested’s conversation with Macy had made it clear to Molineaux that if he was going to live through the next twenty-four hours, he was going to have to convince them his conversion was genuine, and he could see only one way to do it. He glared across to where Killigrew was slumped between the twins.

  ‘You sonuvabitch!’ he snarled. ‘You lousy, stinking sonuvabitch!’ He abruptly charged across the deck and kicked Killigrew savagely in the side; he had to make this look good. ‘Boot’s on the other foot now, ain’t it, you stuck-up bastard. Put me in the lazaretto on six-upon-four, will you? I’ll learn you!’

  Killigrew managed to raise his head. ‘Molineaux?’ he croaked.

  Molineaux kicked him again, and waited for someone to drag him away, but he had misjudged his audience: they just stood around laughing. He kicked Killigrew again, and again, and finally Quested intervened.

  ‘Oh-kay, that’s enough f
or now, Molineaux… Henson… whatever the hell your name is. If anyone’s going to kill Mr Killigrew there, it’s going to be me. But I’ve got other plans for the lieutenant…’

  Something whistled across the deck. With a bewildered expression on his face, Macy glanced down and saw the bloodstained head of a spear protruding from his chest. He opened his mouth to say something, but only vomited blood. Then his legs crumpled beneath him. He sank to his knees, and measured his length on the deck, the spear in his back sticking up like a flagpole.

  Dripping with water, Sharky had already jumped down from the bulwark. He swung his war club and one of the spouters fell with a crushed skull without even knowing what had hit him. With a wild, savage cry, Sharky ran across the deck to where Quested stood. Another spouter rushed to intercept him, and fell victim to the nakaimo’s club. Sharky was only a few feet from Quested, aiming a blow at his head, when the captain managed to draw his revolver and shoot the nakaimo in the stomach. Sharky dropped his war club, and staggered.

  ‘You!’ gasped Quested.

  The nakaimo did not seem to hear him. He staggered back against the bulwark, and then managed to pull himself over the side and fell into the water with a splash. Quested ran to the side and emptied the remaining five shots of his revolver into the water.

  The rest of the men on deck joined him at the bulwark, peering over at the black waters below. ‘Don’t just stand there!’ snarled

  Quested. ‘Make sure he’s dead this time!’

  ‘Reckon you got him, Cap’n,’ said one spouter.

  Another pointed. ‘Look! A shark!’

  ‘Jesus!’ Ashen-faced, Quested snatched a musket from one of his men and fired it over the side.

  ‘Easy, Cap’n,’ said the third mate. ‘Sharks got him.’

  ‘You goddamned half-wit, Gardner!’ snarled Quested. ‘That’s no shark. That was him.’ He snatched up a harpoon and flung it into the water, but whatever it was that was swimming there – man or shark – it had dived beneath the surface.

  Quested was white-faced and trembling. ‘Did you see, Forgan? It was him.’

  ‘Couldn’t’ve been him, Cap’n. You killed him two years ago, remember? Shot him in the chest.’

  ‘Did you see the star-shaped scar on him, here?’ Quested tapped his own chest with his hook. ‘That’s where I shot him two years ago!’

  ‘Coincidence, Cap’n. Albinos are common enough amongst the savages in these islands. And they’re always a-cutting of themselves, decorating their bodies with tattoos and cicatrices. It was just a decoration, that’s all.’

  ‘That was no tattoo, Mr Forgan! That was a bullet scar! My bullet scar!’

  ‘Well, he’s dead now,’ said the second mate, patting the captain consolingly on the shoulder.

  Quested threw off his hand and rounded on him. ‘Dead? You damned fool! You can’t kill a ghost!’ He slumped his shoulders and stalked off towards the after hatch. ‘Time’s a-wasting, Mr Forgan. Let’s get this tub under way.’

  ‘Can’t kill a ghost!’ the third mate snorted as soon as Quested had gone below decks. ‘That was no ghost, and it sure as hell weren’t no shark! That was a man, plain and simple. Cap’n’s going crazy, if you ask me…’

  Forgan whirled and seized the third mate by the lapels, slamming him viciously against the bulwark. ‘He’s still captain of this ship, Mr Gardner,’ he snarled, evidently as shaken by what he had just seen as the rest of them. ‘Don’t you forget it.’

  So Quested’s frightened of native superstitions, is he? mused Molineaux. He wondered if there was some way he could turn that to his advantage. But the fact that the captain was clearly going insane was worrying: lunatics were unpredictable, and an unpredictable man could be dangerous.

  ‘Oh-kay, let’s get this ship under way,’ ordered Gardner. ‘All hands to the capstan bars! Weigh anchor!’

  ‘Pilcher!’ Forgan indicated the bodies of the three men Sharky had slain. ‘I want those bodies in shrouds by dawn, and this deck scrubbed clean, d’you hear? We’ll give them a decent burial ashore when we get to Thorpetown the day after tomorrow. I don’t want them providing vittles for the sharks.’

  * * *

  There was no sign of the Lucy Ann by the time the Vanguard reached Judgement Point shortly before four bells in the middle watch. Cavan went ashore in the jolly boat with Ågård and three seamen to see if there was any trace that Killigrew and Molineaux had been there. What they found was five corpses.

  ‘Anyone we know?’ Strachan asked Cavan when the shore party came back on board the Vanguard.

  Cavan shook his head. ‘They must’ve been members of the Lucy Ann’s crew.’

  ‘Are you certain? They might have been incorrigibles.’

  ‘No, Mr Strachan. I checked their wrists and ankles: no sign of the chafing one would associate with men who’ve been in irons for the past few years.’

  ‘What about Killigrew and Strachan?’

  ‘I have to assume they’re alive, but prisoners on board the Lucy Ann.’

  ‘You seem pretty sure of yourself.’

  Cavan smiled wanly. ‘If they’re dead, why aren’t their bodies here with the others? If they’re still alive, why aren’t they waiting for us here?’

  ‘Maybe they couldn’t stay here, sir,’ suggested Ågård. ‘Maybe they was being chased by Quested and his men. Mr Killigrew’s hell on wheels when he’s got his dander up, and Wes Molineaux’s a ringer in a scrap; but even they couldn’t beat all of Quested’s crew plus the seven incorrigibles.’

  ‘If Killigrew and Molineaux are headed back to Port Resolution with Quested on their trail, then they’re on foot. In that case, where’s the Lucy Ann?’

  ‘Think about it, sir. They must’ve known the Vanguard was coming here. If you were a spouter skipper with escaped convicts and kidnapped natives on your ship, would you wait around for a schooner with two dozen bluejackets and marines on board to turn up? Besides, if Quested’s ashore and after Molineaux and the lieutenant, he’s got a pretty good notion of where they’re headed. What would you do in Quested’s shoes?’

  Cavan nodded. ‘Send the Lucy Ann to try to head them off at Port Resolution, or at least to pick him up when he gets there. We didn’t pass them on the way here; if the Lucy Ann is on her way to Resolution, she’s sailing around the northern end of the island. We’ll sail after them: with the wind coming from the south-east, we’ll get back quicker that way; and there’s a chance we might overhaul the Lucy Ann on the east coast. She’ll be tacking against the wind, and a square-rigged ship like the Lucy Ann can’t sail as close to the wind as a schooner.’

  ‘And if you’re wrong?’ asked Strachan. ‘If Killigrew and Molineaux are already prisoners on board the Lucy Ann? Every minute we waste sailing back to Resolution, they’ll be getting further and further away from this island.’

  ‘If that’s the case, Mr Strachan, then God help them; for there’ll be nothing more we can do for them. We’ve no notion where they might be bound. If we get back to Resolution and they’re not there, we’ll just have to sail to Thorpetown and report to the Old Man on board the Tisiphone.’

  * * *

  With only eleven men left in the Lucy Ann’s crew, everyone was busy on deck, and it was not long before Molineaux had the opportunity to slip down the forward hatch into the forecastle. Apart from Cusack, who was still as sick as a dog in his cabin, the rest of the incorrigibles were topsides, holystoning the deck in an effort to remove the traces of blood from the three men Sharky had killed the previous night. There was no one to challenge Molineaux as he made his way down to the orlop deck.

  He helped himself to a lantern, and a couple of needles from the sailmaker’s stores, and after glancing left and right he crouched before the lock on the door of the lazaretto. It took him about two minutes to open, a testament to the poor quality of the mechanism as much as it was to Molineaux’s skill. He opened the door, slipped inside and closed it behind him.

  Killigrew sat on the deck w
ith his back to the bulkhead, with his ankles fettered and his hands manacled behind his back. If anything, his bruises looked even worse than they had done the night before. Molineaux squatted on his haunches to address him. ‘You oh-kay, sir?’

  ‘Oh, nothing a glass of Dr James’ Powders wouldn’t cure.’ The lieutenant tried to sound airy, but his rasping voice belied him. Still, at least he had the strength to make light of his injuries. ‘Did you have to kick me quite so forcefully?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Had to make it look good, to convince Quested.’

  ‘Convince Quested! You had me convinced; until you started going on about me having you thrown in the lazaretto on six-upon-four. Where are we?’

  ‘You tell me, sir. It’s coming up to seven bells, and according to the log board we’ve averaged four and a half knots since we sailed from Judgement Point.’

  ‘What heading?’

  ‘North by north-west.’

  Killigrew frowned. ‘You’re quite certain? The only islands in that direction are Erromanga and Éfaté. I can’t see why Quested should want to head for either of those.’

  ‘I can, sir. I’ve just been speaking to the cook. Lucky for us he’s got a big mouth. Guess who owns this ship.’

  ‘Not… Thorpe?’

  ‘Got it in one. It was Quested who was behind the kidnappings two years ago and Thorpe took his cut of the profits.’

  ‘That explains how Quested knew where to find me.’

  ‘That’s not all I found out. Foxy told me one of the incorrigibles is already dead.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Swaddy Blake. He fell asleep when he was supposed to be on look-out, and Wyatt lost his temper with him.’

  ‘That’s one less to worry about, at any rate.’

  ‘And Mrs Cafferty ain’t on board this ship any more. She’s on board the Wanderer.’

  ‘At least she’s still alive, then.’ The relief was evident on Killigrew’s face. ‘If we can rescue her, she can prove there’s a connection between Thorpe and Quested.’