Killigrew and the Incorrigibles

by Jonathan Lunn

  Killigrew gave up trying to tear or wear away his bonds: he was just chafing the flesh on his wrists. ‘Hey!’ he whispered. ‘Molineaux!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You know your friend Lissak escaped from the prison hulk in Gallions’ Reach before he was transported to the colonies?’

  ‘Yur?’

  ‘And from Port Arthur. Twice.’

  ‘Yur.’

  ‘And now from Norfolk Island.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You know you said he taught you everything he knew…?’

  ‘Forget it, sir. If we was on a prison hulk, or at Port Arthur, or on Norfolk Island, I might be able to come up with a notion or two. But my education never got as far as how to escape from being tied upside down at a cannibal feast. I don’t suppose you’ve got any ideas?’

  ‘I’m applying myself to the problem in hand, yes.’

  ‘Well, if you’re going to come up with a plan, you’d better do it pronto,’ warned Molineaux. ‘Any moment now they’re going to haul out a big old iron cooking pot and give us the hottest bath we’ve ever known.’

  ‘These people belong to a stone-age culture, Molineaux. They don’t have the skills for metal working.’

  ‘No cooking pots?’

  ‘No. They’ll probably just burn us alive.’

  ‘Plummy,’ sighed Molineaux. ‘Funnily enough, Foxy once told me a story about a missionary who got captured by cannibals. The chief of the cannibals told him they couldn’t make up their minds whether to fry him or boil him, so they wanted him to say one thing: if it was true, they would boil him, and if it was a lie they would fry him. So he said: “You are going to fry me”.’

  ‘So?’ asked Killigrew.

  ‘So they couldn’t do either,’ Molineaux explained patiently. ‘If they’d fried him, what he said would have been truth, so they’d’ve had to have boiled him; but then what he’d said would’ve been a lie, so they’d’ve had to fry him.’

  ‘So they let him go?’

  ‘No, they roasted him instead, for being a clever Dick.’

  ‘If that’s your notion of trying to keep our spirits up, I can’t say I think much of it.’

  The younger children were having an argument. One boy, perhaps six years of age, was crying. As far as Killigrew could work out, the children were playing ‘Warriors and White Men’, and the boy had been told he would have to be one of the white men. He walked away from the game, and the others were happy to let him go. They returned to their game without him, and he wandered over to stare curiously at the captives, picking his nose.

  Killigrew glanced towards the guard and saw that he was sleeping, presumably overwhelmed by an overgenerous draught of kava. ‘Hullo there, young shaver,’ Killigrew whispered to the boy. ‘Can you understand me?’

  From the blank expression on the boy’s face, there was no indication that he could, but Killigrew pressed on anyway. ‘Cut us down and we’ll give you some sweets. Would you like that? Of course you would. All boys like sweets.’

  The boy took his tiny penis in both hands and piddled in Killigrew’s face until his mother came along and chased him away, scolding.

  Molineaux laughed. ‘Prob’ly telling him not to widdle on his dinner, sir.’

  ‘Bunch of savages in this town,’ muttered Killigrew.

  The drums fell silent, and the dancers ran into the bushes on either side. Kowiowi rose to his feet and spread his arms wide. ‘Eranu!’

  ‘Uvavu!’ the other Erromangoans responded with one voice.

  Kowiowi indicated Moltata. ‘Klaatu barada nikto!’

  Four of his warriors ran forward and hoisted Moltata to his feet. The chief went passively, but behind him his son struggled furiously – futilely – against his chains as his father was dragged towards the largest bonfire. Everyone’s eyes were on Moltata and his captors.

  Except Killigrew’s. He caught sight of a movement out of the corner of his eye, and saw that Molineaux had got his hands free. Now the seaman started to work on the creeper that bound his legs. Working before him now instead of fumbling behind his back, it was much easier.

  But Moltata was only a few feet from the fire.

  ‘Abo abome!’ One of the guards had seen that Molineaux had got his hands free and was trying to free his legs. He ran across the dance ground, hefting a spear.

  Molineaux got his legs free and, gripping the wooden tripod, lowered his feet to the ground. He rolled out of the way of the spear-thrust and snatched up one of the legs of the tripod. Pulling it free of the creeper which tied it to the other poles, he used it to parry the native’s next spear-thrust, then slipped it between the native’s ankles and tripped him up. The warrior landed on his back and Molineaux was on him in an instant, the two of them struggling for possession of the spear.

  Killigrew was not sure if the seaman actually had a plan, or was just determined to take as many of them with him as possible before he died. He watched helplessly as more warriors ran across to aid Molineaux’s opponent.

  Molineaux managed to get a knee into the man’s poorly protected groin, and forced the spear down against his throat, throttling him. The other natives were standing around him now, belabouring him across the back with their clubs; the only thing that stopped him from being beaten to a bloody pulp was the fact that there were too many of them crowded around him, all trying to get a blow in and only getting in one another’s way.

  Molineaux pulled the spear from the lifeless fingers of the native below him, and thrust the point into a thigh. The wounded native went down with a scream, but then a blow landed on the back of Molineaux’s head and he slumped. Seeing him at their mercy, the natives backed off a little, and as he rolled on to his back in a daze, one of them aimed a spear thrust at his heart.

  ‘Abo!’

  The warrior froze. The warning had come from Kowiowi. He waddled across to where the warrior stood and took the spear from him. He clearly wanted to kill Molineaux for himself.

  Get up! Every nerve of Killigrew’s fibre tried to will the seaman on to his feet, but Molineaux still lay in a daze, like an upturned turtle.

  Kowiowi drew back the spear.

  At that moment the bonfire flared up with a roar, throwing flames almost as high as the tops of the trees surrounding the dance ground. Smoke billowed, and a hideous, half-human creature came flying through the smoke and flames holding a gourd in one hand and a burning flambeau in the other.

  The warriors surrounding Molineaux turned to stare at it; the seaman had a perfect opportunity to grab a spear from one of them, except that he too was staring in horror at the grotesque apparition. It was vaguely human in shape, but it lurched about like something out of a nightmare, its skin a ghastly pale grey, its face a demonic mask. Hideous, guttural sounds issued threateningly from the hole where its mouth was.

  One of the warriors plucked up enough courage to run at the demon, swinging a club. Before he got close, Killigrew heard something which might have been a rifle shot, and the native was thrown down with a small hole in his forehead, the back of his skull missing. The demon raised the gourd to its lips, then passed the flambeau in front of its face and breathed fire at the natives.

  Screaming, they dropped their weapons and turned and fled, disappearing into the bush.

  Molineaux remained transfixed to the spot as the demon performed some kind of victory dance, cavorting about, turning its back in the direction in which the Erromangoans had run, bending over and waggling its buttocks in an unmistakable gesture of contempt.

  ‘You all right, Moltata?’ asked a voice. Killigrew twisted to see a second apparition emerge from the trees carrying a rifle: a tall, rangy figure with a bronzed face and sun-bleached hair beneath a pilot cap, he was either a rumpled thirty or a fit-looking forty; it was impossible to be sure. He embraced Moltata.

  ‘Ale, old-feller Jimmy!’ exclaimed the yeremanu. ‘I good now! You no makas.’

  The white man turned to Molineaux. ‘What name b’long you?’<
br />
  The seaman shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  The white man’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Strewth! This feller speaks better English than I do!’ His eyes took in the filthy, ragged remains of Molineaux’s pusser’s slops, and he shifted the cigar-stub he was chewing from one corner of his mouth to the other. ‘You Royal Navy?’

  ‘Able Seaman Wes Molineaux, at your service… and very, very grateful.’

  The white man nodded as if to say that thanks were worse than unnecessary, it was a waste of precious time. He crossed to where Killigrew and the rest of the captives still dangled. Pulling a bush-knife from a sheath on his belt, he cut the Tannese down one by one, working his way along to Killigrew. When he got to the lieutenant, instead of cutting him down, he turned away and then bent double, so that he was facing him upside down from between his legs.

  ‘G’day! You look like you’re in a fix.’

  ‘Yes. I’d be much obliged if you could cut me down.’

  ‘I’ll bet you would. If I help you escape, you ain’t going to come back here with a navy sloop to bombard the place, are you?’

  ‘I have neither the time, the inclination, nor the authority, I assure you.’

  ‘Good.’ Without a word of warning, the white man straightened and with a single blow of his bush-knife sliced through the creepers suspending Killigrew. The lieutenant landed painfully on his head and sprawled on the ground. He picked himself up, dusted himself down, and found himself facing the stranger once more.

  ‘Jimmy Paddon,’ he introduced himself, and jerked his head at the ‘demon’, who pulled off his carved wooden mask to reveal a human face beneath. ‘I believe you’ve already met Sharky.’

  Chapter 22

  Out Of The Frying Pan…

  ‘Shall we get moving?’ suggested Paddon. ‘The Erromanga men may be superstitious, but they ain’t stupid, and they sure as hell ain’t cowards. Won’t be long before they start wondering if that really was a demon that interrupted their supper, and start creeping back to check.’

  Sharky led the way out of the clearing and the others followed at a jog trot through the bush. ‘I thought you said Quested shot Sharky last night?’ Killigrew hissed at Molineaux as they hurried along behind Paddon.

  ‘He did,’ insisted the seaman.

  ‘Well, he looks remarkably agile for a man in his condition,’ snorted Killigrew. It was obvious the seaman had seen some other albino get shot on board the Lucy Ann the previous night. Still, it was unlike Molineaux to make a mistake: perhaps Sharky had only pretended that Quested’s bullet had hit him, and Molineaux had been fooled along with everyone else on deck.

  Killigrew dismissed the matter from his mind: he had more pressing things to worry about. He speeded up until he was level with Paddon. ‘Is that your cutter I saw anchored in the next bay?’

  ‘The Rover’s Bride? Yeah.’

  ‘I’m indebted to you, Captain Paddon. It’s fortunate for us you came by when you did.’

  ‘Luck had nothing to do with it, mate. Sharky told me you’d been captured by that bastard Quested. When I heard the tam-tams tonight, I realised that you must’ve wound up in Kowiowi’s larder.’

  The more Killigrew tried to get an explanation out of Paddon, the more questions the trader’s answers raised, so he gave up and they hurried on in silence. Sharky led the way through the trees and undergrowth as if it were broad daylight, and his pale body was easy to follow from the occasional splashes of moonlight which dropped through the leaves above.

  The jungle was alive with strange sounds all around them. ‘Those bird calls…’ Killigrew began tentatively.

  ‘Ain’t made by birds,’ confirmed Paddon. ‘We’d best keep moving. Sounds like Kowiowi’s people have rallied.’

  Killigrew was relieved when they emerged on to a beach after a mile or two. A jolly boat was drawn up on the sand, and in the light of the crescent moon Killigrew could see a small but handsome sailing cutter rode at anchor out in the bay beyond.

  ‘Thank Christ!’ muttered Paddon. ‘She’s still here. I had to take a big risk leaving her out there, but it was either that or let you fourteen wind up as cannibal turds.’

  ‘Is there room for all of us in that boat?’ Molineaux asked dubiously.

  Before Paddon could reply, Sharky ran down to the water and splashed out through the surf until the water was deep enough for him to dive into it and swim out in the direction of the cutter. ‘I guess there is now,’ said Paddon.

  ‘Isn’t he afraid of sharks?’ asked Killigrew.

  Paddon laughed. ‘Sharky? Afraid of sharks? That’s a good one!’ As they were carrying the jolly boat back to the water, they heard war-whoops from the trees behind them. A spear came whistling out of the undergrowth to bury itself in the sand close to Moltata’s feet.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you they’d be back?’ Paddon left the others to carry the boat, stepping aside and drawing a brace of revolvers from his belt. He fired a dozen shots in quick succession in the direction of the trees. The war whoops were silenced at once. ‘That should discourage them long enough for us to get clear.’

  ‘Aiming kind of high, weren’t you?’ asked Molineaux.

  ‘Apart from the fact I had no chance of hitting them anyhow, I don’t bear them any particular ill will. It ain’t their fault they’re cannibals; they just don’t know any better. The Tanna and Aneiteium men were cannibals too, once, not so long ago. If they can be civilised, so can the Erromanga men. Just so long as they ain’t civilised too much: I kind of like them the way they are. The only reason it’s taking longer for the Erromanga men to accept white men as their friends is because so far their contact with us ain’t endeared us to them. And fellers like Quested ain’t exactly a good influence on them. He’s the real savage in these islands.’

  ‘I wouldn’t argue with that,’ Killigrew said with some feeling. They rowed out to the Rover’s Bride and found Sharky waiting for them, plucking on a jew’s-harp. Molineaux stared at the nakaimo’s midriff, and following his gaze Killigrew saw a small, star-shaped scar there. Molineaux gave Killigrew a significant look, as if to say: I told you so. But the scar was obviously an old one, and given the profusion of cicatrices and tattoos that decorated Sharky’s body, it was hardly surprising neither of them had noticed it before.

  ‘How did you get here, Sharky?’ Killigrew asked him.

  The nakaimo took his jew’s-harp from his mouth, and grinned, showing his pointed teeth in the moonlight. ‘Me swim.’

  ‘Thirty-odd miles?’

  ‘Me swim good.’ Sharky thrust the jew’s-harp back in his mouth and started playing ‘Oh, Susannah!’ again.

  Killigrew sighed. The nakaimo must have taken a canoe from a village on the north coast of the island. The natives of the New Hebrides often travelled between the islands in their outrigger canoes; many of them had sails for that very purpose. Sailing from Tanna to Erromanga, he would have had the wind behind him… yes, it was perfectly possible. All the talk about swimming across: another trick of his, a pathetic yet endearing attempt to convince Killigrew he had magic powers.

  ‘Sharky and Quested are old sparring partners,’ explained Paddon, unfurling the cutter’s fore-and-aft sails. ‘Quested’s left hand? Got it bit off by a great white off Tanna two years ago. He’s convinced that was Sharky’s doing.’

  ‘He’s quite mad, isn’t he?’ said Killigrew.

  ‘Which one?’ asked Paddon, hauling up the anchor. ‘Quested? Or Sharky?’

  ‘Both,’ Killigrew said heavily. ‘Does Sharky get the blame for every shark attack in these islands?’

  ‘No.’ His teeth showing whitely in the moonlight as he grinned, Paddon took the helm. ‘But he claims responsibility for quite a few.’ Realising the stub of the cigar he had been chewing had gone out, he took it from his mouth, glanced at it, and tossed it over the side. He reached into the breast pocket of his shirt and dug out another cigar stub; as far as Killigrew could tell, that one had already been smo
ked down to a length not much longer than the one he had just discarded.

  Steering out of the bay, Paddon glanced astern, but the sea behind them was empty. ‘They’re not coming after us in their canoes. Looks like we made it; this time. Where to, Killigrew? Port Resolution?’

  ‘Thorpetown.’

  ‘Thorpetown’s eighty miles in the wrong direction. Any particular reason why you want to go there?’

  ‘That’s where Quested’s headed with the Lucy Ann.’

  Paddon nodded thoughtfully. ‘He exchanged you fellers for sandalwood logs, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s more or less the long and the short of it. You knew it was going on?’

  ‘I’d suspected. I’m a sandalwood trader too, but I’m not a monster like Quested. It’s buggers like him get the rest of us a bad name. What say you, Moltata? You wantem go long Éfaté, catchem Quested?’

  ‘Ale!’ growled the yeremanu, and his warriors nodded their assent. ‘Oa!’

  Paddon grinned at Killigrew. ‘Looks like we’re going to Thorpetown, then. You two look like you could do with a drink,’ he added to Killigrew and Molineaux.

  The two Britons exchanged glances. ‘Don’t mind if we do,’ said Killigrew.

  ‘Take the wheel, Sharky.’

  ‘Ale!’ The nakaimo took the helm from Paddon.

  ‘You trust him at the wheel?’ Killigrew asked as he and Molineaux followed Paddon down the booby hatch to the cabin below.

  ‘Listen, mate, I ain’t a married man, but if I were you’d be welcome to share my wife’s bed for the night in return for a good cigar. But the Rover’s Bride? That’s a horse of another colour. And that’s how much I trust Sharky. Can’t say I know any white fellers I trust that much.’

  The cabin was in sore need of the attentions of a housekeeper: charts and dirty crockery with cigar-butts stubbed out in the leftovers were jumbled on the small table, and potted orchids took up much of the rest of the available space. Paddon found a half-empty bottle of whisky, and three dirty mugs. He poured them each a generous measure and passed out the mugs.