Killigrew and the Incorrigibles

by Jonathan Lunn

  Forgan looked up. ‘Put the gun down, you old fool, or I’ll kill your pal here!’

  ‘But you were going to do that anyhow!’

  Molineaux saw Lissak’s finger whiten where it gripped the trigger. ‘No!’ he screamed.

  Lissak fired. The window behind Forgan’s head shattered, and the mate laughed. ‘You missed!’

  ‘I won’t.’ Molineaux butted Forgan on the bridge of the nose, broke free, and did a backwards roll off the carriage to come down on the far side of the machinery. Forgan tried to grab him, but Molineaux caught him by the collar and dragged him across the carriage. With his free hand, he looped the still-hanging rope around Forgan’s neck and tied it down.

  ‘No!’ screamed Forgan.

  ‘Adios amigo!’ Molineaux gave the carriage a kick and sent it shooting along the rails to the blade. Blood fountained against the ceiling and Forgan dropped to the floor on either side of the machinery. Lissak winced.

  ‘Are you oh-kay?’ Molineaux asked him. ‘Let me look at your fam.’

  ‘My fam’s plummy,’ Lissak snapped pettishly, wrapping his handkerchief over his cut fingers. ‘Why didn’t you want me to shoot him?’

  Ponderous footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs leading up to the mill. The door opened and the Lawless Twins entered, drawn back to the mill by the sound of the shot.

  ‘That’s why,’ Molineaux said grimly.

  * * *

  ‘That is a nice shirt,’ acknowledged Killigrew.

  On the platform above the try-pots, Jarrett glanced up to where the lieutenant hung. ‘Irish linen,’ he said absently.

  ‘Let’s see now,’ mused Killigrew. ‘It can’t be convict-issue, and somehow I doubt you found it amongst the pusser’s slops on the Lucy Ann. Steal it from Cusack, did you? I expect Fallon arranged for some clothes to be brought on board the Lucy Ann for him.’

  ‘If I were you,’ said Wyatt, ‘I’d be talking about how you got here from Erromanga. As soon as Quested gets back, we’re going to start lowering you by inches into that blubber.’ He opened the door to the furnace and scooped some fritters in to keep the fire roaring.

  ‘Fortunate for you that the style is for loose-fitting shirts these days,’ Killigrew continued, ignoring Wyatt. ‘Cusack’s a bigger man than you, Jarrett. But then, he’s a gentleman. An aristocrat, even. Born on the right side of the blanket.’

  ‘You’re not getting to me, Killigrew,’ sneered Jarrett.

  ‘My shirt’s tailor-made,’ said the lieutenant. ‘On Jermyn Street.’

  Something snapped inside Jarrett. He lunged for Killigrew, but the lieutenant braced his feet against the rail of the platform and pushed himself beyond the reach of Jarrett’s grasping hands. The swindler almost overbalanced and caught himself on the rail. Killigrew swung back and kicked him in the chest with both feet. Jarrett was thrown back against the rail behind him. Killigrew locked his ankles behind the swindler’s head, and as he swung back over the try-pots once more he dragged Jarrett after him. Jarrett toppled over the rail and landed head-first in the try-pot without so much as a scream.

  Boiling blubber splashed into the shallow cistern of water, narrowly missing Wyatt. He glanced up and saw Jarrett’s legs sticking out of the pot. With a snarl, he snatched up a flensing knife and charged towards the stairs leading to the platform.

  Killigrew managed to get his feet on the handrail. He teetered for a moment, struggling to get his balance. He leaped from the edge of the rail moments before Wyatt ran him through with the flensing knife, and swung across to the half-loft. He managed to hook his ankles over the edge of the loft and hung there for a moment, trying to get his centre of balance above his feet.

  Wyatt threw the flensing knife like a spear. It whistled across the try-works, and missed Killigrew by inches to bury itself in the far wall. Wyatt snatched up the bomb-gun and took aim. Killigrew was helpless, hanging almost horizontal with his ankles on the half-loft and his bound hands still looped over the hook at the end of the pulley. At that range Wyatt could not miss.

  He pulled the trigger. The hammer fell with a snap.

  The percussion cap failed to go off. With a grimace of annoyance, Wyatt recocked the weapon, took aim again, and pulled the trigger. Again the hammer fell with nothing more than a snap.

  Pulling himself up against the pulley, jerking his whole body, Killigrew managed to get upright. He teetered, and for a moment he thought he was going to fall back into his earlier, helpless position, but he managed to steady himself.

  Wyatt threw the bomb-gun down to the platform and ran back down the steps, heading across the floor of the try-works to the ladder that led up to the half-loft.

  Killigrew unhooked his bound wrists from the pulley, letting the chain swing back across until it hung over the try-pots once more, and crossed to where the flensing knife was embedded in the wall. As he used the two-foot blade to saw at the cord binding his wrists, Wyatt hauled himself up the ladder to the half-loft.

  The cord snapped. Killigrew pulled the flensing knife from the wall and turned as Wyatt charged at him. The lieutenant jabbed the weapon at his face, holding him at bay until Wyatt slipped his guard and managed to grab the shaft of the flensing knife. The two of them grappled, chest-to-chest. Wyatt slammed Killigrew back against the wall behind him, pressing the shaft of the flensing knife against the lieutenant’s throat. Killigrew choked and felt himself blacking out as he struggled for breath. As his vision faded into a red mist, the last thing he saw was Wyatt’s face grinning demonically.

  * * *

  ‘Don’t worry, Wes,’ Lissak told his young protégé. ‘The bigger they are, the harder they fall.’

  The two of them backed across the sawmill as the Lawless Twins advanced on them.

  ‘Oh yur?’ Molineaux snatched the rifle from Lissak. ‘I seem to recall you always teaching me, “The bigger they are, the harder they hit you back”.’

  The Lawless Twins saw Molineaux trying to reload the rifle and charged. Lissak snatched a plank of sandalwood from a stack of timber and smashed it over Magog’s head with such force that it snapped in two. Realising he did not have time to reload, Molineaux swung the stock of the rifle at Gog’s head. The stock broke off, leaving the seaman clutching the breech and the barrel.

  Now it was Gog and Magog’s turn.

  Gog picked up Lissak, raised him effortlessly above his head, and threw him against the wall. A section of the flimsy weatherboarding fell away, carrying Lissak with it, and the old lag dropped out of sight beneath the level of the floor.

  Magog closed one of his huge hands over what was left of the rifle Molineaux held and snatched it from his grip. He bent the barrel into a U-shape and tossed it aside. Gog grabbed Molineaux by the shoulder and thrust him across the sawmill so that his head banged against the copper casing of the steam-engine’s boiler.

  His head throbbing, Molineaux sank to the sawdust-strewn floor feeling nauseous. It seemed to him that the sawmill was shaking. He looked up and saw the twins charging towards him. Molineaux scooped up a fistful of sawdust and dashed it in Magog’s face. As the giant turned away, trying to rub the dust from his streaming eyes, Molineaux picked up two more pieces of timber and whacked them together on either side of Gog’s head. Apparently unhurt, Gog grabbed a fistful of Molineaux’s guernsey and lifted him up, tossing him back across the stack of timber behind him. The stack collapsed and Molineaux was thrown sideways across the floor in an avalanche of timber. He glanced across the room and saw Forgan’s musket propped up in one corner, presumably still loaded. If only he could get to it, he could at least take care of one of the twins; then he might stand a chance of beating the other…

  Magog stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the rifle. Molineaux rammed a piece of timber into the giant’s crotch, with no discernible effect. Then Gog caught him by the scruff of the neck and hauled him on to his feet. He locked Molineaux in a full nelson, holding him fast while Magog rained blow after agonising blow into the seaman’s st
omach.

  Molineaux’s insides felt as if they had been pulped to liquid, but at last Magog paused for breath. Sobbing, Molineaux raised his head and found himself staring into the giant’s hate-filled eyes.

  ‘Give it to him, Magog!’ said Gog. ‘In the face!’

  Magog drew back his fist, aiming a blow at Molineaux’s head. The seaman jerked his head aside at the last moment, and Magog’s fist crashed into his brother’s nose. As Gog staggered back, Molineaux wriggled free of his grasp, but before he took two steps Magog caught him by the shoulder, spun him around, and punched him on the jaw.

  Molineaux was thrown into the corner. Half-dead with the pain, he fumbled for the musket and levelled it at Gog and Magog as they advanced.

  They stopped, backed up, and then moved apart, forcing him to swing the muzzle from one to the other and back again to keep them both covered. Gog grinned. ‘One shot.’

  Molineaux braced the stock of the musket against his shoulder and took careful aim. ‘One is all I need.’ He fired.

  The bullet passed between Gog and Magog without touching either.

  * * *

  The pistol Utumate had taken from Underwood was tiny, but the muzzle looked huge as Mrs Cafferty stared into its stygian depths. Thorpe turned away; he might be able to order people to be killed, but he did not have the stomach to watch, let alone do his dirty work himself.

  Utumate’s finger tightened on the trigger. The sound of the shot was deafening. Mrs Cafferty gave a sob as blood flew in all directions. Her blood, she thought, and if she felt no pain it was because she was dead, she knew…

  Except that she was not.

  She looked at Utumate. His face had been turned to a mask of blood and mangled flesh by the blast of a shotgun at close range.

  Thorpe turned and stared. ‘Paddon!’ he spat, in shock and hatred.

  Mrs Cafferty twisted. A tall, lean man stood there with a shotgun in his hands, smoke curling from one of the barrels. Behind him stood a couple of dark-skinned natives, one armed with a harpoon, the other with a boat hook.

  ‘Surprised to see me, Thorpe?’ asked Paddon. ‘Surely you didn’t think you could go murdering natives all over these islands and putting the blame on me, without having to answer to me for it, did you? I’ve got bad news for you, fat man: it ends here.’

  Paddon looked as though he was going to shoot Thorpe in cold blood – and Mrs Cafferty would not have condemned him if he had – but at that moment one of the natives with Paddon cried out a warning. ‘Look out, Cap’n Jimmy!’

  One of the Lucy Ann’s harpooners, Noah Pilcher, had appeared on top of the stack of barrels to one side of them, a musket levelled at Paddon. The trader fired first, and Pilcher dropped out of sight behind the barrels without so much as a cry.

  Thorpe turned and ran. Paddon swore, and broke open his shotgun, loading both barrels with a couple of cartridges that he took from his pockets. ‘I head him off, Cap’n Jimmy!’ said the elder of the two natives. Hefting his harpoon, he ducked down the alley behind the try-works.

  ‘Leave a piece of him for me, Moltata!’ Paddon called after him.

  Mrs Cafferty snatched the pistol from Utumate’s dead fingers and turned it on Paddon. He glanced at her with amusement. ‘You must be Mrs Cafferty?’

  ‘And you are…?’

  Before he could reply, a couple of shots sounded across the wharf, and the other native clapped a hand to his stomach and fell. Armed with muskets and pistols, the crew of the Acushnet charged towards them. Paddon picked off two with his shotgun, and then he and Mrs Cafferty ducked down behind the barrels. ‘This ain’t the time or the place for formal introductions, lady!’ he hissed, struggling to reload his shotgun. ‘Let’s just say I’m a friend of Killigrew’s.’

  Before he could snap the breech closed, two white-uniformed sailors from the Wanderer – Owens and Appleby, the two men who had found Mrs Cafferty on the Isle of Pines – stepped around the barrels and covered them with muskets. Before they could fire, two more muscular natives materialised from the shadows behind them and dropped empty barrels over their heads, before picking up their muskets and using them to bring down two more of the charging spouters from the Acushnet. Paddon snapped his shotgun shut, stood up, and killed another two men. Suddenly there were nearly a dozen natives with Paddon. Realising it was time to rethink their strategy, the spouters started to withdraw to their ship.

  ‘These bastards don’t care for it so much when the natives start to fight back,’ Paddon chuckled to himself, reloading his shotgun. ‘Guevu, see if you and a couple of your lads can’t work your way round that stack of barrels and retrieve those muskets they dropped. We’ll try to keep their heads down,’ he added, indicating the two natives who had helped themselves to Owens and Appleby’s guns.

  Guevu nodded and spoke urgently to two of the other natives before the three of them dashed out of sight.

  ‘Where’re Killigrew and Molineaux, ma’am?’ asked Paddon.

  ‘Molineaux’s in the sawmill. Mr Lissak went to help him…’

  A crash sounded from the sawmill. A section of weatherboarding fell away from the side, Lissak on top of it. Sprawled across the board, he slid down the planks that formed a makeshift ramp at the far end and lay still at the bottom.

  ‘Butu!’ Paddon called to one of the natives. ‘You go helpim Molineaux!’

  ‘Ale!’ Butu started to sprint across the wharf, but before he reached the cover of the stacks of wood in front of the sawmill, a shot from the Lucy Ann took him between the shoulder blades and laid him low.

  ‘Sonuvabitch!’ Paddon whirled and shot the man who had killed the native. He shot another of the men on the Lucy Ann for good measure before ducking down behind the barrels next to Mrs Cafferty. He started to reload his shotgun once again; his pockets, which had bulged not long before, were starting to look decidedly limp. ‘Looks like Molineaux’s going to have to take care of himself for now. Still, he struck me as the kind of feller that knows how to handle himself in a scrap.’

  Mrs Cafferty was not convinced. ‘I saw Gog and Magog go in there a little while ago,’ she said dubiously.

  Paddon pursed his lips for a moment, and then snapped his shotgun shut. ‘My money’s on Molineaux. Where’s Killigrew?’

  ‘In the try-works.’ She remembered that Quested had gone to kill him; and that she still had a pistol in her hand. ‘I’m going to get him!’ she told Paddon, and broke cover before the trader could argue.

  ‘You crazy shaler!’ Paddon shouted after her as she sprinted across the wharf with bullets flying all around her. ‘Are you trying to get yourself killed? Come back here!’

  * * *

  Even as the bullet left the musket, Molineaux threw himself sideways, behind a stack of timber. He did not wait to see if his bullet had hit its target because he did not want to die. His ears told him everything he needed to know: a deafening clang as the bullet punctured the copper casing of the boiler, the brief hiss of steam escaping under pressure, and the godawful shriek of metal tearing as the casing of the boiler ruptured, hurling jagged shards of metal in all directions. He threw himself against the door and fell down the stairs on the outside as steam filled the sawmill. Red-hot pieces of metal riddled the wooden walls and rained down on all sides. Steam billowed from the opening at the far end of the building. The explosion had shaken the sawmill to its stilts, and the whole construction looked ready to fall down under the weight of the heavy machinery within.

  Some kind of gunfight seemed to be taking place on the wharf, and Molineaux could see Paddon and the Tannese amongst the barrels stacked there, exchanging shots with the men on the two ships moored on either side of the jetty. Molineaux hoped they had the situation well in hand, because after his encounter with the Lawless Twins he did not feel up to being able to help. He crawled across to where Lissak lay, fearing his old mentor might be dead. But Lissak was only stunned. Molineaux patted him gently on the cheek until he started to show signs of life.

 
‘You oh-kay?’ the seaman asked him.

  ‘Just plummy, thanks,’ Lissak retorted sourly. ‘What happened to the Lawless Twins?’

  Molineaux grinned. ‘They got all steamed up,’ he could not resist saying.

  ‘You sure they’ve croaked?’

  Before the seaman could reply, the stilts on which the sawmill stood gave a creaking groan. The whole building started to move, the stilts giving way, the walls and roof falling in with a crash when the structure hit the ground. A cloud of dust filled the air.

  Molineaux patted Lissak on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure.’

  * * *

  As Wyatt throttled Killigrew with the shaft of the flensing knife, the lieutenant tried to knee him in the crotch. Wyatt merely twisted and caught the blow on his thigh.

  He grinned. ‘Think you can beat me like that, pretty boy? While you were learning which fork to use, I was learning how to stay alive on the back streets of London.’ He tried to butt Killigrew on the bridge of the nose, but the lieutenant saw it coming and brought his own head forwards to meet it. It stopped the blow from gathering its full momentum, and Wyatt’s forehead struck him on the brow rather than the bridge of the nose, but lights exploded in Killigrew’s head and he felt sticky blood trickle down his face from a cut eyebrow.

  He rammed a heel down against Wyatt’s instep. Wyatt instinctively lifted the foot up with a yelp, throwing himself off balance, and Killigrew pushed him away. Wyatt managed to tear the flensing knife from the lieutenant’s grip, however, and thrust it at his stomach.

  Killigrew leaped from the half-loft and hit the floor below, rolling over. By the time he rose, Wyatt had jumped down after him and thrust at him with the flensing knife once more. Killigrew backed up and stumbled when his ankles tripped over the low stone wall surrounding the cistern in which the try-pots stood. He landed on his back in the shallow pool of water, and Wyatt tried to bring the blade into his stomach. Killigrew rolled clear, and kicked Wyatt’s legs out from beneath him. The incorrigible lost his grip on the flensing knife as he went down.