Killigrew’s Run

by Jonathan Lunn

Kizheh held out his hand to Killigrew. ‘Your sword, Commander.’

  ‘But I’ve given my parole—’

  The lieutenant drew a percussion pistol from the holster at his hip, pulled back the hammer and levelled it at Killigrew.

  Scowling, he drew his sword and handed it to Kizheh, hilt first. ‘I shall protest about this in no uncertain terms to General Ramsay.’

  ‘The matter is out of General Ramsay’s hands.’

  The other gendarme got the door open, and Kizheh gestured with the pistol. Killigrew started to climb inside, and then hesitated. The interior was bare, apart from straw strewn across the boards. Charlton and Dahlstedt were already inside, the latter lying on his back, his face badly battered.

  Killigrew started to turn to protest to Kizheh, but the other gendarme gave him a shove in the small of the back so that he fell inside. The door was promptly slammed behind him and padlocked.

  ‘Charlton? What’s going on?’ Killigrew called in the darkness.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, sir. These fellows just told me I was being taken to see some Russian colonel chap, and shoved me in here.’

  As Killigrew’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he found enough light filtered up through the gaps between the planks in the floor for him to be able to make out where Charlton crouched over Dahlstedt. ‘What happened to him?’

  ‘They picked him up next. He took one look at their uniforms, and tried to make a break for it. He’s lucky they didn’t shoot him.’

  ‘That was a damned fool thing to do.’

  The floor of the telezhka jerked beneath them as they rattled off over the cobbles.

  ‘Third Section,’ groaned Dahlstedt.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The Third Section of His Imperial Majesty’s Chancery. In England you would say secret police, yes?’

  ‘Secret police?’ echoed Killigrew. ‘Hardly secret, if they wear uniforms.’

  ‘They do not all wear uniforms. In Russia, you never know who is an informer for the Third Section. Your next-door neighbour, the butcher’s boy, perhaps even your own wife.’

  ‘Why the devil would the secret police be interested in us?’

  ‘In Russia, the secret police are interested in everything, from high treason and espionage to dissidents and public morals.’

  ‘Confound this crazy country!’ exclaimed Charlton. ‘There’s obviously been some kind of misunderstanding.’

  ‘For God’s sake, man!’ protested Dahlstedt. ‘When are you going to learn? You are not in a civilised country now. This is Russia.’

  Killigrew took a deep breath. ‘All right, Herre Dahlstedt. What can we expect?’

  ‘Interrogation. Torture. Execution, if we’re lucky.’

  ‘And if we’re unlucky?’

  ‘Exile to the Siberian salt mines.’

  ‘Used to play in an abandoned tin mine when I was a boy. Not sure I’d care to spend the rest of my life working in one. Hellish dirty places.’ Killigrew got down on his hands and knees and swept the straw to the sides of the floor, the better to see the gaps that outlined the planks. He found a knot in the grain and pressed his thumb against it until it popped out the other side. Putting one eye to the hole, he could see the ground rushing past beneath the telezhka. They were moving along at a fair clip. He took his penknife from his pocket, opened the blade and inserted it into the gap between two planks, shaving slivers of wood from the edge of one.

  ‘We’ll be in St Petersburg before you break out that way,’ said Charlton.

  Killigrew ignored him, patiently working the blade back and forth in the gap, shaving wood first from one plank, then the one next to it, widening a chink about two inches long. After about a quarter of an hour, he judged the gap was wide enough. He unbuckled his sword belt, unthreaded the empty scabbard, and inserted the buckle in the gap.

  Now even Dahlstedt was sitting up to watch.

  ‘Charlton, come and give me a hand.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Stand on this buckle, push it down to one side. Make sure you keep your foot off this central plank.’

  Charlton put his foot on the buckle. He pressed nearly all his weight on it, until one plank bent upwards and the other dipped to create a gap a couple of inches wide. Killigrew thrust his scabbard into it, and started to lean on it. ‘Charlton, you pull from the other side.’

  ‘The guards will hear the planks snap,’ warned Dahlstedt.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Killigrew. ‘If they do, they’ll stop to investigate, and we can jump them.’

  ‘Armed with a penknife? Against muskets?’

  ‘Better a quick death from a bullet than slow, lingering torture. Wherever they’re taking us, I don’t think we’ll have much of a chance to escape when we get there.’

  Killigrew pushed on the scabbard, Charlton pulled, and the planks groaned in protest.

  ‘We’re going to break the scabbard!’ grunted Charlton.

  ‘Never mind the scabbard! Pull, damn you!’

  The plank snapped with a crack like a rifle shot. Charlton stumbled against the side of the carriage while Killigrew fell against him.

  ‘Uncommon strong scabbard you’ve got there,’ said Charlton.

  ‘British craftsmanship versus Russian workmanship.’ Killigrew grinned. ‘Which did you think would give first?’

  ‘We’re not stopping,’ said Dahlstedt.

  ‘We will in a minute.’ Killigrew stamped on the broken plank, pushing it down until it touched the ground below and splintered away entirely with another crack.

  The three of them glanced towards the front end of the box. If anything, the telezhka was travelling even faster. ‘Damned fellows must be deaf,’ grunted Charlton.

  ‘They can’t hear it above the noise of the wheels on the road. Damn! I was afraid of that.’

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘We do it again.’

  It took Killigrew and Charlton another twenty minutes to remove the adjoining plank, creating a gap in the floor of the telezhka some two feet wide. The three of them gazed down at the road rushing past beneath.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ asked Charlton. ‘Wait until we stop?’

  ‘Can’t risk it. We may not stop until we reach our destination.’ Killigrew thrust his head through the gap, looking around at the underside of the carriage. He worked one end of his sword belt into the gap between two planks where they had snapped off, so it was anchored by the buckle. Then he positioned himself over the gap, arms and legs supporting him on either side.

  ‘You’re not seriously going to try climbing out while we’re moving?’ gasped Charlton. ‘Damn it, man! You’ll break your neck!’

  ‘I’ll take it under advisement,’ said Killigrew, lowering his body through.

  ‘I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy?’

  ‘It seems the Third Section has other plans.’ Gazing down between his legs, Killigrew saw a spar of the axle bridge. Withdrawing one leg after him, he braced it against the bridge, and then the other. Slowly, gingerly, he worked his body down until he was as far towards the rear of the telezhka as he could get, and lowered his heels to the ground. They juddered against the road; it was at moments like this he realised why he spent so much money on a good pair of boots. He took the other end of the belt in both hands and dropped to the ground.

  He shot out between the rear wheels of the telezhka and was dragged along on his back at something approaching ten miles an hour. It was agonising: he could feel every pebble, every piece of gravel on the road hitting his body even through his tailcoat, waistcoat and shirt. It was only a matter of seconds before the fabric was worn through and his skin was abraded on the road.

  The running board below the back door was just above his head. He grabbed hold of it and rolled on his front, trying to keep his weight on his toecaps rather than on his knees or, worse, his crotch. Pulling himself in to the back of the telezhka, he reached up with the other hand and tried to grab the padlocked chain se
curing the door. He just missed, and fell back down again. The impact on his arm was appalling. His other arm, flailing, hit the road, and only his kid glove prevented the skin being flayed from his hand.

  His knees felt as though they were on fire, and he could feel the leather in the toes of his boots wearing down. This time, he told himself, or I’m going to be crippled for life.

  He missed on his next attempt, almost losing his grip on the running board with his other hand. The knees in his trousers were worn out now, and his boots were almost down to his socks.

  He lunged again, caught hold of the padlock, then grabbed the chain in the other hand and hauled himself up. It took all his strength in his arms and shoulders to pull himself up until he could brace his feet against the running board. He straightened, clinging to the back of the telezhka and sobbing for breath. He had skinned his knees badly and the blood ran down the tattered remnants of his trousers. Some rest cure!

  As soon as he had caught his breath, he grabbed hold of the top of the box and pulled himself up, using the handle on the door for a foothold. The driving board at the front of the box was so low, he could not see the heads of the two gendarmes. He crawled along the roof and peered down to see Lieutenant Kizheh seated there next to the driver.

  All right, so all I have to do is swing down, catch Kizheh unawares and knock him off before he even knows I’m there. Then all I’ve got to do is deal with the driver.

  He took his penknife from his pocket once more, opened it, and gripped the blade between his teeth.

  The clop of the horses’ hoofs sounded a hollow note as the telezhka drove on to a long, narrow wooden bridge. Looking up, Killigrew saw the bridge crossed a deep ditch to where an imposing granite castle stood on a huge rock. At the far end of the bridge there was a gateway where two gendarmes armed with muskets stood on guard.

  A very low gateway.

  ‘Oh, Lor’!’ he gasped, the knife falling from his mouth. He picked himself up and turned and ran back across the roof of the telezhka, launching himself into space just as the carriage passed through the gate.

  His body thudded painfully against the planks of the bridge. He rolled over to lessen the impact, then felt the edge beneath him. As he slipped out into space, he grasped wildly for something to hold on to, and managed to grip one of the stanchions of the railing on that side. He caught hold of it with the other hand and pulled himself up until he could crook one elbow around it, his legs hanging in space. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw a drop of some thirty feet to the bottom of the ditch.

  Footsteps sounded on the planks of the bridge. He looked up to see the two sentries strolling across to stand over him. One of them said something in Russian – Killigrew didn’t quite catch it – and the other laughed. The first unslung his musket and levelled it at the commander. Killigrew thought he was going to shoot him there and then; but the gendarme only kept him covered while the other man hauled him to safety.

  They marched him towards the castle, one of them giving him a shove between the shoulder blades every few yards. The heel had come off his right boot, making him limp. They had almost reached the gate when three more telezhki rumbled across the bridge, forcing Killigrew and his two escorts to press back against the railings.

  They followed the vehicles through the low gate into a gloomy courtyard with a curtain wall on three sides and a stone keep on the fourth. A wooden gallery ran around the inside of the curtain wall with a dozen Third Section gendarmes armed with muskets ranged along it, gazing down in the courtyard below. Other gendarmes jumped down from the driving boards of the telezhki while more emerged from a doorway, lining up with their muskets unslung and ready. Killigrew counted about two dozen in total, and to his jaded eye it did not look as though the Third Section recruited its gendarmes on the basis of intelligence or civility.

  The door of the first telezhka was already open. Charlton jumped down and turned to help Dahlstedt climb down after him. They raised their hands when they saw the muskets levelled at them.

  Kizheh looked in the back of the telezhka and saw the hole they had made. ‘Sanitary arrangements not to your satisfaction, gentlemen?’ he asked. Then he turned and saw Killigrew. Taking in his ragged, bruised and bleeding condition, he smiled. ‘Nice try.’

  The door to another telezhka was opened and a guard gestured with his musket. Molineaux appeared in the doorway and hesitated before jumping down while he cast a critical eye over his new surroundings. Endicott, Hughes, Iles and Vowles followed him out, along with two of the Milenions. Captain Thornton and the rest of the Milenions were herded out of the other telezhka.

  ‘Molineaux!’ called Killigrew. The petty officer looked around. ‘Belay my last order!’

  The petty officer nodded. One of the guards rammed the stock of his musket into Killigrew’s stomach. He doubled up in agony, and sank to his knees, but that was even more painful. He was hauled to his feet, and the prisoners were marched through a doorway in the side of the keep. A narrow flight of stone steps led down to a subterranean chamber lit by a few oil-lamps. The place stank of bat droppings: the floor was slippery with the filth. While the sailors were stopped and searched outside the door to one cell, Killigrew, Charlton and Dahlstedt were marched down a corridor past several other doors to the one at the end. The door was unlocked and they were thrust through into the cell beyond to find Lord Bullivant already within.

  He rose to his feet and bore down on Kizheh. ‘Now look here, this is intolerable! I demand to speak to whoever’s in charge!’

  ‘All in good time, my lord. Well, gentlemen, what do you think of your new home?’

  ‘I think you should give your housekeeper her cards,’ said Killigrew.

  Kizheh smiled. ‘Welcome to Raseborg Castle. It’s been abandoned for the past three centuries, so the facilities are a little basic, but it will more than suffice for our needs.’ He retreated from the cell and the door was locked from the outside. Killigrew heard his footsteps and those of the guards clacking back up the stairs.

  The only light came through the grille in the door. It was stout, and so new Killigrew could smell the sawdust on it: the Third Section must have had it installed specifically for the purpose of holding them prisoner here. The carpenter had done his work well: the lock was only accessible from the other side, and it was so strong there seemed little point in throwing his shoulder against it. He was in enough pain as it was.

  He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him, and then his vision flickered and he felt the cell spin around him.

  ‘I suppose this is your notion of securing my release?’ snorted Bullivant.

  But Killigrew had passed out.

  * * *

  On the other side of the dungeons, Molineaux and the other sailors were ordered to remove their belts, neckerchiefs and bootlaces before they were herded into the first cell.

  ‘What do they want with us belts, neckerchiefs and bootlaces?’ asked Endicott.

  ‘Prob’ly worried we’re going to hang ourselves,’ Vowles said morosely.

  ‘Us wouldn’t give ’em the satisfaction,’ said Iles.

  Molineaux handed over his belt with more than a pang of regret. The man who had initiated him into the fine art of breaking into places – and breaking out of them, if necessary – when he had first started out as a young snakesman had taught him that a good leather belt was one of the most indispensable weapons in the escapologist’s arsenal.

  ‘I want a receipt for that lot,’ said Hughes, handing over his belt, neckerchief and bootlaces. One of the guards pushed him roughly through a doorway.

  The gendarme who searched Molineaux did a thorough job: he even found the set of burglar’s lock-picks that he still carried with him for… well, for situations just like this. Unsure of what to make of them, the gendarme called over an officer and showed him the tools.

  ‘My hussif,’ explained Molineaux. It was worth a try.

  The officer did not look convinced, however, and Molineaux was thrust
through the door without his picks, his unlaced boots flapping on the flagstones.

  The cell was fairly large, but then it needed to be. Eventually there were sixteen of them in there: the five Ramillies and the eleven Milenions, including Todd the steward. The door slammed behind them and was padlocked from the outside.

  The prisoners surveyed their new quarters with jaded eyes: a granite-walled chamber perhaps twenty feet square, with only the one door, and a window high up in one wall the only source of light. There were no beds: the only furniture in the room was a single bucket.

  ‘Not bad,’ said Endicott, taking in their new surroundings. ‘I’ve stayed in worse. Not that a woman’s touch wouldn’t go amiss, mind you: lace curtains on the window, some nice bolsters for the armchairs, a few knick-knacks on the mantelpiece…’

  ‘I like what they’ve done with the dank,’ said Molineaux. ‘It wouldn’t be yer proper dungeon without the regulation amount of slime dripping down the walls; I’m glad to see they’ve done us proud here.’

  ‘They bring us to a place like this, and all you can do is crack jokes?’ Thornton snapped angrily.

  ‘Got to keep our spirits up,’ Molineaux said cheerfully.

  ‘What’s the point?’ Todd slumped down in one corner. ‘We’re going to die, aren’t we?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Vowles, making himself comfortable on the floor. ‘They’ll swap us for some Russki prisoners.’

  ‘That’s just the officers, Andy,’ said Hughes. ‘Ratings like you and me don’t get exchanged. Britain and Russia may be at war, but still our capitalist-imperialist oppressors conspire to subjudicate the working man… ow!’ he added when one of Molineaux’s boots bounced off his head.

  ‘But we ain’t even navy sailors!’ protested Tommo Fuller, whose face was still bruised from his altercation with Iles. ‘We shouldn’t be here at all! ’

  ‘You’re right!’ scoffed Iles. ‘What were it brung your lord and master to the seat of war, any rate? Looking for adventure, were ’ee? Well, ’e’s got it in spadefuls now!’

  ‘What are they going to do with us?’

  ‘Oh, kill us, I reckon,’ Molineaux said airily.