* * *
Crichton was working in his day-room when he heard the ship’s bell ring twice. He drained the ink from the nib of his pen, wiped the residue on his blotter, and put on his cocked hat to make his way up on deck.
Lieutenant Lloyd stood on the quarterdeck, on duty as officer of the last dog watch. ‘Still no sign of Killigrew and the others, sir.’
Crichton took the telescope from the binnacle and surveyed the waters to the north to see for himself, then used the speaking trumpet to address the lookout at the maintop. ‘Aloft there! Any sign of the cutter?’
‘No, sir!’
Crichton returned the speaking trumpet to the binnacle. ‘Pass the word for Mr Masterson.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Pass the word for Mr Masterson!’
Masterson came on deck so swiftly, Crichton suspected he had been awaiting the summons. The first lieutenant saluted briskly. ‘Still no sign of Killigrew, sir?’
‘No, Mr Masterson. Does your offer to take the second cutter in to investigate still stand?’
The lieutenant’s face lit up. ‘Most certainly, sir!’
‘Make it so, Mr Masterson.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Masterson turned to the boatswain. ‘Call away the second cutter’s crew, Mr Pemberton!’
Once the second cutter was lowered from the davits, Masterson and the crew shinned down the lifelines and took up the oars.
Crichton crossed to the entry port to call down to the lieutenant. ‘No heroics, Masterson! Just find out what happened to the others, if you can, and come straight back here. No attempts at rescue or negotiation, do you understand? I don’t want to have to send another boat to look for you!’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
The bow man pushed the cutter’s head out from the Ramillies’ side, and Crichton watched as the crew rowed in the direction Killigrew had disappeared with the first cutter twelve hours earlier.
‘What if they don’t come back, sir?’ asked Lloyd.
Crichton glowered at him for voicing the thought.
* * *
Someone dashed a pail of cold water in Killigrew’s face, and he woke up to find himself still strapped in the chair.
‘Still with us?’ asked Nekrasoff. ‘Thought we’d lost you, there.’
Killigrew blinked, wanting to shake the water off his face but unable to move his head. ‘Did you have to do that? I was having rather a nice dream.’
‘You passed out on us.’
‘Sorry. Been doing that rather a lot lately. The surgeon on the Ramillies puts it down to overwork.’ It was a strain to be his usual flippant self during the ordeal, but he was damned if he would let the Russians think he was weakening; even if he was. Every man has his breaking point, and Killigrew was getting close to his. The problem was, even if he reached it, what could he tell them?
‘Just tell me the truth about where Napier’s next attack will be, and the suffering will come to an end,’ said Nekrasoff. ‘It isn’t that much to ask, is it?’
‘Kronstadt.’ Killigrew closed his eyes. He felt as though he had been put through the wringer. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Kronstadt.’
‘That six times now,’ said Leong.
Nekrasoff sighed. ‘I think the only thing we’ve established today is that Napier’s next attack will not be against Kronstadt. Still, that only leaves Sveaborg and Reval. You know something? I’m starting to think he really doesn’t know.’
Leong removed the clamp from Killigrew’s head, and started to unbuckle Killigrew’s right leg.
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Nekrasoff.
‘You no want him back in cell?’ asked Leong.
‘Good heavens, no! I no longer have any use for him. Just kill him.’
* * *
It seemed to take Molineaux for ever to saw through the second bar, and yet somehow the tenth thread-saw had more life in it than any of the others. He did not even need the twelfth: the second bar was sawn through before he had been using the eleventh for more than a couple of minutes. He pressed his face up against the bars: he could just make out half a dozen guards patrolling the gallery, but they did not seem to be paying too much attention to what was going on in the courtyard below – not that there was much to see, yet – and he doubted they would be able to see much in the gathering gloom as the sun sank towards the horizon, casting the courtyard into deep shadow.
He jumped down from Hughes’ back. ‘Stay there a moment, Red. Ben, can you bend those bars right up?’
‘Consider it done.’ Iles climbed on Hughes’ shoulders and bent them right back. He jumped down again. ‘You go first, Wes. You earned it.’
‘All right. The rest of you wait here until I signal. I’ll take a look-see, make sure the coast is clear and see if I can get my bearings.’
Molineaux climbed on Iles’ shoulders and pulled himself up through the remaining bars. It was a tight squeeze to get his broad shoulders through – he had nasty visions of being stuck there when a patrol came by, and the Russians amusing themselves by kicking his head in – but at last he was through. He crawled quickly across to one of the telezhki parked nearby and hid between the wheels before any of the guards above saw him. Glancing back across to the low window, he saw Endicott watching him anxiously. He was about to wave for the Liverpudlian to follow him when he heard a sound from one of the doors leading out of the keep: someone coming. He signalled for Endicott to stay put.
The legs of four more guards emerged from the door and crossed to stand beside the telezhka where Molineaux was hidden. At first he thought he had been spotted and they had come to get him. But they just stood there, talking and laughing amongst themselves in their incomprehensible gibberish.
Endicott was mugging at him from the window: Now what do we do?
Molineaux mugged back: How should I know?
What they needed was some kind of diversion.
A shot sounded from the round tower above the courtyard. None of the guards moved, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. Molineaux heard a lucifer being struck, and saw a pool of light on the cobbles around the Russians’ legs as they lit a cigarette. Then he saw three more pairs of boots emerge from the keep, one of them the brightly polished boots of an officer. They crossed to the carriage and disappeared. A moment later, the carriage was driven out of the courtyard, the hoofs and wheels rumbling on the wooden bridge beyond.
With a sick, sinking feeling, Molineaux realised that the first of the prisoners had just been executed.
Chapter 9
Escape from Raseborg
8.30 p.m.–8.55 p.m., Thursday 17 August
Nekrasoff left the circular chamber and signalled for Ustimovich to accompany him, leaving Leong alone with Killigrew, the commander still strapped to the chair. The Siberian drew the pistol from his belt and pulled back the hammer.
Feigning semi-consciousness with the upper half of his body, Killigrew struggled to free his right leg from the half-undone buckle. There was some give in it, enough to reassure him that with a bit of effort on his part he could work his leg free, given time. But Leong was already aiming the pistol at his forehead.
Killigrew clamped his mouth shut and expelled air forcefully through his nostrils. One of the cork nose plugs went wide, but the other caught Leong in one eye just as his finger tightened on the trigger. Killigrew felt the blast scorch his cheek as the bullet slammed into the plush leather beside his head. Leong dropped the pistol and clapped a hand to his face with a cry. With a supreme effort, Killigrew dragged his right leg free and slammed the sole of his boot into Leong’s face. The Siberian was thrown back against the wall, and sank to the floor amidst the unused pails of water.
Killigrew’s hands were strapped to the chair on either side of his head, but by straining his neck he was able to grip one of the leather straps between his teeth and pull it free of the buckle. Once he had got one hand free, he unfastened the other, and was about to release his left leg when Leong came at him again with a
dagger.
Killigrew caught him by the wrist and the two of them struggled. The commander was stronger. He forced the blade down towards his restrained leg, using the metal to saw through the leather strap. Leong dropped the knife and chopped Killigrew across the neck with what, from his time in the Orient, he recognised to be a wu-yi blow. The commander felt agony lance through his neck and up into his skull. He rolled over and dropped to the floor, but Leong flipped nimbly over the foot of the chair and drove another wu-yi blow into his chest. A high kick slammed Killigrew back against the far wall with the distinct impression that at least three of his ribs had been broken. As Leong came at him again, Killigrew tried a little wu-yi of his own, hacking at the Siberian’s neck with the edge of his right hand. Clutching his throat, Leong spun away from him with a gasp.
‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Killigrew, staring at his own right hand in disbelief. ‘This wu-yi stuff really works!’
But Leong rallied and came at him again. Killigrew sidestepped his next punch, caught him by the arm and slammed him against the wall. He crooked an arm around the Siberian’s throat, gripping him in a half nelson, and forced his face down into one of the unused pails. The water bubbled as Leong gasped, struggling furiously to break free of Killigrew’s grip. The commander held him there with his face immersed in the pail, pressing his throat against the rim of the bucket. Leong’s struggled subsided, but Killigrew kept his face in the water until there was no possibility that the Siberian could have any breath left in his lungs. Grabbing a fistful of Leong’s long hair, he pulled his head out of the pail and gazed into his bulging, lifeless eyes.
Sobbing for breath, Killigrew let the dead man’s head flop back into the pail, and leaned against the wall. He felt another wave of nausea sweep over him. Oh God, not now, please not now…
The dizziness passed. He crossed to the door and opened it a crack, peering out. No sign of any guards. Hearing a sound in the courtyard, he crossed to one of the narrow windows and looked down in time to see Nekrasoff and Ustimovich climb into a carriage parked alongside the four telezhki. The coachman whipped up the horses and drove into the tunnel leading out of the castle. Four greatcoated gendarmes stood around in the courtyard below, sharing a cigarette beside one of the telezhki, while another six stood on sentry duty on the outer gallery, their sky-blue uniforms pale in the gathering gloom. If the sun was only just setting, it must be about half-past eight, given the length of the summer evenings in the Baltic. Had the torture session really only lasted a few hours?
He was about to leave the chamber when he saw two more guards coming down the gallery towards him. He ducked back out of sight before they saw him, and looked around desperately. Leong’s pistol lay on the floor, but a cursory search of the Siberian’s body did not turn up any ammunition, just a box of matches. He tucked the pistol in his belt anyway, and picked up two of the empty pails.
By the time he emerged from the chamber, the two guards were only a few feet away, but they were not expecting to see a prisoner on the loose. ‘Dobryi den’,’ Killigrew greeted them cheerfully.
‘Dobryi den’,’ they replied instinctively, still taking in his dishevelled appearance.
He brought the two pails up sharply on either side of one guard’s head. The man crumpled. As the other struggled to unsling his musket, Killigrew drew the empty pistol from his belt and pressed the muzzle against his jugular. Ashen-faced, the guard raised his hands. Killigrew took the musket from him, handed him the unloaded pistol in exchange, and slammed the musket’s stock into his jaw.
He dragged the two unconscious guards back into the chamber one after the other. Picking the one closest to his own build, he stripped off his boots, trousers, tunic, and greatcoat, exchanging them for his own battered half-boots, tattered trousers and sodden tailcoat. At least the gendarmes of the Third Section seemed to have a better standard of personal hygiene than the Russian soldiers he had met at Bomarsund. He put on the gendarme’s helmet – something between a shako and a képi – slung both their muskets over one shoulder, and pocketed Leong’s matches.
He made his way downstairs to the great hall and took an unlit oil-lamp from a wall niche. Removing the stopper from the reservoir, he poured the contents all over the wooden floor, struck a match, and threw it down into the still-spreading puddle of oil. It ignited at once, the bright yellow flames leaping high towards the ceiling.
He staggered out into the courtyard, pretending to cough and retch. ‘Pozhar! Pozhar!’ he cried out: Fire, fire!
The guards at once broke away from their positions to investigate. As the four men who had been sharing a cigarette rushed past Killigrew and into the great hall – the flickering flames showed clearly through the crumbling windows – one of them paused and put a solicitous hand on the commander’s shoulder. ‘Ty v poryadke?’
‘Da, da!’ Still coughing and retching – with one hand raised to his mouth to help hide his face – Killigrew waved the man away. The Russian hurried into the keep and Killigrew slipped down the stairs to the dungeons. He was making his way along the passage when someone grabbed him from behind, snaking an arm round his neck and half-choking him.
‘Savvy English, Ivan?’ a familiar voice hissed in his ear.
‘Molineaux! For God’s sake, let go! It’s me, Killigrew.’
‘You don’t sound anything like Killigrew.’
‘Neither would you, with someone half choking you!’
After a moment’s hesitation, Molineaux released him, dragging the muskets from his shoulder. He slammed Killigrew against the wall and covered him with one of the muskets.
‘Lumme! It is you, sir! Sorry about that: didn’t granny you with them Russki togs on. What are you doing dressed like that, anyhow?’
Killigrew rubbed his neck ruefully. ‘I didn’t think it would be a capital notion to wander around Third Section headquarters dressed as a British naval officer—’
‘Stoi!’ a voice called down the corridor behind them. ‘Chto sdaesh ’sya!’
The two of them turned to see another guard there, aiming a musket at them. ‘Kapat’ mushket!’
‘He wants you to drop the muskets,’ explained Killigrew.
‘Should I?’
‘I think it would be safest, for now.’
Molineaux lowered the muskets to the floor.
‘Otstuplenie!’
‘Translation, sir?’ asked Molineaux.
‘He wants us to step back.’
Killigrew and Molineaux backed off. The guard advanced until he stood over the muskets. ‘Chem vy zanimaetes’ éto mes?’
Endicott stepped up behind the guard and prodded him in the back. ‘Hands up, Ivan. Handsomely does it!’
‘Chto sdaesh ’sya!’ Killigrew translated helpfully. But the guard had got the gist of it, and spread his arms, holding his musket by the barrel in one arm. Endicott snatched it from him. Molineaux hurried forward and snatched up the other two muskets, tossing one to Killigrew and smashing the stock of the other into the Russian’s jaw. The guard crumpled, and Endicott ripped a ring of keys from his belt, throwing them to Killigrew. The commander caught them in his left hand and used them to unlock the furthermost door. He threw it open, and Lord Bullivant, Charlton and Dahlstedt looked up at him.
‘Killigrew?’ exclaimed Bullivant. ‘What the devil are you doing, dressed like that?’
‘I’m on my way to a fancy-dress ball,’ Killigrew snapped back impatiently.
‘Well, now you’re here, you can take me to see the feller in charge of this establishment. I’ve got a few choice words to say to him about the abominable way we’ve been treated, I can tell you!’
‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Killigrew.
‘Oh?’
‘Let’s get the devil out of here! Herre Dahlstedt, are you all right? Can you walk?’
The Finn nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘Good. Give him a hand, Charlton.’
Killigrew withdrew from the cell and crossed to the next door. G
lancing through the grille, he saw Lady Bullivant, Araminta, and a woman in a maid’s uniform: the same maid Molineaux had had a run-in with on board the Milenion. Killigrew unlocked the door, and they looked up as he threw it open.
Withdrawing the keys, he threw them to Molineaux. ‘Get the others out.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Killigrew turned back to the ladies. ‘Are you all right? Did they hurt you?’
‘I’ll say they did!’ Araminta retorted indignantly. ‘One of those Russian brutes gripped me quite tightly by the arm! I’m sure I must have the most horrid bruise!’
‘A bruise! Good gracious, how absolutely terrible for you! God damn it, I’ll give you something worse than a bruise, if you don’t get off your backsides and out of that cell at once!’
‘Now really, Mr Killigrew!’ protested Lady Bullivant. ‘There’s no need for that sort of language, I’m sure…’ Her eyes flickered past Killigrew and widened in alarm, and Araminta’s hands flew to her mouth to stifle a scream.
He turned to see what had frightened them, expecting to see a dozen Russians coming towards them, but it was only Molineaux, Endicott, Hughes and Iles. Killigrew had to admit, between Molineaux’s earring, Endicott’s bandanna, Hughes’ pock-marked face and Iles’ eye patch, they did look less like four ratings of Her Majesty’s Navy than four ruffians straight from the pages of Ellms’ The Pirates Own Book.
‘It’s all right, they’re with me,’ he hastened to reassure the ladies. ‘This is Petty Officer Molineaux, Leading Seaman Endicott, and Able Seamen Hughes and Iles.’
Araminta recovered quickly from her fright. ‘Mr Molineaux and I have already met. Good evening, Mr Molineaux.’
The petty officer grinned and touched his bonnet with a finger. ‘’Evening, miss.’
Killigrew had forgotten they had met three years earlier, when Lord Hartcliffe and his friends had been taking part in the Squadron Cup at Cowes. One of Hartcliffe’s friends had fallen ill at the last moment, and Molineaux had been drafted in as a replacement. Araminta had come on board as a friend of Hartcliffe’s; that had been the first time Killigrew had met her.
Killigrew’s Run Page 18
