Killigrew’s Run

by Jonathan Lunn

  But perhaps it was not Lazarenko he was after: perhaps it was the cutter. After all, there was no sign of the Milenion’s gig, and Killigrew and his men could hardly abandon ship without…

  No sign of the gig.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid! Pechorin pounded his forehead in anger with himself. The cutter had already reached the Milenion and Lazarenko and his men were climbing through the entry port. Pechorin snatched the speaking trumpet from the binnacle and rushed to the bulwark.

  ‘Lazarenko! Get back here now, do you hear me? Get back here now! It’s a trap!’

  * * *

  No one tried to stop Lazarenko and his men as they boarded the Milenion, but no one came on deck to surrender either. The ship seemed deserted, all except for the figure trapped and partially obscured by the wreckage on the quarterdeck. Were the rest hiding below decks? Well, it would not be long before the yacht sank: they would show themselves soon enough then.

  Lazarenko gestured to the figure on the quarterdeck. ‘Find out if he’s still alive,’ he told Private Malinoff. The matros nodded and ran across, clearing away the debris that pinned the figure to the deck.

  With a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other, Lazarenko glanced down the after hatch. The companion ladder was badly knocked about – some ropes had been lashed around the last remaining step to hold it together – and there were already a few inches of water sloshing about the deck below.

  Pechorin shouted across from the Atalanta. A trap? What was he talking about? The only danger here was that the yacht would sink before he had time to get off. But where were the survivors hiding themselves? They had to be somewhere.

  ‘Aren’t we going back on board the Atalanta, sir?’ asked one of the matrosy.

  ‘In a moment,’ Lazarenko told him. ‘We’ve still got time to take a quick look around the lower deck.’ He began to descend. The last four rungs of the companion ladder were missing, blown away by one of the shots that had penetrated the lower deck: he would have to jump from there.

  Malinoff finally succeeded in revealing the body on the quarterdeck as nothing more than a dressmaker’s dummy wearing a British seaman’s bluejacket and a bonnet. Malinoff looked up with sadness in his eyes, and a vague sense of injustice, as some instinct told him that Pechorin was right. ‘Oh, no…’

  Lazarenko had seen the ropes that apparently held the bottom-most remaining step together. What he did not see was that the sides of the companion ladder had been sawn through so it would break away at the least pressure. He went down, dropped the last couple of feet to the deck below with the step beneath his boots. The water sloshing about the deck did little to break the impact, and the two bottles of pyroglycerin bound out of sight to the underside of the step shattered beneath his weight.

  Chapter 19

  Russian Hide and Seek

  10.00 a.m.–11.30 a.m., Friday 18 August

  The thunderous crack of the explosion carried clearly across to where Killigrew and Molineaux crouched amongst the bracken under the trees on the island of Jurassö. There was surprisingly little smoke or flame, just a brief flash, and the deck boards and the men standing on them were thrown high into the air before splashing down all around the Milenion.

  ‘Lumme!’ exclaimed Molineaux. ‘Looks like the pill-roller weren’t exaggerating when he said that stuff was powerful.’

  Killigrew nodded. ‘If anything, I’d say he understated the case.’ He had hoped to get one or two members of any boarding party Pechorin sent on board the Milenion, perhaps even the count himself. The booby trap had been no act of spite, but a matter of military necessity. When Pechorin realised Killigrew and the others were on the island, he would come looking for them, and the only chance Killigrew and his men stood then was to take advantage of the cover the trees gave them to pick the Russians off one by one. They had inflicted some casualties on the crew when they had lobbed the burning oil bottles on the sloop’s deck – how Killigrew wished they had used at least one of the bottles of pyroglycerin then, now that he saw its power! – and Pechorin could not have more than eighty men who were not hors de combat.

  Eighty! Against ten. Killigrew discounted the ladies, of course, and the wounded – Endicott and Dahlstedt, the latter would not be much help with his hands bandaged – and Bullivant and Charlton, neither of whom was likely to be much use in a fight, if for very different reasons. That left himself, Molineaux, Hughes, Iles, Thornton, Uren, Attwood, Fuller, O’Leary and Yorath. Eight to one. But they would stand a better chance ashore, amongst the trees, and they still had muskets. If the cartouche boxes they had taken from the Russians were growing light, they had plenty of ammunition for the shotguns.

  And then someone on board the Milenion had stepped on the booby trap. It was impossible to believe that any of the boarding party – who had been concentrated around the after hatch, the centre of the blast – could have survived. That reduced the odds to eleven to two, and suddenly Killigrew was grateful he had not used those bottles of pyroglycerin earlier after all. Things did not seem so hopeless now.

  He had begun using the gig to ferry the people on board the Milenion to the south coast of Jurassö the moment the yacht had been hidden from the Atalanta’s sight. The men left on board while the first boatload was taken ashore had got everything ready, Iles sacrificing his jacket and bonnet while Hughes lashed up the helm and Killigrew and Molineaux prepared the booby trap. On both trips, the gig had been dangerously overloaded, but somehow they had made it. Not a moment too soon either, for the Atalanta had come steaming around the headland just as Killigrew and his men finished dragging the gig up across the pebbles of a rocky cove and out of sight amongst the foliage beneath the trees. The men on the Atalanta might have seen them if their eyes had not all been fixed on the Milenion as it sailed away on her final voyage with only a dressmaker’s dummy at the helm.

  The hull still looked intact, but the concussive effects of the blast must have broken her back, for she began to slip under the waves.

  Molineaux took off his bonnet and clasped it to his breast. ‘She was a good ship, sir.’

  ‘That she was, Molineaux. But people are more important than ships. She served her purpose.’ Even as he said it, it sounded oddly callous: there was more to a ship than timbers, ropes and canvas, and the people that were still with him were only alive because the Milenion had served them so well. Still, if sacrificing such a fine schooner saved the life of one of his party, it would have been worth it.

  ‘Speaking of people, I don’t reckon his lordship’s going to be chuffed when he hears what you’ve done to his yacht.’ They had not told the Bullivants about the little surprise they had been preparing for the boarding party.

  ‘He can’t blame me for that. He lost her the moment she became a prize of war. He should never have brought her to the Baltic in the first place. If anything, he can thank us for the few extra hours he had on board her.’

  Killigrew watched the Atalanta through his miniature telescope, taking care to shade the lens so that sunlight would not reflect from it, giving away his position. The boarding party’s cutter still floated in the water, doubtless surrounded by flotsam from the Milenion; he could not see any at that distance, but he had seen ships go down before and could well imagine the scene. There was no sign of any survivors from the boarding party.

  Even if Pechorin had been killed by the booby trap (Killigrew sincerely hoped so: the count had brains, and that made him more dangerous than any muscle-bound underling), there must have been someone left on board the Atalanta who would realise that the fugitives had left the Milenion while it was out of sight and rowed for the only land within a mile, Jurassö. Killigrew expected the Russians to send a party of men armed to the teeth to search for them now. If the party was large enough, there was a chance Killigrew and his men could wait until they were thrashing about amongst the trees, overpower the men left to guard the boats, steal two of them, row out to the Atalanta, deal with the token anchor watch, and sail her to
Hangö Head. Divide and conquer: it was a long shot, but it was their best chance nonetheless.

  The Atalanta got under way once more, but to Killigrew’s surprise she did not head directly towards the island to send a boat ashore close to where the fugitives must have landed. Instead, she steamed around the headland at the south-east corner of the island and disappeared from view, so that all that was visible was the cloud of smoke rising from her funnel above the trees. Was she headed back to Ekenäs? Did they think that everyone who had been on board the Milenion had been killed in the blast; that it was over? It was impossible to conceive that the Atalanta could have followed them with such determination, only to give up just when they had them cornered.

  Killigrew and Molineaux exchanged glances. ‘Wait with the others,’ the commander told the petty officer. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’

  He broke cover from the trees, picking his way across the rocky shore to the spine of the ridge on the left. He crested the rise in time to see the Atalanta follow the coast round to north, steaming north-west and disappearing from view behind the trees that covered that part of the island.

  When he got back to where the others waited amongst the trees, it came as no surprise to discover that Lord Bullivant was furious.

  ‘Congratulations, Killigrew! Not only have you got four of my men killed; not only have you sunk my yacht… as if all that weren’t enough, you’ve contrived to leave us stranded without food or water on an uninhabited island in the middle of the Gulf of Finland! Bravo, young man! Bravo!’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, Rodney!’ snapped Lady Bullivant. ‘We’re still alive, are we not? Given the determination to murder us all that the Russians have shown thus far, I consider it nothing short of a miracle that most of us are still alive. The miracle in question is Mr Killigrew, and we owe him our thanks.’

  ‘You’re too kind, ma’am,’ said Killigrew. ‘I think my men deserve their fair share of credit for our having got so far; and we couldn’t have done it without the help of Captain Thornton and his crew. But before we all start patting ourselves on the back, we’re not out of the woods yet. I don’t know where the Atalanta’s gone, though I’ll lay odds she’s not far away.’

  ‘Now what do we do?’ asked Thornton. ‘We’ve still got the gig; some of us could get in it and row to Hangö Head for help.’

  ‘All in good time, Captain Thornton. I’m not sure I want to risk the gig on the open sea in broad daylight until I’m positive the Atalanta has gone for good. First things first: we need to find shelter; shelter, and perhaps food. I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. Molineaux, there are supposed to be some ironworks somewhere on this island. If there are ironworks, there must be homes for the men that worked in them.’

  ‘The ironworks are on the east side of the island,’ said Thornton. ‘We saw them from the Milenion when we were here before this whole business started.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain Thornton. Perhaps you’d like to go with Molineaux and try to find them for us?’

  Thornton nodded.

  Killigrew threw Molineaux one of the shotguns. ‘Be careful: the ironworkers’ cottages may still be inhabited.’

  The petty officer nodded and headed off through the trees with Thornton.

  Killigrew turned to where the assistant surgeon crouched over Endicott. ‘How’s he doing, Mr Charlton?’

  ‘Not bad, but I haven’t got the proper facilities to care for him as I’d like.’

  ‘Do what you can, Mr Charlton. Endicott? How are you feeling?’

  ‘Never felt better, sir,’ the Liverpudlian replied with an inane grin.

  Killigrew smiled. ‘That will be the laudanum talking. You hold on, Endicott: we’ll have you back on board the Ramillies in a brace of shakes. Mr Charlton, you’re in charge here until I get back. Be sure you post sentries to keep a lookout: one-hour watches. Make sure no one wanders off.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Where will you be?’

  ‘I’m going to take a look-see at the north side of the island. Hughes! ’

  The Welshman looked up.

  Killigrew threw him the other shotgun. ‘You’re coming with me.’

  ‘As you will, sir.’

  Killigrew and Hughes made their way through the trees. It was turning out to be a beautifully temperate summer’s day, the sunlight filtering down through the boughs overhead, the birds singing in the trees. So soon after the brutal encounter with the Atalanta, the war seemed a very long way away indeed; but Killigrew knew only too well that appearances could be deceptive.

  They had gone perhaps a hundred yards when he heard the unmistakable sound of someone chopping at a tree with an axe.

  ‘Woodsmen, sir?’ murmured Hughes.

  ‘Sounds like it. Come on, maybe we can get some food from them.’

  ‘Won’t they be Russians?’

  ‘Finns, you mean. If we offer them money, show them we mean no harm, perhaps they’ll help us. It’s a risk we’ll just have to take.’

  A few more steps further on, and they heard a cry of ‘Stroevoi les!’ followed by the groan of a falling tree, and the crash of snapping branches.

  ‘Was that Finnish, sir?’ asked Hughes.

  ‘Russian, I think.’

  The two of them advanced more carefully, creeping from tree trunk to tree trunk until they could see half a dozen matrosy at work in a clearing, lopping the branches off the trunk of the tree they had cut down. Killigrew and Hughes ducked down amongst the bracken, but the Russians were too intent on their own work to have seen them.

  ‘They must be from the Atalanta, sir,’ said Hughes. ‘Reckon she must be short of coal, if they’re resorting to burning wood in her furnaces.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ allowed Killigrew, unconvinced. He watched with the Welshman until the Russians had stripped all the boughs off the trunk, and tied harnesses around it so they could drag it away through the forest, singing some sonorous Russian shanty. That was when Killigrew knew that Hughes was wrong, because if the Russians had only wanted firewood, it would have made more sense to cut up the trunk where it lay, and carry the pieces individually.

  It was not difficult to follow the Russians as they dragged the log through the forest: the trail they left was unmistakable, and they moved so slowly Killigrew and Hughes could take their time following them. Indeed, Killigrew grew so impatient with the Russians’ slow progress, he decided to move ahead of them, following a parallel course through the trees to find out where they were headed. He had his answer soon enough when he and Hughes breasted the next rise and the north side of the island came into view.

  The two of them stopped dead. ‘Is that what I think it is, sir?’ asked Hughes.

  Killigrew nodded. ‘Now I understand why the Russians are so keen to stop us from getting back to the fleet.’

  * * *

  A smaller islet lay off the north coast of Jurassö, a few acres in area, thickly covered with trees. An indentation on the coast opposite the islet created a lagoon surrounded on all sides but the west, effectively screened by the towering pines that grew on both islands.

  The Atalanta was anchored at the mouth of the lagoon, but that did not surprise Killigrew: he had known it would not be far away; the only thing he had not understood was why she had not dropped anchor in the cove on the south side of the island. Now, all was clear.

  The paddle-sloop was dwarfed by the massive two-decker that dominated the centre of the lagoon. One of her masts was missing, and to judge from the way she sat low in the water she had been hulled below the waterline and now rested on the bed of the lagoon, keeled over on one side. She could only be the Ivan Strashnyi: she must have limped this far after her encounter with the St Jean d’Acre. But to judge from the amount of activity going on around her sides, on her upper deck and on the shore below, the Russians had every hope of recovering the second-rate ship of the line. The lagoon formed as perfect a hiding place as the captain of the Ivan Strashnyi could have hoped to find in the Gulf of Finland. The trees on the i
sland to the north screened the lagoon so effectively that as the Milenion had passed the island a couple of miles to eastward, he had taken the smaller island for part of Jurassö itself, never dreaming it might hide a crippled two-decker.

  Small wonder Nekrasoff had been so determined to destroy the Milenion and kill all who had been on board her: he must have thought Lord Bullivant or someone in his crew had sighted the Ivan Strashnyi. With the bulk of the Russian fleet holed up behind the maritime fortresses of the gulf, the two-decker would have been a gift to any British frigate that chanced to discover her in her present crippled condition. This explained what the Atalanta had been doing so far from the Finnish coast when it had encountered the Milenion in the first place. How the Ivan Strashnyi’s captain had got word of his predicament to the Finnish mainland in the first place would probably remain a mystery, but the Atalanta must have been sent from Ekenäs to render what assistance it could, only to find Lord Bullivant’s yacht apparently snooping around the island.

  And small wonder Pechorin had not bothered to send a boat ashore on the south side of the island, when he had known that less than a mile away on the other side of the island he would find all the men he would ever need to carry out a thorough search of the forest. Forget eleven to two: seventy to one was now closer to the mark.

  Even as Killigrew watched, the Atalanta put a gig into the water. It rowed past the listing Ivan Strashnyi to where the matrosy had set up a number of tents using spars and canvas on the beach below. In the boat, Nekrasoff was unmistakable in sky-blue, a dark-uniformed figure that looked like Pechorin beside him, and Starshina Chernyovsky towering head and shoulders above the matrosy around him.