‘What’s your name, Corporal?’
‘Obukoff, sir.’
‘Outside, Obukoff.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The corporal followed Pechorin out of the tent, and the hubbub of voices was renewed, with an anxious note now. Officers were never good news.
Outside the tent, Pechorin snipped the end off a couple of cigars and handed one to the corporal. ‘Do you smoke?’
Obukoff’s eyes bugged out of his head at the sight of the fat Havana. ‘Yes, sir!’ There was a hint of vodka on his breath, but he stood steady enough. ‘Er… do you mind if I save it for later?’
‘By all means, Corporal,’ Pechorin told him companionably. ‘Where did you find this one?’
‘Somewhere towards the middle of the island, sir.’
‘You didn’t see any of the others?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Tomorrow, do you think you could take me to where you found this one?’
‘I’ll need permission from Captain Aleksandrei, sir. I’m back on duty at six.’
Pechorin shook his head. ‘We’re going out at four. More than enough time for you to take us there and get back in time for your watch.’
‘Four, sir?’
‘The sun will rise at ten to five; but there will be more than enough light for us to see by before then.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Pechorin took out a shiny silver rouble and gave it to Obukoff. ‘You’ll get another one like that when you take us to where you shot the English sailor – provided you say nothing of this to any of your shipmates. Understand?’
The corporal’s eyes widened with avarice. ‘Yes, sir!’
‘Now run along. Get a good night’s sleep – I want you refreshed when you come to me at four in the morning.’
‘Sir!’ Obukoff saluted and hurried away.
Pechorin turned and saw Yurieff looking at him with an expression not unakin to disgust. ‘What?’
The lieutenant just shook his head. ‘For a moment there I thought you were going to order the dead man cut down, sir. I did not think that bribery was your style.’
‘The English have an expression, Borislav Ivanovich: all’s fair in love and war.’
Yurieff did not look convinced, but he saluted and marched away. Pechorin saw Chernyovsky watching him, grinning through his beard. The count walked over to the Cossack. ‘Something amuses you, Starshina?’
Chernyovsky shook his head. ‘What was all that about? As if I could not guess.’
‘If I take you to where the dead man was shot, do you think you could track Killigrew and the others to wherever they’re hiding?’
‘It’ll cost you.’
Pechorin reached into his pocket once more.
Chernyovsky shook his head. ‘Keep your silver. All I want is that negr petty officer who’s with Killigrew.’
‘You can have him. All I want is Killigrew himself.’
* * *
‘What do you want us to do, sir?’ Molineaux asked on behalf of Iles as well as himself when Killigrew had finished outlining his plan, such as it was.
‘Confusion in the Russian camp,’ Killigrew told him. ‘Chaos. Pandemonium.’
Molineaux grinned. ‘Pandemonium is my speciality.’
‘No heroics, no unnecessary risks. I’m asking you because there’ll be picquets around the Russian camp and you’re the only man I know who can sneak past them without getting caught. Iles can cover your back.’
The seaman nodded enthusiastically. ‘’S’bout time, too, sir, beggin’ your pardon. I’se sick to the back teeth with runnin’ from these Russkis; it’ll be good to ’ave a chance to fight back.’
‘That’s the spirit, Iles; just don’t get carried away.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.’
Killigrew eyed him sceptically.
‘Lucifers, sir?’ asked Molineaux.
The commander took out the box of matches he had taken from Leong and handed them to the petty officer. ‘Good luck.’
‘You too, sir.’
Carrying one of the shotguns each, Molineaux and Iles left the iron foundry. Killigrew was about to follow them out, armed only with his dress sword, when Araminta caught him by the arm.
‘You’re leaving us?’
‘Just for a couple of hours. I have to send a message.’
‘You’re coming back?’
‘That’s the plan.’
She glanced to where her parents sat, and seeing they were not watching, stood on tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek. ‘Be careful.’
He grinned. ‘I didn’t think you cared.’
‘Of course I care!’ she retorted, flushing. ‘Surely I shouldn’t have to explain that… oh, you’re simply impossible!’ She turned on her heel and went back to join her parents.
‘Charlton!’ called Killigrew. ‘You’re in charge here until I get back. If I’m not back by dawn, you’d best—’ He broke off, realising that if he was not back by dawn, there was no advice he could give the assistant surgeon that would be of the remotest use. If he failed, they would all die, and there was nothing he could do to prevent that. ‘Never mind. I’ll be back by dawn. Just make sure you keep everyone here until I do.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Killigrew slipped out and the smile fell from his face like a mask as he steeled himself for what he knew he must do. He might have made light of the task with Araminta, but he knew that as long as the Ivan Strashnyi lay crippled at Jurassö her captain would have lookouts stationed in the lighthouse, keeping a watch for Allied vessels. Since he could not risk the sound of a shot alerting the Russians, there would be no all-too-easy pulling of a trigger to deal with them. There was going to be killing, hand to hand, face to face: harsh, brutal and messy.
The night was turning cold, a bitter wind gusting up the Gulf of Finland, but his brisk pace kept him warm. He followed the south coast of the island, knowing that it was better to stay in the open where the light of the white night guided his steps, grateful that the moon was not yet risen to silhouette him by shining on the sea, making him an easy target. He did not have time to waste blundering through the darkness beneath the trees. Lightning flickered across the sky, and the crack of thunder followed a couple of seconds later. He turned up the collar of the Third Section greatcoat he wore and hurried on to where the lighthouse stood on a rocky promontory at the western end of the island.
The lighthouse was graceful, the sides of the circular tower curving inwards from a broad base, with a chequered red-and-white pattern decorating its middle section to aid identification during daylight hours. In peacetime, its bright beam warned shipping of the dangers of the Jurassö rocks; but the Russians had no wish to help the Allied fleets avoid the rocks, so the lantern room at the top was dark.
He stood in the shadow of the trees, watching the lighthouse from a distance of about two hundred yards. He could just make out a figure walking the open gallery that ran around the lantern room at the top. The man paused occasionally to scan the dark horizon with a telescope, otherwise beating his hands against his sides in an effort to keep warm. The cool breeze blowing at sea level would be much stronger up there.
The only light came from a small window perhaps halfway up the tower. There were no adjoining buildings, so the chances were the lighthouse keepers lived in the tower itself when the lighthouse was in use. Killigrew hoped that, without any duties to perform for the duration of the war, the ‘wickies’ would have been moved back to the mainland: even if the men were Finns – and Finns who hated the Russians – they would have to be crazy to help a lone British officer when there were over seven hundred matrosy in possession of the island. Besides, even the Finns who hated the Russians had no love for the Royal Navy, which had attacked Finnish ports and ruined livelihoods by burning merchant shipping. So if there were lighthouse keepers inside with the lookouts from the Ivan Strashnyi, the chances were Killigrew would have to kill them too, or try to. He had no wish to kill civilians, and he cursed the
Russians for putting him in this position by trying to murder the Bullivants and their crew; and cursed the Bullivants, whose folly had started this madness in the first place.
He waited for the man on the gallery to disappear round the back of the lantern room, and then ran across the open space between the trees and the lighthouse. Even as he sprinted along the paved track over the rocks, he felt the first few fat drops of rain splash against his face. Reaching the door at the foot of the tower, he put an ear to it and listened until he could hear nothing but the hissing of the rain against the waves. The door was unlocked: he eased it open a crack and peered through, but saw only shadows. Emboldened, he stepped through and closed the door behind him quickly: he did not want any draughts blowing up the stairs to warn the men above that someone had entered below.
He wiped the rain from his face with his hands and ran his fingers through his hair to brush it back out of his eyes, before shaking the drops off his hands and wiping them on the damp breast of his greatcoat. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a short passage leading between solid stone walls to a cast-iron spiral staircase leading up. Drawing his sword, he ascended on tiptoe, the staircase leading up about twenty feet through a shaft with solid brickwork on all sides of him. He emerged into a circular room stacked with barrels and boxes. Investigation of their contents would have to wait until he had the lighthouse to himself.
A staircase ran around the inside wall. He followed it up to another storeroom, and another and another, each chamber slightly smaller than the one below. When he guessed he was halfway to the top he paused to catch his breath. The room contained barrels of whale oil to light the lamp above, and there was a hatch in the wall with a joist running out above it, so the barrels could be winched up rather than manhandled up the awkward steps. While he was looking about, he heard someone moving around above him.
Gripping his sword, he ascended the next flight of steps cautiously. Instead of leading straight up into the next room, these stairs ended in a small landing with a door leading off to the right, while the next flight continued up to the floor above. A light showed under the door, and he could hear someone moving about on the other side. He listened: no voices, so either there was only one man on the other side of the door, or there was more than one but they were not talking to each other. He grasped the handle, took a very deep breath, and pulled back on it to free the latch so he could ease it up silently, without the snap of it hitting the restraining bracket.
He eased the door open a crack. A matros stood at a wood-burning stove, his back to the door as he stirred something in a saucepan. The matros turned to reach for a peppermill, Killigrew pulled the door to again, bracing himself to charge into the room, but the man did not see him. He added pepper to the pan and went on stirring, humming tunelessly to himself.
Killigrew opened the door and stepped silently through. A waft of fish stew slapped him in the face at once. The matros stood about twenty feet away: twenty feet of wooden floorboards, each one threatening a treacherous creak. The matros had only to shout to warn his shipmate on the gallery above, and Killigrew would find the muzzle of a musket waiting for him somewhere on the way to the top.
Slowly, inch by inch, he tiptoed towards the matros. His palm sweated where it gripped the hilt of his sword. If he was going to kill this man he had to do it without giving him a chance to cry out. Get right behind him, close enough to put a hand over his mouth to stifle his screams, and drive the sword’s tip into his back, between his ribs and into his heart.
He had halved the distance between them when a floorboard creaked underfoot. He froze, wincing, but the matros did not turn, lost in a world of his own. Killigrew hesitated, his heart thudding in his chest, until he realised that the longer he waited, the greater the chance that something would make the sailor turn and see him.
He resumed his advance: ten feet to go, ten more cautious steps. Nine steps, eight steps, seven, six, five… he poised the sword to thrust, reaching out to clamp his left hand over the matros’ mouth.
A draught caught the door behind him and slammed the latch against the catch with a bang.
The matros glanced over his shoulder and saw Killigrew.
‘Privet, Czibor!’
The commander froze.
The matros realised that Killigrew was not Czibor, and did a double take. Whirling to face the stranger, he grabbed the saucepan from the stove.
Killigrew was already striding forward. He ducked as the matros threw the contents of the saucepan at him, the simmering stew flying across the room to splash over the walls and floor. Killigrew straightened, putting one hand over the matros’ mouth, pushing him back against the stove and driving the tip of the sword between his ribs. The man’s face twisted in shock and agony and he cried out against Killigrew’s palm, his death rattle muffled. When the light went out in his eyes and his head lolled, the commander withdrew the blade and the dead man crumpled to the floor.
Killigrew mopped sweat from his brow with his sleeve, and crouched to wipe the blood from his blade on the matros’ jacket. He straightened and crossed back to the door, glancing up the stairs. Had the man above – assuming there was only one man above – heard the fight? In the panic of the moment, wondering how much noise they had made had been the least of Killigrew’s worries; he had not even heard the saucepan hit the floor when it dropped from the matros’ lifeless hands, but it must have landed with a thump.
Apart from the drumming of the rain on the window panes and the howling of the wind, no sound came from above, which could have meant anything or nothing. Killigrew continued to climb. The door on the next floor led into someone’s living quarters: there was a wooden bed there, but no bedding. No ornaments or personal possessions to denote occupation other than a few rough pieces of furniture: a table, an easy chair, some empty shelves, a chest and a wardrobe.
On the floor above, the stairs led straight up into the next room. Killigrew peered cautiously over the top of the steps to see another man’s living quarters, likewise deserted. An iron ladder bolted to the far wall led up to a hatch in the ceiling. The hatch cover was off, and he climbed up until he could ease his head through. Twisting his head, he saw the room was in darkness, but another flicker of lightning briefly illuminated it through the large, rain-washed window that the lighthouse keepers would use to check the weather. A large fog-warning bell hung from the ceiling. He was in the watch room, which housed the weights and the clockwork mechanism controlling the rotating light in the lantern room above.
The rumble of thunder followed almost immediately. It occurred to him that a lighthouse was probably not the best place to be in an electrical storm. He hoped this one had a lightning conductor on the roof.
Another ladder led up to another hatchway. He slotted his sword back into its scabbard and closed the hatch below him so he was in complete darkness. Creeping across to the other ladder, he climbed until he was able to press one ear to the underside of the trap door. The hammering rain drowned out any noise the man on duty on the gallery might have been making as he moved about in an effort to keep warm.
Killigrew eased up the trap door at one side, just enough to peer out. A blast of cold air with rain in it smacked him in the face at once. The door to the gallery was open, facing him. No sign of the other matros. He lowered the hatch and eased it up at the other side to see the brass ‘chariot’ on which the lamp rotated when it was in use. Drawing his sword from its scabbard, he slithered up into the lantern room.
The room was circular, surrounded by stout glass panes on every side held in place by the diagonal iron astragals that framed them. Above him, the cupola was topped by a ball vent to allow the smoke from the lamp to escape, so the windows would not become grimy with soot. Through the rain-lashed panes, he could just make out the brass railings surrounding the gallery.
There was no sign of the other matros… assuming there had been another matros. Perhaps the man he had killed in the kitchen had been the same man he had se
en on the gallery before he had entered the lighthouse. But no, that was ridiculous: the captain of the Ivan Strashnyi would not send only one lookout to the lighthouse; and besides, the man in the kitchen had clearly been expecting someone called Czibor. Yet Killigrew had searched every floor of the tower on his way up, and had seen only the one man; the gallery was clearly deserted, which meant there was only one place where the second matros could be.
In the lantern room.
And there was only one place he could be hiding.
Killigrew was already throwing himself to one side when Czibor rose up from behind the lantern, musket to his shoulder. The gun barked and the muzzle flash lit up the room as Killigrew landed on the floor and slammed against the wall below the windows. He tried to rise, but he had landed on his right side and it was difficult to push himself up while he clutched the sword in his right hand.
Czibor came around the lantern and kicked him in the wrist. The pain was excruciating. The sword flew from Killigrew’s hand and clattered against the wall to fall just within reach. He grasped for it. Czibor kicked him in the side before reversing his grip on the musket. He tried to slam the stock down against Killigrew’s head, but the commander rolled in the only direction there was room to go, in towards Czibor’s ankles. He punched the man in the crotch, buying himself just enough time to push himself to his feet.
The matros grunted and swung the musket like a club, but this time Killigrew managed to catch it in both hands. The two of them grappled chest to chest, Czibor forcing Killigrew back out through the door on to the gallery, where the rain stung his face and his feet slithered on the wet platform. He felt the gallery railing hit the small of his back and instinctively let go of the musket with one hand to brace himself.
Czibor thrust the musket at his throat, forcing him back over the railing. Aware of white breakers crashing against the rocks some 120 feet below him, Killigrew felt himself toppling backwards over the railing.
Chapter 21
Killigrew’s Run Page 41
