by Killigrew of the Royal Navy (Killigrew RN) (retail) (epub)
Killigrew rammed his elbow into Salazar’s face, knocking him backwards over his chair, and then tipped the table over sideways against Coffin, pinning him in his seat. He grabbed Miss Chance by the wrist and dragged her through the door leading to the kitchen before any of the others could recover in time to react. They slammed the door behind them and a moment later two bullets smashed the panels in quick succession.
A tall wooden dresser piled with crockery stood beside the door, and Killigrew at once tried to pull it over in front of the door. Seeing his intention, Miss Chance helped him and a moment later it crashed into place, scattering shards of broken crockery across the floor. The door opened an inch a moment later, and was then brought up short as the dresser blocked it. On the other side, someone started to throw their shoulder against it.
Killigrew and Miss Chance turned away from the door to see a heavily built chef with a scar down one side of his face staring at them in astonishment. Recovering quickly, the chef snatched up a large triangular-bladed knife and lunged at them.
Killigrew dodged the thrust and backed away around the kitchen table. A cauldron of consommé was gently warming over the hearth; Killigrew grabbed a butcher’s hook, using it to tip up the cauldron so that a tidal wave of soup splashed across the floor towards the chef. Even further enraged at seeing his creation treated in such a cavalier manner, he charged forwards. As he thrust at Killigrew’s throat, Killigrew caught him by the wrist. The two of them struggled chest-to-chest with the knife between them. The chef was the stronger of the two, and he forced Killigrew back into the flames in the hearth at the same time that he turned the blade’s point towards Killigrew’s left eye.
Then there was a dull thump and the chef’s head jerked. His eyes rolled up and he slid down to the floor to reveal Miss Chance standing behind him wielding a heavy wooden chopping board in both hands.
The men on the other side of the door had stopped trying to open it and were now trying to smash it, the panels splintering as they attacked them with some sharp, heavy object. Killigrew grabbed Miss Chance by the hand. ‘Come on.’
There was another door on the far side of the kitchen. It was locked but the key was in the hole. Killigrew unlocked it, took out the key and hustled Miss Chance through, before following her out and locking the door behind them. He looked around to get his bearings, and then dragged her after him as he dashed across the lawn. There was a brick wall nearly eight feet high at the far end of the garden. He leaped up and got his hands over the top of it, his feet scrabbling against the bricks until he was able to pull himself up. Sitting astride the wall he glanced down to help Miss Chance up after him, but there was no sign of her.
‘Miss Chance?’ he hissed urgently into the darkness.
‘Behind you.’
He twisted, and saw her seated on the wall beside him. ‘How did you…?’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’ His hand found hers in the darkness and the two of them jumped from the wall, rolling over on the compacted earth below.
A bell tolled sonorously in the darkness, some kind of alarm, and in the glow of torches off to their right they could see armed men emerging from the low barracks they had seen earlier. ‘Maybe they don’t want us to leave after all,’ mused Killigrew, leading the way between two single-storey thatched buildings.
Behind them torches and lanterns were being lit throughout the barracoon. Killigrew was tempted to find the slave pens to release all the slaves, using the confusion he would thus cause to effect his own escape. But the slaves would be locked in, fettered and shackled and under heavy guard. Releasing them would have to wait for another day, when he came back with reinforcements to destroy the barracoon once and for all. The only way he could make sure of that was to get out alive.
They plunged into the bushes beneath some trees, blundering through the thick undergrowth until he was sure they had lost their pursuers. He became aware that Miss Chance was pulling back against him, trying to slow him. ‘Stop!’ she hissed. ‘We can’t go anywhere without my brother!’
‘I don’t intend to.’ He stopped to get his bearings. All around them the jungle was alive with the croaking of frogs and the chirruping of insects, but the sounds of pursuit were distant. ‘They can’t search the whole jungle for us and they won’t be able to follow our tracks until it gets light, so we’ve got a few hours at least. They’ll expect us to make for the shore and follow the coast south to Monrovia.’ He glanced around. There were no less than four watchtowers, one at each corner of the barracoon, and he could just make them out against the purple night sky. Using his trained seaman’s eye, he took a bearing on each of them so he could find his way back to where he stood now.
She suddenly pecked him on the cheek. He regarded her with gentle amusement. ‘What was that for?’
‘Thank you. You were wonderful back there.’
‘You were rather splendid yourself, if I may say so. Can’t say I’ve known many young ladies who’d’ve handled themselves as well as you did tonight. But we’re not out of it yet. Do you think you can climb up this tree?’
She looked up at the branches overhead. ‘Certainly, but why?’
‘You’ll be safe up there. If anyone does come by, just stay very still and keep quiet. You’d be amazed by how few people ever bother to look upwards when they’re searching for someone.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To fetch your brother. And to make sure they don’t use the Leopardo to ship any slaves out of here before I can come back to destroy this place.’
‘Why can’t I come with you?’
‘Do you think you can swim half a mile?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘Can you?’
‘I’ll have to. Sit tight. I’ll be back, I promise,’ he added, conscious that time was against them.
Fronds and creepers lashed at him as he stumbled through the darkness. He knew he might blunder into the trunk of a tree at any moment, but he was racing against time now, knowing he had to get well away from the barracoon with Miss Chance and her brother by sun-up. The unmistakable sound of the surf booming on the shore guided him. He crashed through the undergrowth, tripped over a root, and suddenly found himself rolling over and over on fine, dry sand.
He stopped himself and scrambled back into the trees in case anyone was watching the beach. A full tropical moon cast its pale yellow light over the scene, and he could see the Leopardo anchored about half a mile out to sea. He hoped that the Reverend Chance was sufficiently recovered from his blow on the head for Killigrew to get him off the ship.
He sat down and unlaced his half-boots. He was not worried about sharks, at least not much. He was more worried that Salazar’s men might be expecting him and Miss Chance to make for the beach; perhaps they were already watching the sand from the trees further up the beach, with their rifles primed and loaded. Still, the longer Killigrew left it the greater the danger became. He knew his chances of salvaging any kind of victory against the slavers were now slim, but he had reached the stage where there was nothing he could do but plough on and hope for the best. It was his duty to get out of this alive, not only for his sake and that of the Chances, but also for the slaves in the pens, both present and future.
He dashed out of the trees and sprinted across the white sand, half expecting a fusillade of shots to blast out of the night behind him. But there were no shots, no shouts, nothing. When Salazar and his men came to the beach – as they must do, sooner or later – they would see his footsteps in the sand. What would they make of them? Would they guess what he was up to? Perhaps not: it was so bold, he could hardly believe he was attempting it himself.
He splashed through the surf, deeper and deeper, until he could dive into the water and pull himself through the breakers with a strong crawl stroke. There was a strong current running across the coast and he had to stop every few minutes, pacing himself and redirecting himself towards the ship again. When it was only a cable’s length away he used a s
ilent breast-stroke so as not to alert anyone on deck of his approach, but as the Leopardo’s hull loomed above him a better idea occurred to him.
He trod water alongside the hull and waved an arm above his head. ‘Hey, Covilhã! Ahoy there! Anyone up there?’
A man’s head appeared silhouetted above him. ‘Who’s there?’
‘That you, Covilhã? Throw me a line, for God’s sake. Then weigh anchor and make sail. We’ve got to get out of here.’
A rope was thrown down from the side and Killigrew pulled himself up it, his stockinged feet braced against the brig’s side. He was surprised by how much effort it took him just to climb aboard: the swim had drained him more than he had realised. As he scrambled over the bulwark, he saw the other members of the crew gathered on deck. ‘Don’t just stand there, for Christ’s sake! Man the capstan! We’ve got to get moving straight away.’
‘I take my orders from the capitão, not you,’ snarled Covilhã.
‘Not any more. He’s dead. So are Coffin and the others. Wake up and look lively there, man! It’s an ambush – the British were waiting for us. They must’ve taken the barracoon before we got here. There’s no sign of Salazar and the others. I was lucky to get away with my life.’
Killigrew managed to project the right amount of urgency and panic into his voice to convince the boatswain, who turned to his men: ‘You heard Senhor Killigrew! Man the capstan!’ he ordered. ‘Away aloft! Which way do we sail?’
‘I don’t know,’ snapped Killigrew. ‘Away from the coast, out to sea, to start with. There’s probably a British cruiser waiting up the coast to close the trap, a steamer like as not. I’ll go down to the chart room and plot us a new course.’ Covilhã nodded and Killigrew left him and the crew busily preparing to set sail while he went below deck. He made his way forward to the sick bay where the Reverend Chance lay on the cot. Dr Pereira was dozing in his chair. Killigrew went to the cot and tried to shake Chance awake, but at once saw by the light of the oil lamp that nothing would ever wake the clergyman again. He was dead, as stiff as a board, his face twisted into a ghastly rictus. He had not died easily.
Pereira stirred and looked up at him. ‘What… what’s wrong?’
‘What happened here?’
Pereira looked puzzled. ‘He… he’s dead, senhor.'
‘I can see that,’ snapped Killigrew. ‘How?’
‘I used the strychnine.’ He gestured to where a brown bottle stood on a shelf. ‘Isn’t that what Capitão Madison wanted?’
Killigrew felt sickened. He regarded the surgeon in contempt. ‘You murdered him? In cold blood?’
‘I… I was only obeying orders, senhor!’ protested Pereira.
‘Well, I’ve got new orders for you.’ Killigrew took the bottle from the shelf and removed the stopper. There was still plenty of poison left. He held it out to the surgeon. ‘Drink.’
Sweat broke out on Pereira’s brow. ‘Please, senhor… no!’
‘Drink it! All of it.’
‘Please, senhor, I beg you…’ Pereira tried to dodge past Killigrew in his panic but Killigrew tripped him up. Pereira sprawled on the deck and as he rolled over on his back Killigrew sat on his chest. As he tried to pour the poison between Pereira’s lips, the surgeon clamped his mouth firmly shut. Killigrew punched him in the throat and when he opened his mouth to gasp Killigrew thrust the neck of the bottle between his teeth. He pinched the surgeon’s nose, closing his nostrils and forcing him to swallow.
‘Have a taste of your own medicine,’ Killigrew suggested grimly.
Pereira thrashed about wildly, first in terror and then as the spasms gripped his body. Fortunately the sound of the anchor chains rattling through the hawse-hole smothered the hammering of the surgeon’s limbs against the deck. His teeth clamped down so hard on the neck of the bottle they smashed it, but by then he was already as good as dead. Killigrew snatched the pillow from under Chance’s head and smothered it over Pereira’s face to stifle his horrid gurgling and retching. After a few moments he lay still.
Killigrew stood up, as sickened by what he himself had just done as he had been by the reverend’s murder. Was he any better than the slavers were, at heart…?
‘Que…?’
He whirled to see Covilhã standing in the entrance to the sick bay, staring down at Pereira’s body. Killigrew glanced around for something he could use as a weapon, but Covilhã quickly pulled his pistol from his belt and levelled it at him. ‘I do not know what you are doing, senhor, but I think you were lying about the Royal Navy ambushing Capitão Madison and Senhor Coffin. I think it is you who is working for the Royal Navy…’
Killigrew raised his hands. ‘You have to trust me. You don’t understand. It was Pereira who was the spy, not me…’
‘I have had enough of your lies, senhor.’ Covilhã raised his arm and levelled the pistol between Killigrew’s eyes.
Killigrew braced himself for the shock of the ball smashing into his skull and prayed that the pain would be short-lived.
There came the sound of a soft ‘chunk’ and Covilhã’s grip on the pistol faltered as blood trickled down his face. Killigrew stared in astonishment and saw a butcher’s cleaver embedded in his skull. The boatswain’s knees gave way and he crumpled, revealing the broad-shouldered shape of the ship’s cook standing behind him.
‘Doc,’ said Killigrew. ‘I can explain everything…’
‘Don’t bother. I know exactly who you are and what you’re up to. You’re working for Rear-Admiral Napier, aren’t you?’
‘No, that’s a…’ Killigrew frowned. ‘How the devil do you know?’
Doc grinned. ‘Because I’m working for him, too.’ Doc’s pidgin-patois was gone, replaced by what sounded suspiciously like a London accent. ‘Able Seaman Wes Molineaux, at your service, sir. The rear-admiral asked me to keep an eye on you. Looks like it was a good thing he did, too.’
‘He might’ve let me know.’ Killigrew eyed Molineaux dubiously. God knows, he needed all the friends he could get right now, but he was not sure if the black could be trusted. Certainly Molineaux was not on the side of the slavers, for if he had been he had had nothing to gain and everything to lose by killing Covilhã; and it would not have been unlike Napier to have sent Killigrew such an unusual guardian angel. He decided he had no choice but to trust his new-found friend.
Molineaux eyed Chance’s corpse on the cot and then lowered his gaze to where Pereira lay beneath Covilhã. ‘Did you hush the quack?’
‘Yes.’
‘Plummy for you. Never did like him. What’s the plan, boss? You have got a plan, haven’t you?’
‘Yes. And it’s “lieutenant” or “sir” to you, Able Seaman. Not “boss”.’
Molineaux grinned. ‘I know all about you, Killigrew. You may not have killed that ankle-biter, but it was a real court-martial that cashiered you. So until the day you get your rank back – if it ever comes – I’ll call you what I like. In fact, seeing as how I’m an able seaman and you’re just a plain civilian, I reckon it should be me who’s giving the orders.’
‘We’ll worry about that later. First of all we’ve got to destroy this ship. You go to the hold and set one of the powder kegs to explode in ten minutes’ time; I’ll see if I can break into Madison’s safe and find anything interesting.’
‘You know all about cracking peters, do you?’
‘How difficult can it be?’
‘Bearing in mind a safe is a box which has been specifically designed to stop people from breaking into them—’
‘And you’re an expert, I suppose?’ Killigrew snapped impatiently.
‘As it happens, yes. That’s why the rear-admiral chose me for this job.’
Killigrew nodded. He had already guessed from Molineaux’s use of thieves’ cant that the seaman had not always worked on the right side of the law. ‘I’m surprised he bothered to involve me in this at all. You seem to know all the wrinkles.’
‘The rear-admiral figured a ship’s officer would have a be
tter chance of learning something from Madison than a black cook. Seems he was wrong, though.’
‘Save the sauce for later. We’ve got work to do. I’ll meet you in Madison’s day room in five minutes.’
Molineaux had sense enough not to argue. As he headed aft, Killigrew took down the oil lamp and fetched a candle from the purser’s store and a coil of rope from the boatswain’s locker. He looped the coil over one shoulder and slipped into the hold. He could hear the sailors moving about on deck above, and the timbers began to creak as the masts took up the strain of the billowing sails.
Killigrew put the oil lamp down on one of the kegs of gunpowder stowed in the hold and took his clasp knife from his pocket. He broached the top of another keg, wincing at the sound of the wood splintering, and prayed that no one on deck had heard it. Then he stirred the powder in the keg with his hands, hoping it had not separated into its constituent parts during the voyage. He scooped it up to one side, so that the surface of the powder in the keg formed as steep a slope as possible.
Now for the delicate part.
He took the candle out of his pocket, and cut it all off but for one inch. Lifting the glass cover from the oil lamp, he lit the stub of the candle. Holding his breath, he planted it in the powder. As the candle burned down, the powder would slide down to fill in the void, until at last it came into contact with the flame.
Still holding his breath, he replaced the glass cover on the oil lamp and backed away from where the candle flickered over the charcoal-covered powder. As the deck rolled the candle listed slightly and Killigrew’s heart leaped into his mouth. Then it seemed to settle down. He hurried out of the hold and headed aft to Madison’s day room.
