Floating Madhouse Read online

  The Floating Madhouse

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

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  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  Factual Note

  Also by Alexander Fullerton…

  Copyright

  The Floating Madhouse

  Alexander Fullerton

  1

  The train gushed steam as it clanked to a halt at Wirballen, the Russian frontier station where passengers were obliged to disembark and have their baggage checked. It was necessary to change trains here anyway – for the wider Russian gauge; wider and slower track. It was a dismal-looking place: grimy platform lit gloomily by oil-lamps and a fall-out of weak light from the train itself, railwaymen and porters sucking pipes and soldiers looking as if they’d been asleep on their feet like cattle. There was a lot of noise. Michael was glad he hadn’t let Tasha come this far with him from Paris: she’d wanted to postpone their final goodbye to the last possible minute then continue her own journey to Petersburg – and eventually, Yalta – but he’d argued against it, and for the soundest of reasons her mother had supported him.

  A headstrong girl, was Tasha. As well as beautiful. And not much more than half his own age. No sense of guilt in that now: only a kind of bewilderment mixed in with the exhilaration. He was out, on the Wirballen platform, Tasha still in his mind even while he was telling an old bent-backed mujhik of a porter, ‘A metal trunk to come out of there.’ His luggage consisted of that – one japanned-tin uniform trunk with M.J. Henderson RN lengthwise on its lid in Messrs Gieves’ standard script, and this leather suitcase in a canvas, strapped-on cover; his name was stencilled on that too. He’d dumped it on the porter’s handcart and was buttoning his covert coat against the chill of the autumn night when a voice on his other side demanded in a fruity, rounded tone, ‘Might we share this contraption, sir?’

  It was the rather comic-looking Russian whom he’d seen first in Paris and then in Berlin when changing trains. At the Gare du Nord he’d noticed him because he’d seemed to be taking a close interest in Tasha; Michael had been concerned that he might have been an agent of Prince Igor’s, spying on them. Then some hours later in a ticket office in Berlin, the same individual had tried to strike up a conversation on the strength of having heard Michael ask the clerk for confirmation that the quickest route to Libau was to change at this Wirballen place rather than somewhere further along the line towards St Petersburg: the Russian had cut in excitedly, ‘Oh, is that the case? I’m for Libau, and with not a moment to waste, so – why, great heavens, what luck that I heard you mention—’

  Gobble gobble; decidedly turkey-like. Michael had pretended not to realize that it had been directed at him; he’d walked out on it and then made himself scarce, seen which part of the train the little man got into and taken care to put several coaches between them. For one thing he had plenty to think about – notably, of course, Tasha – and didn’t want conversation, especially having to explain himself, and for another this fellow was odd-looking, his clothes neither fitting him nor matching his pompous manner of speech. The long black overcoat was tight on his shoulders and so long-skirted that it just about brushed the paving, and he had on a soft hat that was at least a size too large: despite which peculiarities he seemed to be aiming for a military look: shoulders braced, head back – to see upward under the hat’s brim, no doubt; a comedy act it might well have been. But the destination of Libau – a port on the coast of Lithuania – gave one the clue: what the Russians were referring to as their Second Pacific Squadron had been assembling there, prior to its departure for the Far East, was in fact likely to be pushing off again in only a few hours – maybe at first light.

  He’d nodded to this Russian about sharing the porter. After all, if he was going to be stuck with him on the next stage of the journey… ‘If you like. Customs as I remember are in that building there.’

  ‘Ah. Is that so? Well – thank you.’ He was a lot shorter than Michael: round-faced, with a bushy brown moustache and small bulging eyes. Despite which it seemed probable that he was an officer in the Imperial Russian Navy – being in such a hurry to reach Libau, and travelling first class. Grasping the old porter’s arm now, gesturing with the other hand towards a bulky, battered-looking portmanteau which he’d dumped a few feet away, urging the old man, ‘This one too. Inside with it all – and double-quick, if you’re expecting to be rewarded for performing no more than your duty – uh?’ A bark of humourless mirth, and the peasant’s face like grey pumice, slitted eyes sliding away so as not to show too clearly the resentment in the brain behind them: this would-be genial whatever-he-was either not registering it or so used to provoking hostility in his social inferiors that he took that reaction as standard and didn’t give a damn. Asking Michael however in a contrastingly courteous tone, ‘May I enquire the purpose of your travelling to Libau, sir?’

  Michael gazed down at him for long enough to let him know that it was not his habit or inclination readily to satisfy a complete stranger’s curiosity. Then shrugged: ‘I’d guess much the same as your own.’

  ‘Aren’t you an Englishman? The name on your baggage – and if I may say so – without intending the least offence – your accent—’

  ‘I’m as Russian as I am English, as it happens.’ Remembering Tasha having put it more positively, about three years ago – in her mother’s house at Yalta, this had been, Tasha just fifteen then, for God’s sake – telling him, ‘You’re certainly more Russian than the Tsar, Michael!’ Perfect truth at that, since the Tsar was only about one per cent Russian, with so many of his forebears having married Germans. And he – Tsar Nikolai II – had followed in the family tradition, marrying Queen Victoria’s grand-daughter, the Princess Alix of Hesse-Darmstadt. Their progeny, indeed – if the truth were to be acknowledged, which it probably would not be, anyway not in much more than a murmur – could hardly claim to be Russian at all. Michael nodded to the porter: ‘Yes – this gentleman’s as well.’ He added, unnecessarily but to make up for the other’s boorishness, ‘If you please.’

  ‘Right away, your honour.’

  ‘Get on with it then!’ The Russian again – one contemptuous glance before turning back to Michael. ‘Permit me to introduce myself – Selyeznov, Vladimir Petrovich, captain second rank. Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir.’

  ‘Henderson – Mikhail Ivan’ich.’ Meaning, ‘Michael son of John’. He added, ‘Senior lieutenant, Royal Navy.’ In Russian, ‘senior lieutenant’ was starshi leitnant, whereas Selyeznov’s ‘captain second rank’ would translate into English as commander, putting them in effect only one rank apart. At this time – 1904 – there was no such rank in the Royal Navy as lieutenant-commander. A lieutenant became a senior lieutenant after eight years in the rank, putting an extra half-stripe on his sleeve at that stage and hoping in as short a time as possible to make it to commander. Michael added, seeing the sharp interest – suspicion, even – in the piggy little eyes, ‘You’re wondering what I’m doing here – when my country’s in alliance with Japan, with whom you’re at war.’

  ‘I confess – although I’m sure there’s a perfectly good explanation—’

  They were approaching the entrance to the customs shed – double doors, soldiers ostensibly on guard, passengers and porters squeezing in and out – the old m
an with their baggage on his cart waiting for an opening in the throng ahead of him, glancing apologetically back at Michael through the haze of cigarette and pipe smoke. Michael confirmed to the little Russian, ‘I have papers that explain it – if you’d like to see them. The situation is somewhat bizarre.’

  ‘May I ask by whom were the papers issued?’

  ‘General Naval Staff at Petersburg – on the authority of Admiral Prince Ivan Volodnyakov. At Libau I’m to join the cruiser Ryazan.'

  ‘Our newest and fastest, eh? Indeed, I envy you! But joining her as what? Etranger de distinction, evidently, but—’

  ‘As an invited observer, might come closer to the mark.’

  ‘And – well, what’s this now?’

  A whistle had shrilled. Blown, he saw, glancing towards the shed again, not by any railway guard – although they’d be shunting this train out soon enough – but by what looked like a colonel or lieutenant-colonel: a tallish man – about Michael’s own height – booted and spurred, in a blue-grey overcoat with wide lapels, a gleam of highly polished boots below it and a silver Russian eagle in his cap-badge. Getting at least a degree of the silence he’d whistled for, he shouted, ‘Selyeznov! Is there by any chance a Captain Selyeznov amongst you?’

  ‘I’m Selyeznov.’ Aside to Michael, ‘Excuse me.’ The little man strutted forward: ‘I’m your man, Colonel! What’s—’

  ‘You are V.P. Selyeznov, Captain of the Second Rank?’ The soldier’s expression showed mild surprise, staring down at this diminutive, outré creature: creature explaining, ‘My turnout, I’m very much aware, sir—’

  ‘Never mind that – if you’re V.P. Selyeznov and you can prove it—’

  ‘I am, and naturally enough—’

  ‘I’ve had a telegram about you. I command this frontier post – for my sins. My name is Abramov. You’re on your way to join the Second Squadron, the flagship – the Knyaz Suvarov – correct?’

  ‘Why, yes!’

  ‘I have been told to ensure you’re on the next train for Libau. Allows us a couple of hours. If you’ll accompany me to our mess I’ll see they give you a meal – and a chance to put your feet up for an hour or so. That suit you, Captain?’

  ‘Extremely kind, sir! May I ask who sent the telegram?’

  ‘The chief of staff to Admiral Rojhestvensky. They must be anxious to get hold of you – uh?’

  ‘Most gratifying. I did telegraph to Rojhestvensky – several weeks ago, from Saigon, as it happens—’

  ‘Saigon in French Indo-China?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll explain. But Colonel, I have a travelling companion here – an Englishman, an officer of the Royal Navy, extraordinarily enough – papers issued in Petersburg he tells me, by the General Naval Staff – he’s for Libau too, apparently…’

  * * *

  Michael had shown them the papers, with Admiral Prince Ivan Volodnyakov’s scrawled signature and the black wax seal: they’d been duly impressed but were obviously still puzzled. Suspicious, possibly: relationships between London and St Petersburg weren’t at their best, for one reason and another. Meanwhile his luggage had been inspected, and the keys returned to him. Selyeznov had asked him whether his own British Admiralty were aware of his presence here, and Michael had told him of course they were; how would he be here if they hadn’t been?

  The truth was that their Lordships of the Admiralty in London, as represented by a Captain White of Naval Intelligence, and the Foreign Office in the person of Sir Robin Arbuthnot, had been tickled pink. The interview with White had taken place at the Admiralty, and that with the urbane, cigar-smoking Arbuthnot at the Athenaeum. In one day, all that business had been finished; all he’d had to do was get himself down to Wiltshire, organize his gear and then dash across to Paris.

  To Tasha.

  Selyeznov asked him, ‘So your main purpose is – to “observe”, you said?’

  ‘To improve my spoken Russian is primarily what I came for. Taking advantage of an invitation to attend a Volodnyakov family occasion: first visit for several years, as it happens.’

  ‘Are you in some way connected with the Volodnyakovs, then?’

  ‘Connected, yes. Not related, now. But to cut the explanation short, out of the family get-together, there sprang this invitation to join the Second Squadron – an honour I’d hardly refuse, eh?’

  ‘Only –’ Selyeznov hooped his eyebrows – ‘if it occurred to you that such acceptance might cost you your life.’

  ‘Indeed, it might.’ Colonel Abramov nodded gloomily. ‘They’re no walk-over it seems, those monkeys!’

  Makaki was this particular type of monkey. It was the Tsar’s name for the Japanese, and therefore fashionable, in quite general use.

  The officers’ mess was only a brisk stroll from the railway station, and the catering was more than adequate, zakuski with vodka being followed by chicken polonaise and sweet Crimean champagne. This – the champanskoye – was a sudden extravagance of the colonel’s, an emotional response to Selyeznov’s explanation of how he’d just returned from the war in the East – nominally from Port Arthur in southern Manchuria, the naval base now under siege by the Japanese by land and sea – but more immediately from Saigon, where his battle-damaged cruiser, the Diana, had been interned by the neutral French and from where he’d taken passage in a Messageries Maritimes steamer via Suez to Marseilles; he’d arrived in Paris only a day or so ago. Disguise had been necessary throughout the journey, since effectively he’d been on the run, his parole having been agreed with the French authorities on the condition that he’d take no further part in the war. Not that they’d have cared: only wouldn’t want to have been seen turning the blind eye. But that was how he’d come to be dressed as he was – they were the only ‘civvies’ he’d been able to get hold of; although by telegram from Marseilles he’d arranged for spare uniform and other personal gear to be delivered on board the flagship.

  The colonel had queried, surprised, ‘So you were – what, the best part of a year in Port Arthur?’

  ‘Not quite that long. I travelled out on the Trans-Siberian railway, to join my ship which was already there – in the First Squadron, you understand.’

  ‘And since then by the sound of it you’ve been knocked about to some extent?’

  ‘Well – in the action on August tenth. And one or two other scraps. Yes, I suppose you might say—’

  ‘Despite which you’re now desperate to join the Second Squadron, get yourself knocked about some more?’

  The little man had risen to his feet. ‘Would a man sit twiddling his thumbs, while his comrades were still out there fighting for their lives?’ He’d spread his rather short arms: ‘Can there ever have been a more appropriate time, I ask you, to cry For the Tsar, for the Faith, for the Motherland?’

  The colonel had swung round on his chair, pointed at an orderly and barked ‘Champagne!’ And now lifting their glasses for toasts both he and Selyeznov had tears in their eyes; Michael not able quite to manage that, but looking solemn enough while reflecting that from the Baltic to the Yellow Sea was roughly eighteen thousand miles, at – what, ten knots, if you were lucky? It certainly wasn’t going to be a fast trip, with some of the old rust-buckets Admiral Rojhestvensky was said to be taking with him. Plain fact was, one was in for bloody months of it: and if one’s messmates turned out to be anything like this idiot…

  Perhaps they wouldn’t be. This one at any rate – Selyeznov – was taking up an appointment on the flagship, the battleship Knyaz Suvarov –— filling a job on Admiral Rojhestvensky’s staff presumably, perhaps for the value of his recent experience of Far Eastern waters and of the Japanese; and one might hope to find a very different crowd of officers on board the new fast cruiser Ryazan.

  Except for her captain – Tasha’s dog-faced fiancé.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Some question Selyeznov had put to him, and now repeated – on the face of it, an example of thought-transference. ‘Do you by any chance know who has co
mmand of the Ryazan?’

  ‘Yes. Zakharov. Nikolai Timofeyevich Zakharov. Captain Second Rank – a contemporary of yours, perhaps – d’you know him?’

  ‘I’ve heard of him. His family are said to be rich. Merchants of some kind – bankers? Despite which he’s said to be a hard-working and ambitious officer. He was recently in the Black Sea Fleet, I believe.’

  Michael nodded. ‘He was when Prince Ivan Volodnyakov was commander-in-chief down there.’

  ‘Hah. One begins to see how two and two make four. Your own connections with the Volodnyakovs—’

  ‘Quite.’ There was no need to go into details. In fact good reason not to. ‘Quite.’

  ‘So Zakharov’s evidently fallen on his feet. To have secured the patronage of Prince Ivan – he won’t be a captain of the second rank for long, I’d guess!’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘You can be sure of it, my friend!’

  ‘It’s the same in the army.’ Abramov shrugged. ‘God knows it is. But –’ he raised his glass – ‘to the ships and men of the Second Squadron, gentlemen! May you return in glory!’

  Certainly the First Squadron, Michael reflected, the ships that had been out there from the start – Selyeznov’s Diana being one of them – didn’t have much glory going for them. Having been thrashed by the Japanese in what was now being referred to as the Battle of Round Island – the action of August 10th, Selyeznov had called it – the surviving batdeships and cruisers were effectively locked up in the Port Arthur harbour, had even – according to Captain White – been landing their guns to be used in shore defences. Guns, and sailors too – sailors being put ashore to fight as artillerymen and infantry. And when the remorselessly advancing Japanese army gained certain heights in the vicinity of the port, those ships would be helpless targets for the besiegers’ artillery.

  He put his glass down again: having this time drunk to the port’s gallant defenders. The question was, could there be any realistic hope of Port Arthur being still in Russian hands when the Second Squadron did finally arrive out there?