Floating Madhouse Page 14

  Close to the mark: could have been only his imagination, but the tone of it implied ‘if you could have torn yourself away from Paris’. Or ‘from Tasha’, even. Imagination arising from the fact that that was what was on one’s own mind, what actually mattered. Keeping one’s own expression friendly in a way that one was uncomfortably aware of as being duplicitous, while reassuring oneself that even if Prince Igor did know that his wife and daughter had spent a few days with him in Paris before going on down to Yalta, he would surely not have tipped-off his future son-in-law. Explaining casually, ‘I thought I had several days in hand. And was amongst friends there, of course. Gave me a shock, when I heard from the embassy…’

  ‘No accident either.’ Rojhestvensky shook his massive head. ‘I wasn’t telling the world – especially the monkey-world…’

  They were in the admiral’s sea-cabin, behind the forebridge. Had there been no admiral on board, Michael had learnt from Sollogub, it would have been the ship’s captain’s; the little cupboard into which Ignatzius had had to move would normally have been the navigating officer’s sea-cabin, and he – Sidorenko, the navigator, alternatively Sollogub his assistant – was having to make-do with the settee in the chart-room. Not ideal arrangements, in a battleship that obviously had to be prepared to embark an admiral and his staff. The architect would have insisted that this was a flag officer’s accommodation, only happened to be useable by less exalted persons when the ship was ‘private’, i.e. not a flagship; but it would also account for Ignatzius taking his meals in the wardroom – his own preference obviously, since as flag captain he should have messed with the admiral and his senior staff.

  They’d anchored at nearer three p.m. than three-thirty, and it was now about four-thirty. Outside and on the decks below was bedlam – gun-salutes, boats queuing to get to the quarterdeck gangway, bringing other ships’ captains and shore officials in gaudy clothing and tarbooshes: a few top-hats even. Russians were welcome here, apparently; although Morocco was a French protectorate the Sultan had decreed that the Second Squadron could stay as long as it liked. Twelve colliers had been waiting for them; coaling was to commence this evening – in an hour or two – and be finished by daylight. The hope was to put out to sea some time tomorrow.

  Rojhestvensky, in full-dress uniform decorated with stars and orders, was going ashore presently to pay an official call on the Sultan.

  ‘Well, Captain…’

  Glancing at the time… Zakharov got up quickly: ‘Yes, Excellency. I’ll be off – I’ll take Genderson with me. Good of you to see me, when you have so much pressing business.’

  ‘Genderson was half-expecting to be landed here, I gather.’ The admiral heaved himself to his feet. ‘Or was it at Vigo? Expecting a declaration of war – a night attack by the cruisers that have been following us about, I dare say. Mind you, they can handle their ships, those fellows, one has to admit it. But I’m glad, Genderson, it won’t be up to me to hang you or shoot you.’

  ‘I’m relieved for your sake, Excellency.’

  ‘I believe they’re right for once, those dolts in the wardroom. For an Englishman, you’re not such a bad fellow.’ The hand was extended: ‘We’ll meet again, no doubt.’

  ‘Thank you for your hospitality, sir.’

  ‘My regards to Prince Ivan, should you be writing.’

  Zakharov asked him on their way down to the upper deck, ‘Were they celebrating, on your way in here?’

  ‘The Tsar’s accession. Yes.’

  There’d been a lot of vodka around, during the forenoon and at lunch-time, on the messdecks as well as in the wardroom. It was the tenth anniversary of Tsar Nikolai’s accession – accession as distinct from coronation. When they’d been anchoring here he’d seen foc’sl hands actually staggering, and several officers in no better state. Zakharov must have noticed something of that sort too; his tone of voice made it plain he didn’t like it. Telling Michael, ‘We’ll be having our own quiet celebration on board this evening.’

  ‘Have you already coaled?’

  ‘Yesterday. Felkerzam’s ships the same, including the destroyers. They’ll be off early in the morning, the admiral was telling me.’

  ‘And we follow?’

  ‘No. He’s sending them with the destroyers through the Mediterranean and the Suez Canal. The rest of us he’s taking round the Cape, to rendezvous with Felkerzam at Diego Suarez – Madagascar.’

  Madagascar. You’d be about two-thirds of the way, there. Have only to cross the Indian Ocean and the southwest Pacific. Only…

  The Ryazan’s steam cutter had been lying off, and was called alongside now by von Kursel, who was officer of the watch. Michael excused himself for a moment and went below to the wardroom to say goodbye to the twenty or so officers who were there – some less inebriated than others – but neither Flagmansky nor Narumov was present. The puppy was there, fast asleep – had had a few too many, it was alleged – and Flagmansky, they said, was getting himself slicked up to go ashore. He was after girls, was so desperate for them that he was ignoring warnings he’d been given about dogs being trapped and eaten in such places as this. Rasschakovsky at this point pushed through, grasped Michael’s hand and wrung it, muttered, ‘Go with God, my friend,’ and shuffled away, leaving Michael surprised, staring after him. Sollogub explained, ‘Afanasy – Aurora’s chaplain – died on the way down here. They buried him at sea. Listen, Mikhail Ivan’ich, when there’s a chance to come visiting…’ He came up to the quarterdeck with him: Michael checking that his tin trunk and suitcase were already in the boat, then joining Zakharov who was chatting with – or being chattered at by – Selyeznov, who remarked as Michael and Sollogub joined them, ‘This Englishman and I met at the frontier post at Wirballen, both of us on our way to Libau. In fact we’d seen each other on the railway station in Paris and then again in Berlin. Then end up here. Extraordinary, really!’

  ‘What had you been up to in Paris?’

  Asking Selyeznov, not Michael… Selyeznov looking at him in surprise – as if Zakharov should have known that he was addressing the hero of Round Island, back from internment in Saigon and thirsting for yet more action. While Michael was thinking that if that question had been addressed to him he might have answered, ‘Oh, making love to your fiancée…’ Her image would be in his mind every time he saw or spoke with Zakharov. In Zakharov’s too, mightn’t it be – irrespective of the subject of their exchanges? Hearing Selyeznov’s grudging explanation – addressing this man who was probably younger than himself but now senior in rank – the sort of thing Selyeznov would be very conscious of – telling Zakharov stiffly, ‘I had arrived from Saigon via Marseilles. The cruiser Diana, of which I had the honour to be second-in-command—’

  ‘Oh, the Diana.’ Zakharov glanced away: at von Kursel waiting for him at the gangway’s head. ‘Yes, of course. A casualty of Round Island. You did well to get her away.’

  ‘Our achievement, actually, was to keep her afloat. The worst action damage I ever saw. And of course as executive officer it fell on my shoulders—’

  ‘I’ll tell him all about it. Cutter’s alongside, bit of a rush.’ Michael put his hand out: ‘Thanks for all your help, Vladimir Petrovich. See you from time to time, I hope.’ Turning to shake hands quickly and warmly with Nick Sollogub then, asking him to say goodbye to Narumov for him; then preceding Zakharov down into the boat’s sternsheets. As in the Royal Navy, the more senior officer, in this case Zakharov, got into a boat last and disembarked from it first. He was glad of the swiftness of this escape though – Selyeznov’s starting to talk about Paris and their having seen each other at the Gare du Nord; the truth of it being that the little man’s eyes had been focused exclusively on Tasha at that time, and garrulous as he was he might well have come out with some arch comment – as indeed he had once to Michael, referring to ‘the beautiful young lady who seemed close to tears at your imminent departure’.

  Michael had ignored it: had decided that if the subject came up again
he’d say it had been his sister-in-law who’d come over from England to see him off. In a conventional sort of way Jane wasn’t bad to look at, as it happened. He asked Zakharov as the boat pushed off and got going towards the cruiser anchorage, beyond the transports and auxiliaries, ‘Would you happen to know if there’s been any mail for me?’

  ‘Uh?’ He’d been studying the ships they were passing. There was a bit of a swell running, which Michael hadn’t noticed until they’d embarked. There was no shelter to speak of, in this huge stretch of water; in fact if it blew up at all, coaling might become impossible, although some of the colliers back there had already begun shortening-in their cables in preparation for going alongside the Suvarov’s. Zakharov had glanced round at him in surprise – even slight irritation – at the question about mail. A shake of the head: ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought they’d have brought them to you, if there were any. Letters from England, you know.’

  ‘Ah. Well, in that case, no.’

  He hardly moved his lips when he spoke. This was what gave him the wooden look. The thin lips just parted slightly, and the words came out. He was pointing ahead now towards the transports: ‘See that?’

  A rusty old steamer with what looked like a chicken-house on her well-deck. She was flying a Russian naval ensign though, was evidently a unit of this squadron. He looked queryingly at Zakharov, who told him, ‘The Kamchatka. Repair-ship, so-called. God knows how her skipper found his way here. Did you hear that stream of cock-and-bull the night your fishermen attacked us?’

  Michael smiled, acknowledging the joke, which was also a surprising admission of the squadron’s colossal blunder – and a first hint of any irony or humour in the man. ‘But you weren’t—’

  ‘We were close enough to listen-in. Even on the erratic German wireless. But then I was also investigating. What that fellow was shooting at was a Swedish cargo vessel, a German trawler and a French schooner. Liberal with his favours you see – especially when drunk.’

  ‘Incredible.’ Studying the broad-beamed, rust-streaked hull as the cutter chuffed close under the Kamchatka’s stern. ‘You say you investigated?’

  ‘There was a theory about minelayers in the squadron’s path, foreign vessels of diverse types chartered by the Japanese. I personally considered this was more likely than the torpedo-boat stories, and I chose to interpret my briefing in that way – took a close look at all of ’em and boarded several. We may well be at the same game in the later stages, too. Now there, Mikhail Ivan’ich, is my Ryazan. Not a bad looker – eh?’

  She was anchored at the end of a line comprising the Aurora, Nakhimov and Donskoi. Nakhimov flying the cruiser admiral’s – Enqvist’s – flag. Beyond were the light cruisers – Svetlana, Zhemchug and Almaz. But Ryazan was indeed not a bad looking ship: in comparison with her elderly neighbours, in fact, she looked positively stylish. Michael remembered that he’d liked the look of her when Zakharov had come visiting off Brighton.

  ‘Very fine, Nikolai Timofeyevich. Incidentally, I hadn’t realized the only other ship in her class is the Oleg.’

  ‘It’s not. There are two others – in the Black Sea fleet. The Otchakov and the Kagoul. I had the Otchakov from the day she was launched, at Sevastopol in nineteen hundred and two.’ Nodding towards Ryazan. ‘So this one I couldn’t know better if she were my sister. There’s not a ship afloat I’d rather have.’

  Michael nodded. ‘You’re a lucky man.’

  ‘In more ways than one, I might add. But you need more than luck. In this navy, in any case. More even than luck plus ability.’ Following the direction in which Michael was then looking – at a handsome white-painted ship – passenger transport of some kind – anchored on her own beyond the Ryazan, her whiteness an eye-catching contrast to so much sombre black. Definitely a passenger-ship – with what they’d call a promenade deck – and similarly right aft, that raised, railed poop. Looking back at Zakharov, waiting for him to continue, to tell him what it was a man needed as well as luck plus professional ability: because it could only be influence and connections, in Zakharov’s own case the patronage of the Volodnyakovs which had already led to his getting this command and promotion to captain first rank. Although, if his abilities were outstanding – as Prince Ivan had asserted they were – by the age of forty-four you’d have expected him to have achieved that rank at least.

  He wasn’t developing the theme, though. Nor following-up on the ‘lucky man in more ways than one’ remark. Not yet, anyway. But forty-four, for God’s sake, to Tasha’s just eighteen: Michael asking himself for the umpteenth time So what are you worrying about? Forty-four-year-old hand meanwhile gesturing towards the white-painted ship – five or six thousand tons, clipper bow, two slightly raked funnels, two masts raked to exactly the same degree. Those masts had carried yards and sails not so many years ago; she’d have been conned from that poop where her wheel and binnacle would have been.

  ‘Know what she is?’

  Not exactly difficult – with a green band around the white hull and red crosses on her funnels. And as well as the Russian merchant-navy ensign, a Red Cross flag at the mizzen. Glancing at Zakharov: ‘Hospital-ship. She coming with us?’

  ‘Indeed she is. The Orel. Arrived this morning, from the Black Sea. One hundred volunteer nurses on board – some of them the daughters of noblemen, I’m told.’

  ‘Well, good for them!’

  ‘Could lead to problems, though. The admiral has asked me to keep an eye on her – when we have her in company, that is. Now listen: the first thing I’ll do is introduce you to my officers. Several of them are men I’ve had with me before. Even some of my NCOs – the chief quartermaster and chief bosun for instance – I was able to have drafted from the Black Sea. You’ll notice white caps here and there – not cap covers, the caps themselves. That’s Black Sea gear; some of ’em didn’t have time to re-equip. But as far as you’re concerned, Mikhail Ivan’ich – a word in your ear, privately, while we have the chance – I would not have chosen to bring you with us, but since I agreed to and you’re here, my inclination is to treat you, as far as possible, as one of ourselves.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  The boat was slowing as it chuffed in to pass around the Ryazan’s high, black-painted stern. There were men up there on the quarterdeck, others at work around the stern 6-inch turret and the casement – another pair of 6-inch – on this quarter. There wasn’t much superstructure aft here: a fairly low after conning position built around the mainmast-step, with a searchlight and 3-pounder deck above it. The boat chugging slowly now, under helm, bowman and sternsheetman standing by with boathooks, having slung rope fenders over. Zakharov was saying, ‘We’ll find employment for you. You’re a navigator, as I recollect. Probably of greater experience than my own pilot – whom I don’t know well but seems competent enough, a senior lieutenant by name Radzianko. He was an applicant to join the squadron – in fact to the admiral’s chief of staff, who passed him on to me when my own choice for the job had his knee smashed by a cab-horse. Yes, can you believe it… Understand me, I wouldn’t want you to seem to be treading on the fellow’s heels, but you might – assist him. We’ll get you settled in, then see how it goes. Agreed?’

  * * *

  Yet another batch of new faces and names to memorize: hard work initially, as it had been on the Suvarov. So far he’d met only the officer of the watch, a michman by name of Dukhonin – visual-mental note of wispy blond beard, Adam’s apple – and the ship’s second-in-command, Captain Second Rank Burmin – balding, with a wide head and broad, strong jaw, brown moustache and sideboards, gruffly reserved manner. Zakharov led the way down to the main deck and turned forward, passing what he said was the wardroom on the port side and continuing past rows of cabins to one on the starboard side with its door latched open. ‘Here you are.’ Tapping a card that was pasted on it: Starshi Leitnant Genderson.

  ‘All right?’

  ‘Splendid.’ In fact, much as
one would have expected – room to swing a small cat round, a high bunk with drawers under it, narrow wardrobe cupboard, hand-basin, a wooden flap that hinged down to make a desk, and a chair to sit on. The desk-top was folded up against the bulkhead: his eyes had gone to it and the top of the bunk in search of letters, and drawn blank. All spick and span though – as from the moment of stepping on to the gangway out there he’d noticed the ship herself was externally, despite having put in a lot of sea-time recently. Through the brass-rimmed scuttle above the bunk he saw again the white-painted hospital-ship, the Orel, the Ryazan’s, nearest neighbour in this wide anchorage. He turned back: ‘Very decent of you, giving me a cabin to myself.’

  ‘Two michmen doubled-up, elsewhere. But wardroom now, for introductions. They’ll be waiting for us.’ He led back the way they’d come. ‘I’ll be dining in the wardroom tonight – by invitation, a celebratory dinner. I dare say we’ll have a chance to discuss more private matters, sometime during the evening.’

  ‘Fine…’

  ‘As routine, I have meals in my own day-cabin –’ a wave of the hand – ‘back aft there. Or at sea, on the bridge. As I’m sure it would be in your own navy. From time to time I’ll invite you to share a meal, of course. Now, here we are…’

  Pushing into the wardroom – a space about forty feet by twenty, with the dining-table and sideboard and hatch to the pantry and galley at the for’ard end, this part furnished with chairs and settees; very much as in the Suvarov, only smaller. A number of officers were getting to their feet to meet their C.O. and his guest: and Burmin, the commander, who had come down from the quarterdeck, was arriving now behind them. Zakharov told Michael, ‘Pyotr Fedorovich here, whom you’ve met, as my second-in-command is of course president of this mess.’ He raised his voice: ‘Gentlemen, I present to you Mikhail Ivan’ich Genderson, who is a senior lieutenant in the British navy but in mitigation of that has as much Russian as English blood in his veins and as you already know is joining us on board as my personal guest. I expect we’ll find him some work to do – he speaks reasonably good Russian, and I’m anxious he should not be regarded simply as a foreign passenger. I hope to have your co-operation in this – strange as it may seem, in the circumstances –’ a wave of one hand – ‘such as English cruisers following us around… So, Mikhail Ivan’ich – introducing one navigating officer to another, this is Victor Vasil’ich Radzianko.’ A tallish but also fattish man of about Michael’s own age – dark-haired, clean-shaven except for a small moustache – offering him his hand: ‘Delighted, Lieutenant.’ Overweight, with a soft look about him and a weak handshake. Russians in fact didn’t go in much for firm ones, but it was the softness of the hand itself that one noticed in this case. Torpedo Lieutenant Galikovsky then: full moustache, pointed beard, anxious-looking eyes: but he’d stand up under pressure better than Radzianko would, Michael guessed. Now Senior Lieutenant Murayev, the gunnery lieutenant – black moustache, squarish face, bulbous nose. And – in contrast – the paymaster, Lyalin. As an aide-mémoire, ‘pay’ matching ‘pale’ – also some resemblance to a ferret. Two engineer officers now – Arkoleyev and Skalinin, the first red-headed and the second bald; and in rapid succession thereafter watchkeeping and gunnery-department lieutenants and michmen, lieutenants Milyukov, Konyev, Tselinyev – hooked nose and long chin, resemblance to Mr Punch – Karasyov, Abramsky; and michmen Count Provatorov, Rimsky, Pepelyayev, Denisov, Vortzin, Egorov… As well as that one on the quarterdeck, of course, Dukhonin. They’d become established in one’s mind soon enough, names attaching themselves to faces and functions, surnames linking as if inevitably to Christian names and patronymics. One had only to give it time and let it happen; try too hard and the memory would seize up. He was shaking hands with the doctor now – Baranov, a small man with shrewd black eyes and jug ears, asking Michael about his Russian parentage, and where he’d served during his Royal Navy service this far, and why had he wanted to risk his neck by coming along on this ill-fated voyage.