Floating Madhouse Read online

  ‘Must have made her reactions clear at least to her mother and father, surely?’

  ‘One would have thought so. But Prince Igor is not the most communicative of men. As he’d see it there’d be no great urgency in any case – in view of where she is and where I am. One can only – naturally – assume that everything is as – as was agreed: and it would be reassuring to hear from you that your own reservations – if they exist at all—’

  ‘Will you be writing to her? Or have you already written?’

  ‘I’ll have to, of course. But there again…’

  Pausing, turning away to put down an empty glass: glancing around the room, at this face and that – and the steward with the brandy decanter starting over towards him. Michael wondering whether he could be as blind to the truth as he seemed to be, could possibly have not seen the look on her face as she’d hurried out of the room, or her mother’s anxiety as she followed her. All right, so in the very brief interval since then he wouldn’t have had a spare minute – getting himself to Petersburg then Kronstadt, taking over this ship and crewing her, working her up into shape to the remarkable extent that he had done, in just weeks – was therefore only now beginning to think about his personal situation…

  ‘What’s this deputation now?’

  Paymaster Lyalin – looking healthier, with a bottle or two of wine inside him – lurching up in a dead-heat with the steward and his decanter, and the square-cut figure of Captain Burmin bringing a box of cigars. All of them having seen the obviously private conversation in progress and tactfully leaving them alone for those few minutes. Lyalin already giving tongue now though, telling Zakharov excitedly that he’d had word – by signal, presumably – of a French-flagged refrigerated cargo-ship, the Espérance, expected tomorrow from Odessa with a thousand tons of fresh meat on board.

  ‘Save us having to start on the salted stuff for quite a while yet. That really is something, sir, isn’t it?’

  ‘Could be a mail in her too. If she’s come directly from Odessa.’

  ‘Let’s hope so indeed.’ Chaplain Myakishev, joining them, nodding to Burmin, who was proffering cigars. ‘That would do us all a world of good!’

  * * *

  In the morning the weather was still foul, precluding any possibility of colliers lying alongside the battleships. Michael was on deck early, wanting fresh air to clear the cigar taste from his throat; and before that he’d added a paragraph to his letter to Tasha, telling her about Zakharov’s sensitivity to his own feelings about the difference in their ages: and that he honestly didn’t know why Prince Igor had been so keen to send him – Michael – along with him.

  That it might have been to get me out of the way for the duration of Z’s own absence obviously hasn’t occurred to him. He also asked me whether you’d written to me since Injhavino. I’m sure you must have, my darling, but being a better actor (or dissimulator) than I ever dreamt I might be, I was able to express surprise at the question. His belief, imparted to him by your father, is that you and I have over the years enjoyed an entirely ‘family’ relationship, with me in the role of ‘big brother’ taking care of you. Even the story about the leading-rein came into it! As far as I could make out though he’s completely in the dark as to your own feelings. He said ‘I’m aware that in an “arranged” marriage a wise man treads softly’. He’s heard nothing, incidentally, from your father, and this seems to be of some concern to him. Perhaps he’d have expected a report from him on your reactions – compliance, naturally – and I dare say that even if he’d seen your shock and revulsion he’d have expected you to have become reconciled to the situation by this time. It might have been a part of the bargain that your father would see to it that you were.

  Last night after Zakharov had left to turn in, Michael had been asked the now familiar question as to what on earth had persuaded him to come on this voyage; whether he’d really thought his highly placed friends the Volodnyakovs had been doing him any kind of favour. He’d told them yes: because of the British Admiralty’s very keen interest in having an observer present – in the context of dramatically new conditions of naval warfare, especially fighting tactics, and because it was virtually certain this expedition would end in battle.

  ‘Each and every one of the naval powers will be agog to learn valuable lessons – and I’ll have been right there, in it with you, in a position to produce a detailed, first-hand report. Which, frankly, can’t do my career prospects anything but good.’

  ‘There speaks an honest man!’

  ‘Or a fool. To assume he’ll have prospects of any mortal kind!’

  ‘Exactly. If you reckon you’ll live to tell the tale, Mikhail Ivan’ich.’

  Arkoleyev, the engineer. Ginger hair standing on end, and gimlet eyes somewhat reddened by this stage. Michael had postulated, ‘Why shouldn’t we all? All of us here, I mean. All right, so the Japanese have had all the luck out there, but no run of luck ever lasted for ever – and this is a fine, modern ship, perhaps better manned and officered than any other in the squadron.’

  ‘Oh, listen to him!’

  ‘How much brandy has he had?’

  ‘It’s a fact – as far as my observation goes. You have a first-rate captain—’

  ‘Protegé of the man’s own relations, he’s bound to say that sort of—’

  ‘I mean it – it’s my immediate, clear impression. I can tell you, if I’d been stuck in the Suvarov I mightn’t have rated my chances very highly, but here, in this ship—’

  ‘You’re flattering us, sir!’

  ‘No, I’m not. Not “sir”, either – Mikhail Ivan’ich, if you please. And yes, Pyotr Davidovich, I do expect to live to tell the tale.’

  Not all of them did. The doctor, Baranov, wasn’t saying much – possibly the result of having been shut up by Zakharov earlier – but there were some, including Arkoleyev, who in their captain’s absence were deeply pessimistic. He’d murmured privately to Michael at one stage, ‘The admiral, for a start, is a maniac. I have private information on the subject, as it happens. But you’ve met him – seen him in action, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well – in very peculiar circumstances—’

  ‘It’s the admiral who decides on the manner in which he commits his fleet to action. Dispositions, tactics to be followed, everything. The fact this cruiser is beginning to respond to our man’s hard driving can hardly render her immune from the crass mishandling of the entire squadron by a blundering incompetent!’

  ‘I think you’re overstating it. Certainly hope you are. As I see it, Rojhestvensky’s under great pressure at the moment. Not least, the coaling problem – especially from Dakar southward. I was checking distances, and it must be a nightmare for him. And he keeps it all to himself – even now, for instance, although our next port of call must be Dakar—’

  ‘He trusts nobody, one’s heard. A buffoon, if you want my opinion. A man who gives no trust earns none. And Togo’s far from a buffoon – he’s a very clever monkey. Incidentally, who taught him his business?’

  ‘Oh, Lord…’

  ‘Yes – exactly. You British did. Listen, Mikhail Ivan’ich – don’t quote me to our captain, but he knows all this as well as I do!’

  * * *

  The weather had eased surprisingly by noon; bets were being placed that coaling might be resumed by late afternoon or evening. The refrigerated store-ship had arrived, and anchored near the other transports. Michael hadn’t seen her come in. He had seen a pinnace which had looked to him like Suvarov’s call at the hospital-ship and embark two white-clad figures, presumably nurses – perhaps the head ones – and an officer who might have been the Orel’s merchant-navy captain, and steam off back towards the battleship. Rojhestvensky and Clapier de Colongue doing a bit of entertaining, no doubt. The nurses, Zakharov had mentioned last night, were of the order known as Sisters of Mercy.

  Another topic of conversation at lunchtime came from the previous day’s Gibraltar Chronicle, a copy of which had found its
way into the wardroom and included a report, which at the chaplain’s request Michael translated, that Viceroy Alekseyev was leaving Port Arthur to return to Russia, and that General Stossell the land commander had telegraphed St Petersburg saying Port Arthur would be his grave.

  Radzianko asked, shrugging, ‘Who gives a toss where they bury him?’

  ‘Who indeed!’ Murayev – Aleksandr Aleksei’ich, the gunnery lieutenant: ‘As long as they dig him in deep enough, eh?’

  ‘Oh, I beg you…’ Chaplain Myakishev – grey-bearded, with droopy eyes like a spaniel’s – turned away. ‘Please, my children…’

  ‘I’ve splendid news!’ Michman Pepelyayev bursting in, looking excited. ‘There’s a mail coming! From Suvarov, where it’s being sorted. Dozens of sacks, they say – arrived in that French transport from Odessa!’

  * * *

  There could be one from her, Michael thought. Pacing the quarterdeck with Radzianko and Galikovsky the torpedo lieutenant, after hurrying through lunch. Could be. Coming directly from Odessa, where the Gunsburg agency was. It was definitely possible.

  It would be silly to count on it, though. Seeing that it had to depend on the posts between Yalta and Wiltshire, and how quickly or otherwise Jane might have re-addressed it and re-posted it – wasting time in writing one of her own to send with it, no doubt – and how long it might then take from England to the Ukraine. And lastly this French ship. From Odessa to Tangier – more than two thousand miles. At eighteen knots, say? No – play safe, say fifteen. Although a refrigerated cargo-vessel was likely to be modern and quite speedy. But then again, with the Bosporus and the Dardanelles to negotiate… Anyway, say fifteen knots – three hundred and fifty miles a day…

  One week?

  They’d paused to light fresh cigarettes.

  ‘The letter or letters you’re hoping for, Mikahil Ivan’ich – from England, obviously – from family?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Not from girls?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Oh, Lord…’

  ‘A dozen, say?’

  ‘Why not say fifty? Especially as I’ve been out of England for most of the past three years.’

  The boat with the sorted mail would be calling at every ship in turn, presumably. Could be on its way round already: in which case there might not be more than say half an hour to wait. Time might have been saved by telling ships to send their own boats; but that would have led to congestion around the flagship’s gangways. And if the colliers were on the move, the last thing you’d want would be a whole regatta…

  ‘Listen – I’m going down for a cup of coffee.’

  * * *

  When the mail did arrive, an hour or more later, there was another sorting before the officers’ letters were brought along by paymaster Lyalin and dumped on the wardroom table, where everyone flocked round like vultures to claw through them. Michael recognized one of Jane’s almost at once – re-addressed in a Russian hand, doubtless in the Gunsburg office – and was then handed another that was identical except for being fatter. Two letters, not one! But the thin one could hardly have more than a single sheet of paper in it.

  Might be from Tasha, though. If Jane had simply forwarded it on its own?

  ‘Here – Mikhail Ivan’ich—’

  Another?

  Addressed by Tasha in Russian and posted in Yalta, for God’s sake!

  ‘Thanks.’ Michael slid the Russian-addressed one into his pocket – in the circumstances, it felt rather like handling dynamite – and flopped into an armchair that had its back against the cream-painted ship’s side. As if any of them would look over his shoulder… He opened Jane’s fatter envelope, extracted her own two sheets of writing paper, the first one headed with the Wiltshire address, and another two – no, three, and larger sheets than Jane’s – that Tasha had covered, bless her, in her angular Cyrillic. Those went into his pocket too, while he scanned Jane’s first…

  Written on October 24th and starting,

  Michael dearest – have had no news from you yet, but I dare say there may be a letter in the post from somewhere or other – at least one for Let’s Not Say Whom…

  Waffle. Simply covering Tasha’s. Which, of course, was all one wanted, had any real interest in at all. But now – postscript: about brother George having heard from Prince Igor – wanting George to write and say drop any ideas one might have had about – oh, Jane’s joke of the week, referring to Tasha as You Know Who.

  Devious old bastard, though. Aiming to stop that bolthole: but revealing in so doing that he knew he might still have trouble on his hands. Otherwise, why bother? And anyway, thank you, Jane. In fact bless you, for this help.

  Tasha had spent the first half-page telling him how much she loved him. Which certainly wasn’t any waste of space or effort; he’d needed to be assured of it as much as she’d have needed to express it, and he felt better instantly. His eye raced over the lines and over some words that weren’t easy to make out: he’d go over it more slowly in his cabin, make sure of getting every word. But this one, for instance…

  Got it. Nightmares. She’d been having nightmares about his having drowned.

  It’s my father who comes to tell me every time, and it’s as if he’s enjoying the telling and my horror at it. If it did happen, I can tell you here and now I’d die. Mama tells me that’s nonsense, that women all through the ages have had to face such things and steel themselves against the shock and deprivation: I realize, of course, that she’s talking of her own experience, but the truth is I wouldn’t want to. I’ll tell you this, too: if my father tried to force me into any marriage, I’d refuse utterly, I’d tell him that if he persisted I’d kill myself – which would give him a real jolt, seeing that that would mean my commercial value going down the drain! In fact he’s been trying to persuade Mama to bring me back to Injhavino – although he himself is in Petersburg with no expectation of getting away as long as the war lasts –- no more than Ivan has, apparentldy. The reasons Mama gives for remaining here in Yalta are that this is where we’ve always felt happy and secure, and there have been disturbances recently in the Tambov-Saratov districts. The poor Djhenskinovs for instance, only eighty or ninety versts from Injhavino, had their farm buildings burnt down and their horses slashed with billhooks: can you imagine the mentality, the beastliness of such creatures? The Djhenskinovs were never cruel to their people either – in fact others have criticized them for spoiling them, thus encouraging theirs to expect too much… But it’s – you know, the ill-wind, that we have that reason to stay away. Mama is determined we should remain here.

  If you could only be here too, my darling! Oh, just wouldn’t it be paradise! I could faint from the longing I feel for you. And at times, I admit, with fear for you. I wake with my mouth dry and pulses drumming, wondering where you are and what’s happening. It is a crazy situation, isn’t it, that you should be with Z – who is the primary threat to our happiness but whose survival must be a precondition of your own? It’s baffling as well as harrowing. I ask myself why you agreed to accept my greedy, treacherous father’s scheme; why it seemed inevitable (anyway, unarguable) at the time that you should; and Mama’s answer is that your career is what comes first with you – as it has to be, I know, and as you explained and when I can get my thinking out of its customary muddle I do understand – that a successful outcome to this venture will advance your prospects of early promotion, which in turn will make it easier for you to marry me. Mama’s attitude – though she remains rock-like in her support of me and of all that you and I both long for – is rather different…

  The business about his own mother now being rich, so that he could afford to marry anyway. The background to this was that grandmother Sevasyeyeva had died in the winter after their visit to her. Brother George had been prevailed upon to attend the funeral with his mother; Michael couldn’t possibly have applied for leave again so soon in any case – especially as he was hoping to use hi
s annual leave that next summer for the planned Yalta visit. The disposal of the estate – vast house and lands about the size of an English county – had been left in lawyers’ hands and was now finally complete, enriching Elizavyeta Andreyevna considerably, though not as stupendously as it might have done twelve or twenty years earlier. Not that Michael had any thought of sponging on her anyway: that was all in Anna Feodorovna’s mind.

  I know we’ve said it all, over and over – but I still think of it over and over too, and shiver with longing and excitement when I recall surroundings, sights and sounds and certain hours and moments, whispers mouth to mouth which in the end amount more to tastings – of each other’s souls? – than to exchanges of any articulated kind – that need articulation… Well, there’s been fright and desperation to contend with – may be again, I often remind myself, so as to be ready and able to withstand whatever temporary vicissitudes may arise – but there’s been – and is – oh, so much delight and glory too, all of it so good and so right that in these still warm, quiet nights I can look out at the stars and know for certain that in the end we will break through to lasting happiness!

  Pray for it, Mikhail. I do, all the time, and perhaps our prayers might unite, become twice as strong…

  Reminiscence followed: semi-coded reminiscences of Paris, references to the night at Injhavino too – the hectic, convulsive hours that had effectively been a process of committal. Remembering it as he folded the letter into Jane’s – and Michman Count Provatorov asked him, glancing up from a letter of his own, ‘Good news from England, I hope?’

  Radzianko’s bulging neck half-turning: ‘Still loves you, does she?’

  He ignored that. And Provatorov hadn’t finished: ‘What I’m really asking –when that was written, had they – or, excuse me, had she – had news of the action at the Dogger Bank?’