Floating Madhouse Read online

  ‘Signal from the admiral, sir!’

  The chief yeoman, with what looked like rather a long message, on his clipboard. Zakharov was already on the down-ladder from the bridge – on his way to his main-deck cabin, no doubt to get himself ready to be rowed over to the Suvarov. He stopped where he was, gazing up: the message might have been something with which Burmin or others could deal, whereas he’d be wanting to get over to the flagship before other ships’ captains beat him to it.

  ‘Read it to me!’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ The chief yeoman read out loudly, ‘“To all ships, from Flag. Coaling is to commence immediately, with ships’ companies in two watches. Allocations, which are to be embarked in toto, as follows…”’

  Then came the shock – tonnages of coal to be embarked by each ship. The battleships, to start with, were each to take on board twenty-two hundred tons: ‘normal’ bunker capacity being eleven hundred. The figure was staggering, surely unachievable: as were the others now being read out. Zakharov was climbing slowly back up into the bridge, growling to Burmin, ‘Some mistake…’

  And worse to come. Ryazan was allocated fifteen hundred tons. Her normal full capacity was seven hundred and fifty.

  ‘Travkov.’ Addressing the chief yeoman. ‘This wasn’t taken in by some clown who can’t read figures?’

  ‘By no means, sir!’

  ‘Very well.’ It was certainly not ‘very well’: but he’d absorbed the shock, was squaring up to deal with the cause of it. Glasses up first, checking that colliers were already on the move. Calling to Burmin then: ‘Pyotr Fedor’ich!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Start as soon as we have a collier alongside. We’ll coal to capacity in any case, I’ll see about the rest of it. In two watches – right?’

  ‘Starboard watch from the start to midnight, say—’

  ‘First get that whaler in the water and a crew in it. And tell Arkoleyev I want a word with him – in my cabin, now.’ On his way down again. Burmin yelling for the bosun – Feklyenko – to get a whaler lowered and manned, gangway lowered and boom rigged, main derrick cleared away for hoisting-out the steam cutter. Then yelling into the engineroom voicepipe, getting the message to Senior Engineer Lieutenant Arkoleyev – with whom Zakharov obviously wanted to discuss the extraordinary inundation of coal that almost certainly would be coming. This was like a disturbed ants’ nest now in the failing light; lights indeed were coming on here and there. And Zakharov did have a reasonably well-run ship, Michael thought. It was surprising to find, after a week at sea with the man, that he respected him, actually quite liked him. Nothing to do with Injhavino, Petersburg, Yalta, Paris – this was the man’s true habitat. One’s own, too? But what on earth could they do about this vast tonnage of coal – except fill the messdecks and any other spaces, not only filthying the ship up but also endangering her stability? That would be a particularly serious consideration for the battleships who, according to Narumov, were already top-heavy due to overloading, and thus in danger of capsizing in a heavy sea or under too much rudder.

  Of course, Rojhestvensky’s biggest anxiety all along had been coal – the question of access to neutral ports where he could or couldn’t get it. Maybe he had reason to anticipate a hardening of anti-Russian attitudes further south.

  Michael went into the chartroom – Radzianko was at the binnacle taking anchor bearings, sensibly enough, the weather could go to pieces and blow up suddenly – and pulled out the large, small-scale chart, spread it on top of the one in use. On the way down here Zakharov and others including Radzianko and Michael himself had speculated on the admiral’s most likely intentions and/or best bets in regards to future ports of call, and the consensus had been (1) Libreville, (2) Great Fish Bay, (3) Angra Pequena. British-occupied territory had to be ruled out, maybe Portuguese as well, and there could be no certainty about the French – which, of course, applied to this place, Dakar, as well. The need was for harbours big enough to accommodate the squadron plus colliers: could be harbours or could be sheltered bays. So, Libreville, say – meaning the Gabon River. About two thousand miles south from here, and French-controlled. Measuring that distance: yes, two thousand, as near as, dammit. But if the French were uncooperative – as they might still be here, for all one knew – then you’d be facing about another thousand miles to reach Great Fish Bay. Lobito, as the Portuguese were now calling it. And if they decided to be nasty – Michael realized that he was thinking like a Russian – if the Portugese wouldn’t let you in, your last hope would be another thousand miles south – Angra Pequena. Also known – to the Germans – as Luderitz Bay.

  Angra Pequena was in fact the one safe bet. The colliers and the coal itself were German, after all – they’d hardly shut them out. But – four thousand miles, roughly, if you tried the other two places first. Alternatively, if Rojhestvensky took the bit between his teeth and made straight from here to Angra Pequena…

  Using dividers again, measuring: and finding it would only save about five hundred miles. If that. And coaling in the open sea could be ruled out – might be feasible in some empty, sheltered bay, but out there, in the southeast trades, and as likely as not a gale or two…

  * * *

  Zakharov got back from the flagship at about ten, was met at the gangway by Burmin and brought down to the wardroom, where those who hadn’t eaten earlier were finishing a late supper. It was very hot and mosquitoes were already a problem. A collier was berthed on the port side and coaling had been in progress for some time: Michael had offered to join in but Burmin had told him it wasn’t necessary, working in two watches as they were. Tomorrow, maybe: it would be going on all day and would be worse in the midday heat. Bad enough now even just sitting around. Zakharov, in his shirt-sleeves – rolling them up – inviting the attentions of mosquitoes – took the chair he was offered at the head of the table and swallowed about a quart of water before accepting wine.

  ‘Thank you. Although I’m not here to cadge drinks, only to tell you what’s going on. I spoke with the chief of staff and some others, but with the admiral only for a few minutes before we were interrupted…’

  The flagship had been coaling when the French captain of the port – a rear-admiral as it happened – had arrived by steam pinnace to inform Rojhestvensky that coaling would not be permitted. He had orders from Paris to that effect: also to request the Russian admiral to remove his squadron forthwith from French West African waters. He personally regretted having to insist on compliance, and explained that Japan had protested against belligerents who were on their way to attack her being allowed the use of neutrals’ harbours, that England had supported the monkeys’ protest and Paris felt some obligation to accede to it. On the other hand the governor of Senegal – this territory – was prepared to assist the squadron and its admiral in any way he could, including the supply to them of fresh provisions, and the port captain was suggesting they might find it just as convenient to coal off the Cape Verde islands, a stone’s throw away, where shallow water would allow them to anchor more than three miles offshore, thus outside Portuguese territorial waters.

  Rojhestvensky had turned this down. In the swell that was running out there coaling would be impossible. Nor could his squadron leave Dakar without coaling, and the French government in trying to prevent them from doing so were in fact acting not as neutrals but as allies of the Japanese.

  The port captain had left, to report by telegram to Paris, also took with him one from Rojhestvensky to be transmitted to St Petersburg.

  ‘And we’re coaling, anyway. It’s not unlike the situation we had in Vigo. But as you’ll all know by now, we’ll be taking in twice as much as we have room for. I’m sorry to tell you that it’s unavoidable. First I’ll explain why – if you haven’t guessed already. In a nutshell, we may have to steam the devil of a long way before we find any place where we can coal. Libreville was to have been the next stop, but we’re not to be let in there – in the Gabon River, that is. It’s hoped we may instead
be able to meet colliers in that vicinity and three miles offshore: that’s what we’ll aim for. Snag may be the weather, which is unpredictable. Depth’s fine for anchoring – ten or twelve fathoms – and the French are prepared to help in any way they can – which shows you, doesn’t it, they’re only playing a diplomatic game, don’t actually give a damn – jumping through hoops simply to please – well, we know who, too.’ Eyes were on Michael: not Zakharov’s, but just about all others’. Michael ignoring them, watching Zakharov, who added, ‘We’d be safe as houses in the river, but on that coast the weather’s unpredictable, can be hellish – sudden violent storms followed by long periods of disturbance.’

  He’d paused, was drinking down his glass of pale amber Tokai. In one steady draught – all of it. Nodding then, and licking his lips. Close resemblance to a tortoise, Michael realized, a tortoise who’s just devoured a leaf of lettuce. Mental note: put that in the current letter to Tasha, amuse her. Or perhaps not. Think about it… Zakharov meanwhile pausing, watching his glass being refilled.

  ‘So, although that’s where we’re going next, it’s a toss-up. And the next best chance –’ his glance covered both Radzianko and Michael – ‘as we discussed, a day or two ago, would logically be Great Fish Bay. Very extensive, well sheltered, surrounded by nothing but desert. Snag there too, though – it’s Portuguese and they do what the English tell them. If they knew in advance we were coming, might even have a British squadron there.’

  Shrugging, lifting his wine-glass hand and crossing his fingers. ‘Again, therefore, it’s uncertain.’ Glancing at Michael: ‘You have a lot to answer for, you English.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Shouldn’t have sunk your fishing-boats, should we.’

  ‘No.’ His turn to shrug. ‘It won’t have helped.’

  ‘But –’ tortoise eyes flickering around the table – ‘on board this ship Mikhail Ivan’ich is half Russian – and one of us, an honorary Ryazan. He’s nothing to do with politics.’

  ‘French should know better. Supposed to be our friends, aren’t they?’

  Lyalin, the paymaster. Others were agreeing with him: ‘Fine-weather friends, is what they are. And if things go any worse for us—’

  ‘That’s the truth. The principle of kicking a man when he’s down!’

  ‘To be on the winning side’s what matters to them. At least not associated with losers, eh?’

  ‘Calling us losers, you garbage?’

  ‘My dear fellow, up to this stage, in Manchuria – which as far as I know is what we’re discussing—’

  Burmin cut in: ‘How are we expected to stow the coal?’

  ‘Yes, I’m coming to that. I’ll finish first on the subject of ports of call. Here again, we guessed right – that German place, Angra Pequena. You were right, Viktor Vasil’ich.’

  ‘That we’ll be made welcome there?’

  A nod to Radzianko: ‘So the admiral expects. Well – knows. But there again – at Pequena we’ll need to cram in every ton of coal we can, because from there on there’s only Cape Town, Durban and Delagoa Bay – no place anywhere around that entire coast that isn’t either British or Portuguese.’

  ‘Non-stop Pequena to Madagascar, then.’

  Radzianko again. Zakharov nodded. ‘Where, of course, we meet the others. But now – storage of coal. I have some notes here compiled by the engineer-constructor on the staff, a man by name of Narumov. He’ll be visiting us tomorrow – mainly to check various points with you, Pyotr Davidovich –’ looking round for Arkoleyev, who nodded grimly – ‘but in the meantime he let me have these notes.’ Three pages of them, which he held up for all to see: it looked to Michael like the same paper Narumov used for those letters to his wife. Zakharov tapping page one: ‘I’m not going to read it all to you. Headed – see – Instructions For Storing Coal. I’ll leave it with you, Pyotr Fedor’ich. What it comes down to is there’s no part of the ship we won’t stack coal in. In this wardroom for instance – you might rig some boards across that end perhaps, and get rid of the armchairs. Officers’ cabins are not excluded either. I’ll evacuate mine completely, move up to the bridge lock, stock and barrel, and in harbour I’ll mess with you in here. The messdecks, of course – washplaces, lobbies, engine-room auxiliary spaces, wing passages, torpedo flats – wherever there’s any space that can be used without impairing the fighting efficiency of the ship. That’s the only consideration, nobody’s comfort is of the least concern. He’s noted here, “Rigging windsails through skylights for ventilation – since all ports and deadlights must be kept shut, in view of the dangers arising from instability”.’

  He slid the pages across to Burmin. ‘You’re thinking it couldn’t be worse, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, sir – at first sight, I must admit—’

  ‘Of course. You all are. So am I. But you can also see there’s no alternative. It’s going to be hellish – especially while passing through the tropics. Bite on the bullet, that’s all.’

  * * *

  The racket of coaling went on all night. The collier was on the Ryazan’s port side, of course, so it was less noisy than it might have been, in this oven of a cabin, but it was still a powerful challenge to anything more than fitful sleep. Coal-bags filled in the German steamer’s holds had still to be winched on board – by means of an apparatus called a Temperley – and dumped, then dragged to the chutes and emptied into them: and there were chutes on this starboard side as well as that one. Coal didn’t slide noiselessly down iron chutes, either. When he dozed off he dreamt of the cabin door bursting open inwards and the coal flooding in like a black fast-moving tide up the level of the mattress on which in the dream he could see his own sleeping body, prone like one of those stone effigies in the Abbey and as white as the coal was black, the coal mounting swiftly to surround and bury it. His sleeping brain had forgotten the choking black dust, which in reality would rise suffocating above the coal itself; but then waking, in the momentarily happy discovery that it had been no more than a dream, despite continuing sound-effects – fully awake, happiness dissolving in sweaty heat, fetid air and recognition that the dream might soon become reality or damn near it; he could almost see and definitely smell the dust-cloud like a black sandstorm filling all this space, obscuring light and replacing what passed now for air. How it would be. Except – well, wind-funnels, as prescribed by Narumov in those notes. But there were no fanlights, for God’s sake – might be in Suvarov-class battleships, but—

  Sleep on the upper deck henceforth. Simple answer!

  He had nothing on except a pair of drawers. They, and the sheet under him, were soaking wet. The mattress would be too. Wouldn’t dry out in a hurry either – in this humidity, absence of any breeze, fans that turned too slowly to be shifting any air…

  It would be good to see Narumov – Pavel Vasil’ich. Thinking of whom turned one’s thoughts to letter-writing – his own unfinished screed to Tasha, and the need for a covering note to Jane. Might turn out now, in fact, get that done before breakfast. And use the chartroom? Well, why not? As quasi assistant or additional navigating officer – why not indeed? Cooler up there, and lighter: much better than in this fug…

  Looking around the small, stuffy space, early light spearing in pinkly through the open scuttle that would soon have to be clamped shut: thinking about the coal invasion, the form it was likely to take. Up to three or four feet of it say: and how one might dispose one’s gear so as to have access to it without the use of a pick and shovel… Seeing only one way – have Shikhin bring the tin trunk back from wherever he’d taken it, keep it here on top of the bunk and use it as a clothes-safe. Wouldn’t be needing the bunk as a bunk – and only reachable by clambering over the coal-heap – in heat which even here, fifteen degrees north of the Equator, had one lying in what felt like a puddle of warm water, and could only get worse as the squadron laboured southward – a puddle by that time hot and black… So – tin trunk on the bunk; and one might be able to use the bunk’s top drawer.
Probably not any lower ones – nor the wardrobe cupboard, which would have its door jammed shut by the weight and bulk of coal against it. You’d have no hanging-space for uniforms. The top drawer wouldn’t be anything like proof against coal-dust either: might therefore use it for shoes and other items that could easily be dusted-off. The trunk should remain pretty well dust-free, if one opened its lid only briefly and when absolutely necessary. Here and now, anyway – transfer whatever one was likely to need out of the wardrobe to the bunk: ditto the contents of the lower drawers. Do that now. Then send for Shikhin, get the trunk. The suitcase too for ready-use stuff? Not as air-tight as the trunk, but – yes, that too. Then wash, shave and dress and get down to Tasha’s letter.

  * * *

  He wrote, in the chartroom, in reasonable comfort despite the reek of coal and its dust hanging to masthead height or higher, and the racket of the non-stop work down there – in which one should certainly take a hand oneself before much longer.

  It’s going to be uncomfortable, to say the least, but there you are. I’m only telling you about it because it’s something new and peculiar, whereas in the tedium of shipboard life on a long voyage like this, there’s little of interest to write about, and I know my letters must be frightfully dull. Simply being in communication with you is the aim – some sort of answer to the ennui of separation as well as continuing concern for you and your mother under the threat of your father’s machinations. The worst of it is being cut off from you, unable to help in any way. I think you’re very wise to remain in Yalta, to refuse absolutely to be budged. Anyway –— I’ll be sleeping in the open air from now on – that’s about as far as this coal business is likely to affect me personally – but my dreams will still be of you and of our future together, of my love for you, longing for you, and oh, Tasha darling –