Floating Madhouse Page 2

  Or if they did?

  Tasha’s urgent whisper: her mouth open under his, arms locked tight around his neck, naked loveliness, sweat-damp and sinuous. ‘Damn well come back, Mikhail! Swear to God you will!’

  2

  The stone breakwaters surrounding the harbour at Libau – a recently constructed ice-free base also known as Port Emperor Alexander III – enclosed an area about two and a half miles from north to south and one and a half east-west: and the Second Pacific Squadron just about filled it. The landing and embarkation point where Michael was waiting was about two-thirds of the way up, on the Lithuanian shore; there were some port offices, a railway extension and two sizeable graving docks: he’d prowled around, inspected it all in the early morning light, was now back near the steps where he and Selyeznov had left their baggage. Selyeznov had taken himself off to the signal station to have their arrival reported and a boat or boats requested for their embarkation respectively in the flagship and the Ryazan. He’d been gone at least half an hour. Not a boat was moving out there amongst or around the mass of ships; in fact from this height and angle of view their overlapping density left virtually no unoccupied harbour surface visible. Out there one saw only a phalanx of massive dark-painted hulls and yellow, black-topped funnels – which in the earlier semi-dark had looked white – and inshore – to his right, northward – the low, slim, all-black shapes of torpedo-boats and destroyers. They’d be in shallower water there, probably two or three fathoms at most; the Baltic coast in this region was not by any means steep-to, and the battleships drawing as much as maybe thirty feet of water would need all the room there was further out, closer to the western mole.

  He hadn’t been able as yet to distinguish the outline or part-outline of Zakharov’s cruiser. He knew pretty well what he was looking for, having been shown – in London – a photograph of her taken during her sea-trials off Kronstadt. She’d been completed only at the beginning of this year and Zakharov had only very recently been appointed to her – not, it had been only too evident, without considerable string-pulling by the Volodnyakovs – as Selyeznov had cynically but correctly guessed. That was exactly – and blatantly – how it had been. The purpose of the ‘family occasion’ at Injhavino had been for Tasha’s father, General Prince Igor Volodnyakov, to announce her betrothal to this Captain Zakharov, who’d been guest of honour; on top of which he – Prince Igor, or more likely his nephew Admiral Prince Ivan, but that would have been at the old man’s instigation anyway – had, as it were, iced the cake by arranging for the timely arrival of a telegram from St Petersburg appointing N.T. Zakharov to command the brand-new cruiser Ryazan.

  ‘On this great enterprise –’ Prince Igor had intoned, nearing the end of an hour-long speech – ‘from which he and his fellow captains will undoubtedly return in triumph, having taught the monkeys a few sharp lessons and in so doing earned not only the nation’s acclaim but his Imperial Majesty’s undying gratitude!’

  Pause for clapping and cries of ‘Hurrah!’ Tasha horror-struck, fighting to hold back her tears – clasped in her mother’s arms, her dark eyes over Anna Feodorovna’s shoulder pleading desperately to Michael. And twenty-four hours later, after certain other events and consequences, her father had got down to it again, pulling yet more strings and coming up with this invitation which he’d have known Michael as a professional naval officer wouldn’t be able to resist – and which the British Admiralty wouldn’t willingly have allowed him to.

  As to the Ryazan though, Captain White at the Admiralty had shown Michael a list of all the ships there was reason to believe might comprise this Second Squadron – details of armament, dimensions, speed, etc. – and the Ryazan was shown as having a displacement of six thousand, six hundred tons – length four hundred and forty feet, beam fifty-two, maximum draught twenty-four and a half, and allegedly a speed of twenty-six knots. He still couldn’t see her. Looking for her three rather stubby funnels and raised fore and after parts with 6-inch guns on them, not especially tall masts – overall, a fairly distinctive profile – but seeing no such animal. Her sister-ships were allegedly the Ofeg and the Aurora – both in this squadron – while a forerunner, first of the class and named the Bogatyr, was believed to have caught fire and been totally destroyed before even being launched. That was only one of scores of stories of sabotage by crews and shipyard workers – even of revolutionary activities by officers – and the Admiralty wanted every detail that could be gleaned – rumours, facts, fears, especially those held by the more senior commanders, as well as more routine intelligence, such as states of readiness and maintenance, weaponry, tactics, ships’ and men’s capabilities and performance.

  It was fully daylight now: a fine morning with only the lightest of south-westerly breezes to stir the surface glitter – in which was reflected the whole mass of black-painted armour plate, patterned with the contrasting verticals of yellow.

  ‘Hah! Lieutenant! Mikhail Ivan’ich!’

  Selyeznov behind him, hurrying from the huddle of port offices – actually from the signal station of which the upper level was a timber deck on which were visible the revolving arms of semaphore machines, a signal lamp which earlier on had been flashing in red as well as white – Tabulevich, presumably, the Russian navy’s equivalent of Morse – and masts carrying a festoon of aerials. Selyeznov hurrying, with his short, quick steps. He’d talked non-stop, all the way from Wirballen to Libau. Michael had dozed off at least once, woken that one time with a dream of Tasha in his semi-consciousness and become aware of the monologue still continuing – a dissertation on the origins of this Japanese war, Admiral Togo’s treacherous torpedo-boat attack on the Russian fleet lying at anchor outside Port Arthur several days before any declaration of war – there’d been a Viceroy’s ball in progress ashore, the Russian ships at anchor had been brightly illuminated and totally off-guard – oh, and a lot about the useless and pusillanimous Viceroy Alexeyev, and the disastrous death in action first of the highly respected Admiral Makarov, whose flagship the Petropavlovsk had been blown up and sunk in the space of sixty seconds, and then at the Battle of Round Island the even more sudden death of his successor Admiral Witheft, who’d been killed outright by the first shell of the engagement. All that and a great deal more, together with accounts of Selyeznov’s own professional brilliance and steadiness under fire.

  He called now as he approached, ‘The Ryazan is not here, I have to tell you!’

  ‘Not here?’ Michael had stopped: while the statement and its possible implications churned in his skull. ‘You mean—’

  ‘She sailed yesterday in the afternoon. For the Great Belt or beyond – a scouting mission, so I was told. But you see, Mikhail Ivan’ich—’

  A chance to call it off? Stay behind?

  You’d have to contrive to have no option but to stay behind. For instance, Zakharov in his Ryazan was to have been his host only for personal, family reasons – well, persuasion by Prince Igor – and there wasn’t much likelihood of any other ship’s captain volunteering to take an Englishman, an ally of his enemies, to war with him. Zakharov having good reason for toadying to both Prince Igor and his nephew – although he couldn’t have had any idea at all of Igor’s real motive in sending Michael along with him. The old brute would have made damn sure he didn’t have the least notion of it: and for Zakharov it would have been enough that there was this mutually advantageous understanding between them – the virtual sale of Tasha was what it came down to.

  Michael could visualize Igor’s old paw on the younger man’s shoulder: ‘See here now, Nikolai Timofeyevich…’

  But if the Ryazan had sailed without him…

  Get down to Yalta? Where Tasha and her mother would be arriving shortly?

  To the utter fury of Prince Igor – of Prince Ivan too, if Igor had let him in on the truth of it. Which perhaps was unlikely: his daughter’s reputation being, one might say, a vital part of his stock-in-trade, he probably would not have trusted even his damned nephew. So it would b
e only the old man who’d be after your blood and guts.

  Very powerful and ruthless old man, at that. Which could make it a dangerous move not only for oneself but for Tasha too. Ducking out now wouldn’t exactly delight their Lordships in London either: would hardly suit one’s own hopes and prospects, therefore. Weakness of the flesh was primarily what had made the thought of giving up so attractive for a minute or so – desire for Tasha, and a positive interest in remaining alive – the truth being that this so-called ‘great enterprise’ was virtually certain to end disastrously… But drawing as it were a second breath, he was reminding himself that for him personally, taking that high degree of risk in one’s stride, it happened also to be a marvellous opportunity. Captain White had even gone so far as to hint at a prospect of accelerated promotion if he pulled it off successfully. Which, God willing, he would: so in the long run it was in Tasha’s best interests too: as long as she continued to feel as she did now – God willing and fingers crossed…

  Selyeznov told him, ‘Anyway, there’ll be a boat coming for us in ten or fifteen minutes, from the flagship.’

  ‘For you—’

  ‘For us both. As soon as they’ve hoisted colours – at eight sharp – uh? I explained the situation, you see, and it’s proposed that you should be temporarily accommodated in the Suvarov. Transferring at some later stage to the Ryazan, of course.’

  * * *

  The boat didn’t come for them until after nine. At eight they heard a discordant wailing of bugles and saw colours hoisted, ensigns unfolding lazily on the still gentle but now steadier on-shore breeze. Ensigns white with the St Andrew’s Cross in blue, and jacks – on the big ships’ bows, vertically above the projections of their rams – deep red with the same blue cross. Boats were on the move then, but none coming this way. Selyeznov muttering angrily about the long wait as a symptom of perhaps more general inefficiency; he was obviously concerned as to how this foreigner would see it, his first impression of the squadron – as if the blame might lie on his, V.P. Selyeznov’s, own shoulders. Michael had changed the subject: ‘Do you know if your gear’s arrived?’

  ‘No. But it would I’m sure have been delivered on board when the squadron was at Reval. My own sister and brother-in-law were seeing to it.’

  ‘And this – what you said – “scouting mission”, by the Ryazan?’

  ‘For Japanese lying in ambush, I imagine.’

  ‘Japanese – here in the Baltic?’

  He remembered, though: Captain White had mentioned that the Russians had a phobia of being waylaid in narrow seas by Japanese torpedo craft lying in wait for them even right outside their home ports. Michael had thought he was joking, but later Arbuthnot had confirmed it. ‘It’s preposterous, of course, but – the dickens, they’re quite off their heads, you know. Even this fellow Rojhestvensky…’

  Selyeznov was insisting, ‘Anywhere at all. From the moment we leave this port. Well – those narrows down there – the Great Belt and the Skaw – ships obliged to pass through in single file, like a great brood of ducks! You may smile, but I tell you there’s a general consensus of opinion that they will be trying something of the sort. Sneak attacks are their speciality – eh? Why, our attaché in Paris was telling me – showed me a newspaper article by a well-informed French authority – there’ve been literally dozens of reports of small craft sneaking into Danish and Swedish waters – disguised as trawlers and so forth, naturally. And as to that, look here – in certain British shipyards too, they’re saying—’

  ‘Then they’re talking nonsense, Vladimir Petrovich!’

  ‘Can you be so certain? It would have been arranged in the strictest secrecy, and no doubt at the highest levels – and after all – look, forgive my mentioning it, but Great Britain and Japan are – as you said yourself—’

  ‘We are in a defensive alliance with them, that’s all. Nothing new – an agreement signed in London the year before last. All it amounts to, as far as I recall, is we’d go to their assistance if they became involved in hostilities with more than one of the Great Powers at the same time. For instance, if France joined in with you against them now. Which you’ll admit is hardly likely, is it!’

  Sir Robin Arbuthnot had been concerned that Michael should have the facts of the Far Eastern situation straight in his mind; would be able to fight his own corner in any debates and disputes in which he might become involved during the months-long voyage that lay ahead of him. He’d explained, ‘Wouldn’t want to be putting chaps’ backs up right, left and centre, would you? We’d much sooner have them confiding in you than – well, freezing you out, don’t you know. Being as you say half Russian, nothing to stop you, as it were, blending into the background – if you worked at it a bit, eh?’

  Briefing for a spy, he’d thought. From a man who claimed to be from the Foreign Office but would only meet him in his club.

  Michael added – to Selyeznov – ‘The only other provision in our agreement with the Japanese – as I remember it – was that we recognized their legitimate interests in Korea.’

  ‘Their legitimate interests, you say!’

  ‘Not I say – the treaty does. Words to that effect, anyway. So the basis of the differences between us – I’m only guessing, like you I’m a sailor, no great insight into diplomacy or politics – is that you see them as rivals and we don’t – I suppose because we’ve no aims that conflict with theirs. Whereas you have, with your Trans-Siberian railway and its extension right down to Port Arthur. Isn’t that about the size of it?’

  ‘But to offer an example of these so-called “legitimate” interests in Korea – so legitimate that on February ninth, the day after their sneak attack on us at Port Arthur, they did the same at Chemulpo and sank the two ships we’d had lying there until that moment quite peaceably!’

  ‘That too before declaring war, was it?’

  ‘Certainly! As I said – February the eighth at Port Arthur, the ninth at Chemulpo, and they finally went to the trouble of declaring war on the tenth!’

  ‘Well. One should know what to expect of them, perhaps…’

  ‘The behaviour of treacherous monkeys is what to expect! After those examples of duplicity, don’t you see it’s more than likely they’ll attempt something of the same kind here – before we’re even out of the Baltic?’

  ‘I’d have thought they’d find it very difficult. However it may strike you in the light of our defensive alliance with them, we are certainly not your enemies, nor to the best of my knowledge are the Germans, French, Danes, Swedes or Norwegians. And think of the distance – eighteen or twenty thousand miles, for heaven’s sake –’ he jerked a thumb towards the inshore moorings, the torpedo-boats, little so-called destroyers – ‘midgets like those, my friend!’

  ‘Those will be coming with this squadron, presumably…’

  ‘Will be starting with it, you mean. Haven’t got there yet!’

  ‘We’ll have problems. Of course we will. But the Japanese – they could have built or converted vessels here. Minelaying craft, for instance – which can be of any shape or size, can look entirely innocent. As it was explained to me in our Paris embassy, newspapers all over Europe have been carrying such stories for weeks now – and it’s known for certain that Japanese officers have come to Europe. What for – if they aren’t up to their damn tricks again?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shook his head. ‘Except – one, as I say, and assure you, Britain at any rate is not your enemy – and two – if I might offer some advice – don’t believe all you read in newspapers. I’d say that an attack of any kind in European waters is highly improbable. I wonder what has happened to that boat they were sending, though…’

  The answer was that it had been on some prior job which had taken longer than expected. It would have been a steam-pinnace or cutter, though why they couldn’t have sent in an oared boat, for just two officers with this small amount of baggage… Selyeznov groused on about it, and the boat that did eventually take them out was no
t the Suvarov’s but a pinnace belonging to the port authority. In any case, it brought them out to the flagship’s quarterdeck gangway at 0921 – Michael checking the time by the beautifully engraved silver half-hunter which Anna Feodorovna, Tasha’s mother, had given him as a farewell present.

  He slid it back into his pocket as the boat chugged in alongside. Remembering – like an echo in his brain, that voice which was almost indistinguishable from Tasha’s: ‘To remind you to come back to us, Mikhail Ivan’ich!’

  ‘Imagine I’d need a reminder?’

  Looking at Tasha – whose own impassioned pleas on the subject of his eventual return had been made during an afternoon of love in a borrowed apartment; the gift of the watch from her mother had come that same evening over a farewell dinner – Wednesday October 12th, the night before he’d left Paris. Anna – Princess Anna Feodorovna Volodnyakova – being Prince Igor’s second wife, still young, vigorous and attractive; you could see Tasha almost duplicated in her: same dark eyes, creamy skin, hair like a tumble of black silk. She was herself young enough to be her husband’s daughter, knew exactly what he was up to and hated it - hated him now – quite vitriolically.

  Michael had promised her, ‘I will come back.’

  ‘Please God and all the saints!’

  ‘A bit of help from them would be welcome.’

  ‘And then – other matters being equal – forget everything except to take this child with you out of Russia. Forget your preoccupation with becoming a commander. Which is worth more – a bit of gold braid, or this little creature?’

  ‘Only that if one is to support the “little creature” in anything approaching the manner to which she is accustomed—’

  ‘A few extra shillings a day would hardly do that, Micky. And fortunately it doesn’t matter, since with Liza Andreyevna’s help, on which we can surely count…’