Floating Madhouse Page 20

  There’d been a hail from somewhere down on the starboard side. He got up, went out to see. Could have been some visitor arriving, a challenge to a boat from the watchkeepers down aft. One of the Suvarov’s boats bringing Narumov, for instance. Or infinitely better, a mail. All right – hope springing eternal: but if some steamer had arrived from – wherever, Tangier perhaps, making twice this squadron’s speed…

  A swimmer, was all. Twenty yards out from the ship, treading water, with a hand cupped to an ear: ‘What?’

  ‘’Ware shark!’ That yell had come from the quarterdeck – officer of the watch, probably. And the swimmer, for heaven’s sake – Radzianko. Out of character, one would have thought – sharks or no sharks. The man down aft assuring him, ‘Are sharks around, we seen ’em!’

  Radzianko put himself into motion – a clumsy trudgeon stroke, thick white arms thrashing, fat legs flailing. Heading for the gangway. Beyond him, all over the wide harbour, black ships with yellow funnels lay cocooned in their individual clouds of coal-dust. As here too: the sun lifting out of that jungle swelter was an orange fireball seen through the filter of Ryazan’s own shroud of muck. You weren’t just smelling it, you were breathing it. Radzianko meanwhile floundering up to the gangway. Shouting up, ‘Made a full circuit of the ship! Where were you when I set off, Vortzin?’

  Vortzin was a michman – as squat and dark-complexioned as a Tartar. He’d sent his quartermaster down to give Radzianko a hand up. Michael heard, ‘Fact, your honour, sharks have been seen!’

  ‘Never mind.’ Puffing and blowing: bulgy in a black costume, brushing water off his arms and shoulders and fat thighs. ‘What matters is they didn’t see me, eh?’ Laughing, on his way up. ‘Eh? Didn’t see me, that’s what counts!’

  If he hung around now, wet, he’d very soon be coated with the black stuff – as were the fellows down there, dragging their sacks to the chutes and tipping them in: labouring and enduring like so many slaves. Coal-dust in their sweat running in streaks and streams: and in their eyes – which you couldn’t wipe without rubbing more in, You’d almost think there would be men with whips down there, driving them on. They were stripped to scraps of clothing and had cotton-waste clamped between their teeth and plugging their nostrils: all wet black, bodies and rags and the waste. Every hour or so they’d be allowed a break, to sluice themselves off under a hose, take a few breaths of coal-scented, humid ozone before returning grimly to their labour.

  Michael returned to his own. Asking himself as he picked up his pen: writing to Tasha – labour?

  * * *

  At breakfast in the wardroom Radzianko was immaculate in his whites. He’d enjoyed his swim, he said. First rate, nothing like it!

  ‘Not scared of sharks?’

  ‘Tell you the truth, I never thought of sharks. But no…’

  ‘Any shark meeting you –’ Galikovsky poked him – ‘would hardly believe its luck!’

  The word ‘coal’ came into practically every sentence, every utterance. During the night’s work apparently, several men had passed out down below; they’d been dragged up on deck by their mates, resuscitated under hoses and sent back to work. It was accepted that if you allowed a man more than a couple of minutes to get himself together you’d be encouraging malingering. None of them last night had sustained any lasting harm, according to the doctor. The worst job of all was that inside the bunkers, where the coal had to be raked level as it came in to ensure completely filling the compartment with no blockages under the chutes. Burmin admitted that the temperature in those spaces, even at this comparatively cool time of day, was about one hundred and twenty degrees. By noon, with the decks so hot a man couldn’t go barefoot on them, working down there would be unbearable even in shifts of at most ten or fifteen minutes; men only saw those through because it entitled them to extra tots of vodka when they finished.

  The bunkers would be full well before noon, Burmin predicted, and from then on they’d be carrying the sacks down through hatches instead of emptying them into chutes. In fact this stage was reached about an hour after Michael started work at the after Temperley. There were two, one for’ard and one aft, plumbing the collier’s forward and after holds: sacks filled by men working with shovels in those deep, superheated, airless pits were slung up through the uncovered hatches and their hooks transferred by a mechanical contrivance there to a ‘traveller’ which, running on sheaves on overhead rails, slid them over to the Ryazan’s iron deck, where they were taken charge of manually. A close eye on the operation was essential, and taking the weight of a sackful of coal at shoulder height three or four times a minute wasn’t child’s play. Like all the others, Michael worked stripped to the waist, was still hard at it when Narumov arrived on board and Burmin sent a message that the staff engineer-constructor was asking for him. He handed his job over to a warrant officer who’d just had a stand-off period, crossed over to the starboard side amidships to get himself hosed down, and was then agreeably surprised to find that his cabin hadn’t yet been filled with coal. None of the cabins had been at that stage, they were filling spaces at lower levels first and, as he was shortly to discover, there were preparations to be made up here in any case. He put on the whites he’d been wearing earlier – with an open-necked shirt instead of the (Royal Navy) regulation Number Six jacket – and went to the wardroom to see Narumov.

  Burmin was there, and Arkoleyev. Zakharov had been with them but had apparently just left to check on the transfer of his gear from large day-cabin to small sea-cabin. Narumov and Arkoleyev had sheets of signal-pad in front of them covered in pencilled mathematical calculations. They – and Zakharov – would have been considering the extra tonnage of coal and its distribution internally, being concerned to put as much of it as possible as low in the ship as could be managed, so as not to reduce her metacentric height to such an extent that her stability would be seriously threatened – as well as its distribution fore and aft, in the hope of retaining at least some degree of trim.

  Michael and Narumov greeted each other enthusiastically, and he’d brought messages from other members of the flagship’s wardroom. From Nick Sollogub especially, but from Captain Ignatzius and the chaplain too – and even from the Hero of Round Island.

  ‘And how’s Flagmansky?’

  ‘A trifle subdued by this heat, I’m afraid. Having spent his youth in the more equitable climate of Latvia, of course.’

  Burmin queried, ‘Who’s Flagmansky?’

  ‘A dog. Came on board at Reval, you see, with the rest of the staff, so—’

  ‘Yes. Well.’ A brusque nod as he pushed his chair back. ‘I’ll see you before you leave us, perhaps. At least, if anything else occurs…’

  A carpenter was at work at the after end of the room, raising a timber coal-barrier. The door at that end would be out of use, obviously. And the pantry was going to be filled with coal. Food from the galley, which henceforth would serve the warrant officers’ mess as well – since they were losing their own – would be brought round through the remaining door and dished-up on the sideboard against that forward bulkhead. God only knew where all the mess-traps would be stowed, but arrangements were in hand for the safeguarding of wine and spirit stocks, and for unimpeded access to them. Michael asked Narumov to what height the coal was to be piled in cabins, and the answer was to a maximum of three feet. The constructor explained, ‘At the level of this deck we have to be especially careful. Down below – well, the seamen’s messdecks will be filled to a height of four feet – safe enough at that level. Up here is a different matter. Another factor of course is the use of smaller spaces wherever possible – such as cabins – rather than wider areas where in heavy weather we might get the equivalent of cargo shifting. The messdecks are a case in point, and there the solution we’ve arrived at—’

  ‘How does one open a cabin door with a three-foot depth of coal inside it?’ Michael had only just hit on this: that cabin doors opened inward. There was a corollary to the question, too: ‘How do you s
hut the door on the coal in the first place?’

  ‘I asked the same question.’ Engineer Arkoleyev’s gimlet eyes shifted from Michael to Narumov. ‘Don’t think much of his answer to it, either.’

  ‘Well, I’d venture to say it’s not bad. The doors have to be removed – a start is being made on it now – and planking put in at the bottom to a height from the deck of a little more than three feet. A timber sill, in effect. The beauty of it is that when the coal’s required for use all they have to do is pull that up and the stuff flows out – to be bagged in the companionway then carried up to the bunker-chutes. Since the coal reserves on this deck will be the highest in the ship, that procedure will commence as soon as there’s space in the bunkers for it.’

  ‘So to enter the cabin one climbs or leaps over this sill—’

  ‘Captain Burmin is considering the provision of a plank which would serve as a bridge between the doorway and the bunk. At the door end it would, of course, rest on the sill, and at the other it could be fixed – perhaps nailed where a drawer at the appropriate height would have been removed. But whether there’d be enough timber, after subdividing the messdecks and so forth—’

  ‘Send a party ashore to fell some trees and saw them up, perhaps.’ Arkoleyev winked at Michael. ‘Shake a few coconuts down while you’re at it… Oh, I’m sorry, I know it’s not your fault, Narumov, you’re doing the best you can. Christ, let’s have a drink…’

  14

  Narumov had drunk two bottles of lemonade before leaving for the Dmitry Donskoi. His next call after that would be at the Nakhimov, where he expected to be lunching. He was obviously a very busy man: despite which he’d invited Michael, on behalf of Nick Sollogub as well as himself, to dine on board the Suvarov on the 15th. This was the 13th, of course – a Sunday, not that you’d have known it. Narumov had also brought news that the port captain had received authority by telegram from Paris to permit coaling, provided it was completed in twenty-four hours and the Russians then quit French West African territorial waters. Rojhestvensky had accepted these conditions, without mentioning that his ships had been hard at it all night and would be most of the day, or that the transports would be getting theirs in tomorrow, Monday, or that Tuesday, after all ships had washed-down, would be devoted to rest, recreation and further cleaning-up, so that the earliest he could sail would be Wednesday – sailing then, incidentally, for the Gabon River, another territory under French administration. Narumov had heard this on board the Alexander III; he’d started his tour of the squadron early and was hoping to have visited all the ironclads by sundown.

  Michael had asked him on their way up on deck, ‘Straight answer to a straight question, Pavel Vasil’ich?’

  ‘When have I given any other kind?’

  ‘You’d know that better than I could. But what I’m asking – just between ourselves – are you confident that all the ships will be reasonably stable when we leave here?’

  ‘Mikhail Ivan’ich –’ the constructor was frowning – ‘the very purpose of my visit – the whole point of these discussions—’

  ‘You’re hedging, aren’t you?’

  ‘You’re trying to force me to answer categorically, when in fact the situation is unprecedented – beyond even your own considerable experience – whereas I’m a technician, not a seaman at all!’

  ‘With that amount of prevarication, the truth has to be that it’s a toss-up.’

  ‘No. Figures are figures, definitive, and metacentric heights are precisely calculable!’

  ‘Of course. And you’re as good as saying they aren’t what they should be but it can’t be helped, we’ve got to chance it.’

  ‘The only chance we’re taking is on the weather. If we have good conditions, we’ll be perfectly all right.’

  ‘And if we have rotten weather?’

  ‘Then one or two might be in trouble. There you are, your straight answer. Please don’t raise this subject on Tuesday night.’

  * * *

  At three p.m, an officer on board the Oslyabya dropped dead from heatstroke while engaged in coaling. His name was Nelidov and he was a son of the Russian ambassador in Paris. Radzianko claimed to have been a friend of his, and immediately went off to write a letter of condolence to the father. Galikovsky’s comment when this was mentioned in the wardroom was, ‘I doubt he’d ever exchanged a word with him. Sees a chance to strike up acquaintance with that family, is all.’

  ‘He’d better do some homework, if that’s the case.’ Murayev, the gunnery lieutenant – grubby and sweat-soaked, from hours spent prowling above and below decks ensuring that no coal was dumped where it might impede the working of his guns or ammunition-supply. ‘He’s a sly one, if you ask me. Looks it, doesn’t he? Despite the name, I’d say he had Armenian blood. That oily look.’

  Paymaster Lyalin agreed. ‘You may well be right. As for the name, an Armenian streak could come from his mother’s side. Goes to show, doesn’t it, how careful one should be?’

  ‘Damn right! But clever, you see – psychologically – catch people who’ve just lost a beloved son. Depending on what other family there may be, emotionally almost step into the dead one’s shoes.’

  ‘But with what advantage?’

  ‘Well – who knows. But until you cast a line in, who knows what fish there may be… A pretty sister, perhaps?’

  ‘Ah – now there, yes…’

  Radzianko had also got himself an invitation to dine on board the hospital ship on Tuesday. Zakharov had mentioned at lunch (cold soup, and cold mutton with beans and raspberry sauce) that he’d been invited by the Orel’s captain to accompany the admiral and Clapier de Colongue to this dinner, bringing with him one other officer of his own choice. He’d said apologetically to Michael, ‘I’d have taken you, Mikhail Ivan’ich, since you’re my official guest, but—’

  ‘They’d expect a Russian officer, surely. In any case – Tuesday; as it happens I’ve already accepted—’

  ‘May I propose myself, sir?’ Radzianko – eyes fairly glittering with enthusiasm. ‘If you remember – I mentioned it the other day – I have a cousin who’s a lay assistant with that order and really quite likely to be among them.’

  The choice would probably have fallen either on him or Galikovsky or Murayev, as they were the three senior lieutenants, and Burmin as second-in-command couldn’t be out of the ship when his captain was. Zakharov had thrown a questioning glance at the other two – who weren’t contesting it, Galikovsky only murmuring, ‘Spends half his time gazing at ’em through binoculars—’

  ‘For a sight of my cousin, damn you!’

  ‘If you truly believed any such person might be on board, wouldn’t you have enquired when the ship first joined us?’

  ‘Shut up, Vladimir Aleksand’ich.’ Zakharov, expressionless as ever, had raised a hand with its palm towards his torpedo officer. He nodded to Radzianko: ‘It might as well be you, Viktor Vasil’ich.’

  ‘Most kind, sir!’

  ‘You can introduce me to your cousin.’

  ‘Sir, if she’s on board, I should be delighted—’

  ‘But one thing – you’ve been cluttering up the chartroom with your personal gear, I’ve noticed. I want it cleared away. I’ve no objection to your sleeping up there if you want to, but I use that chartroom at least as much as you do – Mikhail Ivan’ich too, for that matter.’

  ‘I’m very sorry.’ Radzianko’s jowls wobbled slightly as he shook his head. ‘In fact I was only – well, trying it out, you might say, prior to requesting your permission—’

  ‘As I say, clear it all out.’

  In fact Michael had had a slight contretemps with him on that issue when he’d gone up there after Narumov’s departure to start a new letter to Tasha, for posting before they sailed on Wednesday. He’d sent this last one to Jane in Wiltshire, in a mail that had been landed this morning, and there was bound to be another – possibly using a home-bound collier – before they sailed. In the chartroom though, he’d found Rad
zianko pulling chart-folios out of the specially fitted drawers to make way for shirts and uniform white trousers. The doors of the sextant cupboard had been open too, with footwear visible inside. There’d been gear all over the chart-table itself, while Radzianko crouched at the folio drawers with his great rump stuck out – filling about half the space just on its own.

  Peering round: panting and sweating and annoyed at being disturbed.

  ‘Want something?’

  ‘I came up to write a letter.’

  ‘What – in my chartroom?’

  ‘I’ve been given to understand I have the run of it too. But don’t worry – since you seem to have other uses for the place.’

  ‘Yes. If you wouldn’t mind, dear fellow. Circumstances have changed somewhat, have they not? Why not write your letter in the wardroom?’

  The cabins were doorless, fitted with the timber sills and full of coal, by sunset. Coal-dust everywhere: at least as penetrative as a sandstorm. Wherever you looked, whatever you touched: and the reek and – when eating or drinking – taste of it and grittiness between the teeth. In the cabin the plank bridge didn’t work, the plank being a couple of feet too short. You could toss it over against the bunk and use it to stand on after clambering over the coal, but that was all the use it was.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Nelidov was given a military-style burial ashore on the Monday afternoon. The governor of the territory attended in a feathered hat and had provided a guard and band, supplementing that from the Oslyabya. The French band played their version of the Russian national anthem and the Oslyabya’s ground out the funeral march Kol Slaven; volleys of rifle-shots were fired over the grave, and photographs were taken for sending to Ambassador Nelidov in Paris. The French in fact seemed to have been making a bit of a meal of it. Michael heard all of this from others, didn’t himself attend. Nor strangely enough did Rojhestvensky, although Clapier de Colongue and a few other members of the staff turned up. It must have been quite an impressive turnout: from Ryazan the chaplain had gone, of course, and Burmin, Radzianko and Murayev, as well as several of the junior lieutenants and michmen, and the largest contingent came, obviously, from the Oslyabya – most of her officers and several hundred of the ship’s company.