Floating Madhouse Page 3

Liza Andreyevna was his mother: better known in England as Lady Elizabeth Henderson. He’d temporized, ‘Either way, I won’t let you down.’

  ‘If you haven’t already.’

  That reference was to the possibility of Tasha being pregnant. Which they wouldn’t know about at any rate until the squadron was on its way. While the mention of Michael’s mother being rich was a symptom of Anna Feodorovna’s inability to comprehend that his future in the Navy might matter to him as much as anything did. Even Tasha herself. That it had to: not as a matter of wanting to have his cake and eat it, more that in practical terms the two weren’t separable.

  Wouldn’t have to be – please God.

  From the flagship’s quarterdeck, where they were greeted by salutes to which he and Selyeznov responded by raising their hats, Selyeznov also halting and clicking his heels in the Prussian style, they were led by a rather heavy-set young michman – who’d introduced himself (Michael thought he’d heard) as von Kursel – along the upper deck, under the loom of the after-superstructure and then past the ship’s two enormous funnels towards the towering forebridge. Up a level by this time – Michael having taken note of three twin 6-inch turrets as they passed them – secondary armament, three turrets each side, while the main armament of four 12-inch were in one twin turret up for’ard and one back aft. Seamen here and there taking gawping note of him and Selyeznov as they passed. Observing – noting – smaller-calibre weaponry too, at differing levels. While two steam pinnaces, lashed in their cradles between the funnels, and other boats inboard as well, suggested that sailing might not be long deferred; although on the ship’s other side there had to be a barge alongside – a derrick was bringing up crates of ammunition, its blocks squealing, guys and topping-lift manned by bluejackets and a petty officer bawling orders. Selyeznov was urging him to come on, and a moment later the michman ducked into an opening in the forebridge’s lower-level superstructure: passing the foot of another up-ladder, from which a rotund, white-jacketed warrant officer came down like a ton of bricks, half-colliding with the michman and apologizing perfunctorily: a michman not being of much importance, only the equivalent of a sub-lieutenant – not midshipman, as one might have guessed from the similarity of the words. The badges of rank either side of this one’s thick neck were yellow epaulettes with a black stripe down the centre and a single star halfway along the stripe. He’d halted now at a door marked CHIEF OF STAFF.

  A double knock, and a reply of ‘Enter!’ Selyeznov edging up behind the michman and motioning to Michael to give him room to be first across the threshold.

  3

  The chief of staff, Captain First Rank Clapier de Colongue – in his early forties, of old French ancestry, tall and courteous, effusive in his welcome and even not doing a bad job, Michael thought, of masking his surprise at Selyeznov’s ‘turn-out’ – had told them it was Admiral Rojhestvensky’s intention to lead the squadron out of harbour at midday; but in fact it transpired during the course of the forenoon that the bigger ships were all aground and couldn’t move. This had infuriated the admiral, who was said to be pacing about on the forebridge shouting abusive remarks about the port’s designers and constructors.

  Some cruisers – including Oleg and Aurora, and two others who were allegedly sister-ships to Ryazan but of which Michael until now hadn’t heard – and destroyers and various other ships – several ‘auxiliary cruisers’, which were mostly large, former Hamburg-Amerika passenger vessels on which had been mounted a few small-calibre guns – and transports, store ships, old steamers of varying displacements – had up-anchored and found enough water under them to flounder out of harbour. They’d wait for the battleships outside, presumably.

  ‘Anchor out there, I dare say. We’ll get underway at about four, is the expectation.’

  The speaker was Senior Lieutenant Count Nikolai Sollogub, the Suvarov’s assistant navigating officer, who after lunch had shown Michael around the ship and then brought him up to the signal platform at the back end of the after bridge – the emergency control position, Michael would have called it. He’d changed into uniform before lunch. They’d allotted him the spare berth in a cabin belonging to an engineer – actually an engineer-constructor, on the admiral’s staff – a man by name of Narumov, who later had introduced him, in the wardroom over lunch, to this Count Sollogub, possessor of a name he felt sure he’d known from somewhere in the past – some reminiscence of his mother’s, possibly – and with a friendly manner that contrasted with the frigid politeness most of them had shown him, in that wardroom. He’d met about twenty of them: mostly limp handshakes, cold eyes, formal words and practically no smiles. Their names and mustachioed faces were a jumble in his memory: Flag Lieutenant Leontiev, Captain Second Rank Semonov, Senior Lieutenant Sventorjhetsky – on the admiral’s staff, number two of the gunnery department – and lieutenants Bogdanov, Vladimirsky, Reydkin, Politovsky, Brakov, Ulyanov, Baylin, Guryenko, Grigoriev. And others: michmen Fomin, Shishkin, Golovkin… All in those comic-opera knee-high boots with trousers tucked in and flopping baggily over their tops: the clown-like effect was only emphasized by a marked display of hauteur. Sollogub – ignoring the critical glances his messmates had been directing at him for consorting with the enemy – had expressed interest in improving his knowledge of the English language.

  ‘Think you might find time to help?’

  ‘Bags of time, I’d guess, and I’d be delighted – if it’s possible, seeing I’ll be in the Ryazan, you know. I’m aboard here only because she’s already sailed, and I’d cut my arrival here so fine—’

  ‘I heard about it. But now look at that.’ Pointing at a dog - dachshund-shaped but with a coarse white coat – which was being given a fingerful of Beluga caviar by Sventorjhetsky, the tall and burly gunnery flag-lieutenant. Sollogub said, ‘Flagmansky, they’re calling it – because it came on board at the same time as most of Rojhestvensky’s staff. But Ryazan – yes, we’ve been given all that background. Incidentally, I was intrigued to hear that you have connections with the esteemed Volodnyakov family. Had any of whom been aboard, incidentally –’ he’d dropped his voice to a murmur – ‘this rabble would be grovelling…’

  ‘Do you know the Volodnyakovs?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say know them, quite. But might we discuss that later?’ Lowering his tone again. ‘Some of these chaps… Well, you’ve met a fairly typical selection, I suppose. They’ll – oh, settle down, when they get to see which way the wind blows – but I wouldn’t, I think, discuss – er – personalities, here and now… On the subject of moving between ships, though – whether for language practice or purely social visits – there’ll be numerous stops en route – we’ll be coaling in Danish waters, I’m told – Japanese permitting, of course – and stopping in the French port of Brest, and so on, and after that God knows where else, but we have somehow to get right round Africa, and we won’t do that without frequent stops to take in coal. So there’ll be boats to and fro, and the Ryazan’s wardroom might spare you for a few hours now and then.’

  ‘Only too glad to get rid of me, I should think. But of course. Conversational practice, and vocabulary, that sort of thing? Mind you, I’m hoping to improve my spoken Russian too.’

  ‘I should think there’d be quite a few who’d be keen to join in. It’s going to be a long haul, I’m afraid, and with little to occupy one’s mind… That is, if we ever get out of here!’

  ‘You mean if we get off the mud?’

  A shrug. ‘That’ll resolve itself in an hour or two – with a rising tide and an onshore wind to push some of it in here. The ships are over-loaded, that’s the main trouble – nobody seems to have given a thought to it. More than over-loaded, some of them are positively unstable. No, what I meant was, out of the Baltic – with all the rumours of ambush by the Japanese—’

  ‘I wouldn’t believe any of that, Count.’

  ‘Look – if you don’t mind – I’m Nikolai Sergei’ich Sollogub, and despite our very brief acquaintance – a
lso to make up to some small extent for my messmates’ appalling manners—’

  ‘Mikhail Ivan’ich Henderson.’

  ‘Genderson…’

  ‘If you like. In English it’s Henderson – but that’s tricky for you, of course.’ Because of the absence of a letter ‘H’ in the Russian alphabet, they’d substitute a ‘G’. ‘But the talk of a sneak attack by torpedo craft, Nikolai Sergei’ich—’

  ‘You don’t believe in it?’

  ‘Frankly, I do not.’

  They were back then into much the same exchange of views as he’d had with Selyeznov – whom he hadn’t seen since leaving him with Clapier de Colongue – de Colongue wanting to discuss what would be the little man’s duties on the staff, but having changed his mind about taking him directly to meet the admiral – obviously because of his odd appearance and how the admiral might react to it. He’d told Selyeznov, ‘A cabin has been allocated to you, of course – if you’d ask at the commander’s office they’ll show you. And I believe baggage was put on board for you at Reval. You’d feel more comfortable in uniform, my dear fellow – and then I’ll present you to the admiral.’

  ‘I have been keenly anticipating that honour, sir!’

  Sycophantic little swine. Michael, after exchanging a few platitudes with de Colongue, had excused himself and left them to it, made his way back aft and found von Kursel, who’d directed him to Narumov’s cabin, in which they’d already deposited his gear and where the engineer-constructor, a dark-complexioned man in his middle thirties, was crouched over a desk writing a letter to his wife.

  ‘There’ll be a last mail put ashore before we weigh. At least, I very much hope there will be… You’re an Englishman, I was told?’

  ‘Half English, half Russian.’

  ‘Well, I might as well admit to you – in order to have it in the open and understood between us right from the start – that I dislike the English quite fundamentally. I think the reason you have been put into this cabin is that I shall be spending a lot of my time in other ships – supervising repairs of one kind and another – so often enough you’ll have it entirely to yourself. I can’t think of any other reason – except that with the number of staff officers we now have on board – that is the reason, of course—’

  ‘In any case I’m only here until I can move to the Ryazan.’

  ‘Yes. When the opportunity arises. I was assured of that.’

  ‘But you’re responsible for repairs in other ships? Don’t they have engineers of their own?’

  ‘Of course they do. And in each of the major vessels – our three sister-ships for instance – there’s an engineer-constructor as well. But in the smaller ones the engineers are not up to dealing with constructional repairs – only with running their own machinery and routine maintenance. We do have a repair-ship coming with us – the Kamchatka – for as much as she may be worth – of which having taken a look around and spoken to some of her engineering staff I have some considerable doubts.’

  Michael had unlocked his tin trunk. He said, ‘You’ll get it all in hand, I’m sure. Would it inconvenience you if I were to change now?’

  ‘Not in the least. As a matter of fact I’d be glad to continue this letter to my wife.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have interrupted in the first place. But tell me – if you would – why do you hate the English?’

  ‘Because they are Russia’s eternal enemy. Arrogant, cunning, with overpowering strength at sea and vicious in the use of it. All nations hate England – it only suits most of them to tolerate her, most of the time. Does that answer your question?’

  ‘Very clearly.’ He smiled, rather liking the man’s directness. ‘I can only hope you’ll bear in mind I’m half Russian.’

  ‘There’s nothing personal in what I’ve said. You asked, so I told you, but none of it is directed in any sense at you. With that name there – Genderson – I take it that your father is English – entirely English?’

  ‘Was. He died some years ago. My mother on the other hand is entirely Russian, and still very much alive. She was born Lizavyeta Andreyevna Sevasyeyeva.’

  Blank look: and of course, this character had probably never heard of the Sevasyeyevs. He was nodding now, though. ‘At least she brought you up to speak Russian. You’re not married?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Heavy sigh… ‘At times such as these it’s as well not to be.’

  ‘Yes. I understand, how you must feel… And I’ll shut up now, let you get on with your letter.’

  ‘The worst of it is that I’m very much aware it could be the last I ever write. If the Japanese – your allies – are lurking out there…’

  ‘It’s highly unlikely. Really. Pretty well impossible.’

  ‘That they’ll attack us on our way out of the Baltic – through the narrow waters of the Great Belt and the Skaw, the Skaggerak – that you say is impossible?’

  ‘Highly improbable anywhere at all in European waters. I assure you.’

  ‘And when we turn the corner into the German Ocean?’

  ‘The North Sea – and the English Channel – perfect safety.’

  ‘Hm. I realize you’d have satisfied yourself on that before accepting the invitation to join us – logically, one might assume so. But are you an experienced seaman, may I ask?’

  ‘I’ve been about ten years at sea.’

  ‘Have you indeed. Well, I may as well tell you, you have the advantage of me there – this will be my first blue-water cruise. First, and I dare say last. I hope you’re right in your views, obviously, but – well, the more general opinion seems to be to the contrary. However – excuse me now…’

  Head down and scribbling. Michael pulled his reefer jacket out of the tin trunk and unfolded it. His sister-in-law Jane had helped him pack this lot. Coming to think of which – of Jane and Wiltshire, of the house and estate that had been his father’s and was now his brother’s; this was a Saturday – October 15th by the English calendar – and she and brother George would almost certainly be hunting. Allowing for time-difference, just about starting out, he guessed. He paused for a moment, first wishing to God he was with them and then reflecting that his sister-in-law and Tasha would be bound to get on well together, if and when they got to know each other. It was a very large ‘if’: to that extent Narumov’s fatalism might be justifiable, in the long run. The Japanese did know their business, and their commander-in-chief Admiral Togo knew it very well – whereas from what one had seen here this far – as well as much of what Captain White had told him, which at the time had seemed far-fetched enough to be more like gossip or rumour than hard intelligence – what it boiled down to was that the Second Squadron’s prospects weren’t all that rosy. White had in fact made a point of it: ‘We’re assuming you’ll have given serious thought to this, Henderson. Obviously it’s in our interests to have you there, but – to put it mildly, it’s not without its risks. If you did want to reconsider – be clear about this, nobody’s ordering you to take it on.’

  Thoughts of the past, present and future mingled and surged. His present situation, and events leading up to it – Injhavino, Paris, Tasha. Tasha as the mainspring of it all. It had all come up so fast, and he’d, as it were, been running with it. All very well for White to have talked about ‘reconsidering’ – there was time now for reflection, but there hadn’t been before: really only for reacting. White hadn’t meant that anyway, had said it because he’d felt he had to – putting on record that Their Lordships were not sending Senior Lieutenant Henderson either on a spying mission or to a watery grave.

  Thoughts back again to Tasha, whose very existence was of course unknown to either White or Arbuthnot, and whose huge importance to him was known only to her and her mother – oh, and to Prince Igor, damn him, and his spies; and to Jane now, since in eliciting her help in other matters he’d had to let her in on the situation. He’d asked her not to mention it to George, who was very much his father’s son – loud-voiced, tended to adopt an authorita
tive manner and would have disapproved of Michael’s pinching another man’s fiancée – which as far as he was concerned would be all there was to it. Jane wouldn’t tell him anyway, having promised not to, even though her own reaction had been somewhat equivocal: watching Michael as he explained it, attentive but expressionless and offering no comment. Jane was a ripping girl, everyone agreed – despite the puzzle of his mother’s warning, years ago, ‘Watch out for that one, Michael. She’s charming, pretty, very capable, but—’ But what? She’d cut herself short at that point, added a moment later, ‘There’s a lot of Russian in you, you know. None at all in George.’ He’d guessed finally what she’d been getting at, the fact that George, her beloved first-born, wasn’t exactly sparkling bright, that Jane had seemed at times to have a greater affinity with ‘the Russian one’. Not that the old girl need have worried. Anyway he hadn’t told her about Tasha yet. She – Mama – would have been on his and Tasha’s side for sure, once she’d brought herself to face it, but she’d become scatterbrained of late, might have blurted it out to George or inadvertently put something dangerous in a letter – even to Prince Igor, with whom she still occasionally corresponded. Later of course she’d have to know – as indeed would George – but as a fait accompli.

  Which brought one’s thinking back again to Tasha and how she’d acclimatize – if such a dream could possibly come true, if one did (a) survive this expedition, (b) manage with Anna Feodorovna’s help to extricate her. Well – forget that second ‘if’, if one was alive to do it one damn well would. But Tasha’s only visit to England this far had been in ’95, with her mother; George hadn’t married Jane until the year after that, so the two girls had never met, and there’d be a good ten years between them. George had inherited the estate and the baronetcy on his and Michael’s father’s death – of a broken neck, in the hunting field, at the age of sixty-three – in 1893. Jane had been in the offing, of course, but not actually present during Anna Feodorovna’s visit, and Tasha had been just nine years old, though already riding – brother George’s description – ‘like some drink-crazed Cossack.’ Michael – then nineteen or twenty – nineteen, still a sub-lieutenant, hadn’t acquired his second stripe until ’96 – had taken the child cubbing, and conscious of his responsibility for her safety had tried at first to keep her on a leading-rein – at which she’d initially shown a degree of shock and disbelief, then refused absolutely to tolerate. She’d dismounted, ‘cast off’ (as it were, in naval terminology), flung herself back up into the saddle and left him standing; had then been in at the death, got herself ritually blooded and brought the cub’s mask home with her – still seething at the indignity to which he’d tried to subject her. ‘I should have realized,’ he’d acknowledged later to her mother, ‘I’m sorry – she’ll probably never speak to me again.’