Floating Madhouse Page 8

  Michael knew that if he’d run off with her he’d never have got beyond Senior Lieutenant. Hard up, and with a failed marriage almost inevitably to follow. In fact, not necessarily all that hard up, since his mother had become rich in her own right, following the deaths of her parents and subsequent sale of the Sevasyeyev estate, to which she’d been sole heiress. But if he wasn’t standing on his own feet it would still amount to failure, which was what Anna Feodorovna hadn’t understood.

  He’d sworn to Tasha he’d come back to her. Sworn it in the dark and in daylight (in Paris) too, and repeated it on the platform at the Gare du Nord. All right, so in this shambles of a squadron he could end up being drowned. Could, but would not. Please God, would not. Whatever happened, there’d be some survivors, and – again, please God – he’d be one of them.

  While Zakharov might not be?

  Alternatively, if they both survived – well, he’d have to get to her and get her away before Prince Igor knew he was back in Russia. Or telegraph, have Anna Feodorovna take her to Wiltshire where he’d join them when he could. As far as their Lordships were concerned he’d have done this job, might hope they’d turn blind eyes or at least non-censorious ones on his private life. The dream-picture though was of Tasha beside him in a troika racing to the frontier. Tasha in close-up, lovely in her furs, the three horses’ pounding hooves, and somewhere ahead the sanctuary where he’d divest her of those furs and every damn thing else.

  Drifting off. Behind his closed eyelids, Tasha’s body emerging from fur and silk. Tasha’s scent, her touch…

  Crash of gunfire. He felt it as well as heard it: even in half-sleep still. Bugle-call, then. Action stations? And the guns again – starboard for’ard 6-inch, he thought. The light was on, and Narumov was shouting from close range, ‘Genderson! Genderson, wake up!’

  6

  Searchlights blindingly bright, sweeping the sea and probing distance, dispelling mist as well as darkness but lighting no enemy that he could see: gunfire again – from ships astern as well, but from this one the 3-pounders and 3-inch with flickering spurts of flame overhead and along the starboard side. Intermittent flashes of brilliance, and the crashing noise an assault on one’s eardrums. The starboard after 6-inch turret was trained out on the beam, he’d seen – but needing some excuse or order before it could join in, presumably. Shooting at what, though? He was on the external ladderway leading past that turret, up the side of the superstructure to the after bridge, with Narumov close behind him. Or had been – seemed not to be there now. Astern – roughly, not in line-astern formation, in fact dispersed raggedly on the quarters – the dark masses of the other three – Borodino, Alexander III, and Oryol outlined in the whitish glitter of broken sea – were giving similar firework displays. He kept his eyes down as he reached bridge level: searchlights here were on the upper bridge and higher, on the mainmast above the after gunnery-control position, and if you’d looked at one of them directly you’d really be blinded. Gunfire from this end of the ship had slackened, he realized, but was still brisk from her forepart – 3-pounders on the for’ard upper bridge especially hard at it, the sea on that bow as a searchlight beam traversed it leaping from of shot – to no obvious purpose, and the searchlights’ continuing search surely an admission of no target or targets having been found; if they had found one they’d be holding it. He had a premonition that whatever was happening might well be a prelude to disaster. Glancing round again for Narumov – worried that as a landsman who hadn’t acquired his sea-legs yet he might have fallen off the ladder – Michael found himself face to face with Selyeznov, and with him the doctor, Nyedozorov, and the junior torpedo lieutenant, Baylin. Michael yelled in Selyeznov’s ear, ‘What are they shooting at?’

  ‘Torpedo-boats!’ Ducking as a shell passed close – from astern, one of the other battleships – startling enough, but that was all it could have been; the tearing, rushing sound had been unmistakable, and there was nowhere else it could have come from… A scream from Baylin then – his arm out, hand as white as a corpse’s in the searchlights’ milky fallout: ‘There! See? They’ve hit it!’

  A fishing-boat – trawler, about a hundred tons – pinpointed in a searchlight beam but showing no lights of its own. There should have been a tricolour light above a fixed white one on its foremast – which he saw now was only a stump, its upper part shot away. The boat was half over in a heavy list to port, and its little shed-like wheelhouse had been stove in and was burning. Hit again – wreckage flying and flames spreading; on fire aft as well. With about forty guns belting away at it at very close range, there were bound to be some hits – and deaths and maiming as well as destruction. And now again – the upper part of that narrow, upright funnel disintegrating in an orange flash. Range at the most two hundred yards – less than two hundred yards, although lengthening now for the for’ard guns as the trawler fell abaft the beam. Red-painted hull and upperworks, black at and below the boot-topping, the lower hull’s planking so exposed to view because of the list to port. She’d be half full, he guessed, wouldn’t float long. Searchlights meanwhile had found another one and the for’ard guns were shifting to it – at least, plastering the sea in its vicinity. Even if only one shot in fifty hit, the little craft was doomed. Selyeznov open-mouthed, stupefied: Michael grabbed his arm, bawled into that same ear, ‘Fishing-boats, not torpedo-boats! British fishing-fleet – Christ’s sake have them cease fire!’

  Explosion – another hit – on this nearer boat, at a range of about one hundred yards. The other was astern by this time. This one, on fire and with steam gushing from the wreckage of its funnel, gushing white like ectoplasm – that shellburst had been internal, perhaps the boiler gone. There’d be dead men in there too. But some – two – were fighting their way out of the smashed and smouldering wheelhouse. One of them - surprisingly – holding up a fish. Proof of identity – telling these stupid, murderous bastards what he was – all he was. Waving the other hand as well – with something glowing red in it. Red lantern? Burning timber? The man beside him in the next moment lost his head – literally had his head blown off his shoulders, an explosive decapitation under floodlights as the boat either under full helm or with its wheel shot away passed out of sight on a curving track that would take it under the Suvarov’s stern. Twelve-pounders meanwhile still flaming and crashing although not from this immediate vicinity. Selyeznov had disappeared and Michael thought young Baylin might have gone up one level to order at least a localized cease-fire. Michael himself back on the external ladder now – had only been on that bridge about two minutes – getting down it as fast as he could, destination the forebridge and Rojhestvensky – with the sight of the headless trawlerman still vivid in his memory. The other trawlerman had gone reeling at the same moment, might have been killed in that blast. Murder at point-blank range was what this was, the thought at the back of his mind as he ran forward – switching to the port side because of a crowd of men milling around on this side – spectators, cheering, for God’s sake! An extension of the immediate shock was that what was happening here might easily – even probably – lead to war between Russia and Great Britain. Innocent fishermen slain while going about their legitimate business – fathers and husbands cut down by these heartily disliked Russians, the cruel bear slavering with blooded fangs and claws in a dozen newspaper cartoons each week – well, this was the reality, and the desperate, immediate need was to have Rojhestvensky call a halt to it. Even if he was half-mad too, which seemed not unlikely. And beyond the distinct possibility of war, the thought Go ashore at Brest? Telegraph to them at Yalta from there? Panting as he hauled himself up the port-side ladder – having en route to climb around a seaman who was frantic to get down – bawling, ‘Let me by! Let me by! Oh, Christ Jesus, let me by!’ A lunatic – Michael swinging out sideways from the ladder, getting the reek of long-unwashed peasant as he passed, and starting to climb again just as the for’ard port-side 6-inch opened up – this turret immediately below him – and then the
midships one: and the 12-inch were in it too now: deafening, night-shattering crashes from the turrets for’ard and aft – employing the main armament against fishing-boats, perhaps? He’d got there, anyway – slinging himself via the ladder-head platform into the after end of the bridge – where a tall, bearded officer by name of Klado, who was a captain first rank and an exceedingly self-important member of the admiral’s staff, was standing with binoculars levelled out to port, shouting to those behind him in the bridge, ‘Undoubtedly Japanese cruisers!’

  Out of his senses too. If he’d ever been in them. Michael shouldered past him into the bridge’s forepart, saw Selyeznov, and Makedonsky, and the navigator, Sidorenko: then the skipper, Ignatzius, close to whom was a bugler-boy with a bugle at his lips but no sound coming from it. The boy’s face was as white as paper in the radiance from searchlights overhead; he was shaking, witless in his terror, probably incapable of pursing his lips or mustering enough lung-power to produce whatever bugle-call Ignatzius wanted. Cease fire? Abandon ship? Engage the enemy more closely? Hands to dinner? Madness started from scratch, here. Thunder from the 12-inch again – firing to port, as were the 6-inch on that side – while on the starboard side the 12- and 3-pounders were engaging yet another batch of fishing-boats, shot and shell lashing the sea’s surface to a frenzy. Big guns were firing from the battleships astern as well, their flashes vivid in the night sky and the sound of them a pounding, thumping background to the nearer bedlam. Some of the action astern was at a distance suggesting that the second division of battleships – Felkerzam’s old crocks back there – was also loosing off. Michael reached Ignatzius: ‘Captain, sir—’

  ‘Out of my way!’

  Rojhestvensky, arriving at a trot, at his heels one of the Flag lieutenants and Michman Prince Tsereteli, the admiral’s hurtling bulk sending Ignatzius staggering and fetching up against the forefront of the bridge, swinging a telescope like a club then at the bugler’s head and roaring, ‘Sound the cease fire, damn you for a swine! Sound it!’ The boy had more or less dodged the blow, which might have cracked his skull if it had landed squarely, but still caught some of it glancingly on one shoulder. He was backing away with terrified eyes on his admiral, but also with the bugle coming back up to his lips: and then making the call – or a call… Rojhestvensky pointing the telescope at Michael now: ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Came to tell you those are harmless fishermen, sir!’

  ‘What of it? Torpedo-craft amongst them, weren’t there? Or did you have your eyes shut? Any case I’ve ordered cease fire. Hear it?’ A gesture towards the bugler. Then to Makedonsky, ‘What are you waiting for? One beam up, damn you!’

  Meaning one searchlight to shine its beam vertically, as an order to all ships to cease fire. Sidorenko was considerately murmuring this explanation in Michael’s ear while Makedonsky passed the order to Michman von Kursel – who was now rushing aloft. They’d use the searchlight on the upper bridge here. But Captain Klado was intervening: ‘Your Excellency – with respect, and with your Excellency’s permission—’

  ‘Respect be damned! Not granted!’

  Rojhestvensky glaring, roaring like a maddened bull. Should have pawed the deck, Michael felt, then charged, swinging at that pompous idiot with the telescope. Might have, if he’d thought of it, and Klado, perhaps aware of it, was retreating, looking haughtily offended. Sollogub had mentioned that the admiral hated Klado, Michael remembered. Bellowing at him now, ‘Can you read Tabulevich when it’s made on foreyard signal lights?’

  ‘Why, yes, I expect I’d—’

  ‘Take a harder look, then! Those are our own cruisers you’ve had us firing at, you infernal ninny!’

  The searchlight was vertical, a bright pillar in the night sky, and others were switching off, the beams seemingly dying back into their silver roots. Still some desultory firing, but not much. Ignatzius was covertly but urgently gesturing to Michael to clear off, and it was probably good advice. He went down the internal ladder this time – inside, there was one for up and one for down – and at its foot was stopped by Selyeznov, who’d come scooting down the wrong one in order to intercept him.

  ‘Mikhail Ivan’ich – a moment, please. I want you to know it was I who persuaded the admiral to have the action stopped: but also that there were torpedo-boats among those trawlers – yes, there were, they were using them for cover – typical of their tricks, eh? Thank God we were on to them as smartly as we were, so our gunners were able to catch them on the hop! As for what you were saying – and saw – well, naturally I sympathize, but their own fault, surely. If, when they saw us coming, they’d simply cut free of their nets and run for it – huh?’

  * * *

  Sailors, notably guns’ crews, were all over the ship in shouting, dancing groups – on the gundecks to start with, while clearing away and ditching empty shellcases – but then below decks as well, rollicking in relief and delight at having driven off the Japanese attackers. They’d seen dozens of torpedo-boats; had seen some blow up, others founder, the rest turn tail and save themselves. The gunners’ skill had been well and truly demonstrated, the monkeys taught a lesson they wouldn’t forget in a hurry, huh?

  An answering shout from another of them as Michael passed through, heading aft: ‘Not just the monkeys either! Won’t the news of how we dealt with them flash clear around the world now?’

  He felt sure it would. Initially, and most importantly, to London. When the survivors of the fishing-fleet got back to port with dead and wounded on board and damaged boats in tow, the telegrams would start flying. In Brest, presumably, one would get the first repercussions: if after this the French took the risk of letting the squadron go in there, which if they’d any sense they wouldn’t. Jackie Fisher, who’d been due to take over as First Sea Lord on Trafalgar Day, wouldn’t be taking it lying down, he thought: Fisher was about as resolute as they came.

  He went on down to the cabin, found Narumov pulling on overalls over a thick jersey. Explaining, ‘To be ready if I’m sent for. Those were our own cruisers we were firing on – did you know?’

  ‘Yes. Incredible as it seems…’

  ‘Lieutenant Vladimirsky assured me he saw several hits. Although the powder in our shells doesn’t show up much – it’s Pyroxyline, you know, the smokeless stuff – but he explained that at night the flash is visible.’

  ‘Did he also explain that they were trying to tell us who they were?’

  ‘It was their own fault entirely! He said that they shouldn’t have been within miles of where they were, or approaching from that direction, or have switched the lights off on their ships, or then directed searchlights at us. Perhaps you know better, but as he said we had to assume we were being attacked – and he’s sure we scored hits. From where he was in the gunnery control position up there above the bridge—’

  ‘I’m going along for a drink. Frankly, I can’t believe this has happened.’

  ‘What d’you mean, “can’t believe”?’

  ‘Innocent fishermen run down and blasted by gunfire in the middle of the night? It’s – a nightmare!’

  ‘But they were acting as cover for the torpedo-boats!’

  ‘What torpedo-boats? How many did you see?’

  ‘Well – I personally saw none, but—’

  ‘There weren’t any. As I’ve been telling you for days, there couldn’t possibly have been. Fishing-boats, engaged in fishing, and that’s all. Boats out of English east-coast ports such as – well, Hull, probably. And wherever they came from, there are widows and orphans who don’t know it yet.’ Narumov was standing stock-still, staring at him; Michael shook his head as he turned away. ‘Come along and have a drink, Pavel Vasil’ich.’

  ‘But if what you say is true—’

  ‘I saw it, so did you. Did you see that man’s head blown off? I saw one boat on the point of sinking and another so badly damaged it couldn’t have floated long. There’ll be hell to pay. Believe me, we could be at war within days, d’you realize? Come on –
if they need you they’ll find you…’

  * * *

  In the wardroom, Flag Gunnery Lieutenant Sventorjhetsky – he was number two to Colonel Bersenev of the Marine Artillery, Michael had learnt – towering head and shoulders above the group surrounding him, was insisting that of course there’d been Japanese torpedo-boats using the fishing-fleet as cover – and then saving themselves double-quick, leaving their allies to face the music!

  ‘Pretty damned effective music – uh? But there you are. If the English lend themselves to such deceit…’

  He’d seen Michael, and shut his mouth. He was quite a decent fellow, Michael thought; these people collectively – or Rojhestvensky perhaps – had made a colossal blunder, and he happened to be the Flag ‘G’ lieutenant, that was all. Michman Shishkin was audible suddenly – his voice high with excitement – telling Rasschakovsky, ‘Morale among the ship’s company is amazingly high now, Padre. Done us a world of good, that spot of bother!’ Michael tried to hear the chaplain’s reply, but Sollogub joined him at that moment: ‘Brandy, Mikhail Ivan’ich?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘We all need some lubrication.’ A glance at Narumov: ‘Brandy for his excellency the constructor too? Costumed for a boat-trip, are you?’

  ‘To be ready if I’m sent for. It may be that we hit the cruisers. But – thank you, I’d prefer a glass of tea.’

  ‘Why not. I can tell you, we did score hits – on the Aurora anyway. Or someone did. A fair number of ships were firing in that direction, I believe. But before I left the bridge the Aurora had signalled that her engineers were assessing damage, and she’d had two men wounded, one seriously. Here, steward…’