Floating Madhouse Page 9

  Selyeznov had dropped in, was holding forth authoritatively in the Sventorjhetsky group now. Of course there’d been torpedo-boats. Was anyone suggesting that Admiral Rojhestvensky would order fire to be opened on mere fishing trawlers that actually were fishing and nothing else?

  Michael called to him, ‘It’s what happened, Vladimir Petrovich. I’m sorry to insist on it – it puts me in an invidious position to have to do so – but as you know I was on the after bridge when you were—’

  ‘I do recall that, yes, but as I was explaining to you—’

  ‘There were no torpedo-boats. You’d seen none.’

  ‘With that I must take issue—’

  ‘Excuse me.’ The doctor, Nyedozorov, tapped Selyeznov on the shoulder. ‘I too was with you at that stage, Vladimir Petrovich, I had my binoculars with me, and having no duties until men are injured I was in a position to give my full attention to what was happening. What’s more, I’ve been at sea as long as any of you and longer than most, and I assure you I know at a glance the difference between a torpedo-boat and a steam-trawler. I positively swear—’

  ‘The answer is they’d gone by that time. We’d driven them off.’ Sventorjhetsky again. ‘Regrettably some of the gunners in their enthusiasm continued firing for longer than was necessary. Many of them are less skilled in ship-recognition than is our greatly respected quack here. Eh?’

  ‘Your brandy, Mikhail Ivan’ich. And your tea, er—’

  Michael told Sollogub quietly, ‘His Christian name is Pavel and his patronymic is Vasil’ich.’

  ‘But don’t bother, please—’

  ‘Pavel Vasil’ich, I should have known it by this time without being told. Your health!’

  ‘And yours. You’re very kind. You too, Mikhail Ivan’ich. But my God, could this result in war?’

  There was an immediate lull in the hubbub of conversation; faces turning, startled eyes on Michael. From Sventorjhetsky, an incredulous ‘War?'

  ‘No, surely—’

  Selyeznov cut across Sollogub: ‘You aren’t seriously postulating—’

  ‘Listen.’ Michael addressed Selyeznov, who was the most senior officer present. ‘As I said, it puts me in a difficult position. And I must say I’m, frankly, bemused by what’s occurred. So I’ll answer that question now – simply as I see the probabilities – but I’d be grateful if I might be excused from discussing it further, after this. As long as I’m your guest on board here—’

  ‘Here.’ Sollogub handed him another tot of brandy. ‘Here. I’ve told him to put this round on your chit.’

  ‘Thank you, Nikolai Sergei’ich. But listen: ask yourselves how the Russian people – you yourselves – would feel if a Royal Navy squadron steamed up the Baltic and started blowing the heads off Russian fishermen. On top of that it’s an unfortunate truth that our governments haven’t been getting along all that well in recent years. Now, the British people – and parliament – are going to ask, aren’t we going to do anything about it?’ He shrugged. ‘We do have a very large and powerful fleet – as you must know, of course – and – well, putting two and two together, Vladimir Petrovich, that’s my assessment of the situation we’re in now.’

  Snatches of overheard conversation then, while he with Narumov and Sollogub remained slightly apart from the main throng, included, ‘But several of our lads actually saw torpedo tracks fizzing by!’ and, ‘Great heavens, man, they are in alliance – isn’t it what’s been expected of them all along?’

  Nyedozorov paused briefly beside Michael. ‘You are, of course, absolutely right, lieutenant.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  ‘A matter of facing facts, that’s all. Goodnight.’

  Sollogub put down an empty glass. ‘Time we all turned in.’ Sventorjhetsky’s voice again then: ‘However that may be, gentlemen, foremost in my own mind is satisfaction that our shooting was so good.’

  7

  The shooting had in fact been rotten – quite apart from having been directed at their own ships. Not that Captain Ignatzius, over breakfast, seemed at all depressed about it. Not only was he a naturally ebullient character, half a dozen hits in a night engagement lasting only a few minutes didn’t sound too bad – if you overlooked minor details such as that fire had been opened at fairly close range, for big guns – four thousand yards, two nautical miles, or as Russian naval gunners liked to call it, twenty cables – and that there’d been no fewer than seven battleships contributing to the barrage. Suvarov herself had loosed off twelve rounds of 6-inch and five of 12-inch; in all there’d have been something in the region of a hundred large-calibre shells fired.

  The last-minute fitting of telescopic gun-sights seemed not to have done them much good. Michael refrained from comment, even to Sollogub, but he felt that if he’d been in Admiral Togo’s shoes he wouldn’t be losing any sleep.

  The vital question, of course, was what was happening in England, and between London and St Petersburg. The survivors of the fishing-fleet would be getting into port during the forenoon, he supposed – into Hull, or Grimsby – so one might reckon on the news being received in London by, say, midday. And if Rojhestvensky had telegraphed his account of the night’s action to St Petersburg – getting his version in first – which he would have done, if the Slaby-Arco wireless equipment had had the range for it…

  ‘Our destroyers and the transport Korea are to put in at Cherbourg, Mikhail Ivan’ich.’

  Sollogub, who’d spent the morning watch, 0400 to 0800, on the bridge, had told him this. Michael queried, ‘Will the French allow it?’

  ‘That is a question, of course. But the chief of staff seems to expect they will.’ He shrugged. ‘One doesn’t get to see every signal or telegram that comes in or goes out, mind you.’

  Ignatzius chuckled, over his sour milk and raisins. ‘You could say that, indeed!’

  ‘Even you don’t, sir?’

  Amiable smile. ‘As flag captain, you mean.’ Shake of the head. ‘I’m here just to drive the ship around, my dear count. On wider issues the admiral decides, either on his own or in conjunction with those members of his staff in whom he chooses to confide; I then receive my instructions. Whether in the final outcome we float or sink, therefore, is not on my slop-chit – as the saying goes. D’you have such an expression in your navy, lieutenant?’

  ‘Precisely the same – oddly enough.’

  ‘And speaking of your fleet, here in your home waters, how many battleships could be mustered – that’s to say, would be available at a few hours’ notice, here on your south coast?’

  ‘Off-hand, I’d guess, perhaps a dozen.’

  ‘Modern, well-found ships, we’re speaking of?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And first-class cruisers?’

  ‘Captain – with apologies, as your guest—’

  ‘All right. I’m only looking for an approximation of relative strengths. Say twenty cruisers?’

  ‘If you like. But then out of the Mediterranean by way of Gibraltar – if it was decided such strength was called for – you might double those numbers.’

  ‘Twenty-four battleships?’

  ‘At least.’

  ‘And forty cruisers?’

  ‘Rather more than forty, probably.’

  Sollogub murmured, with milk running down his chin, ‘We’d be completely overwhelmed, of course.’ Others were staring from all around the long table, looking shocked. Engineer Captain Bernander had uttered a croaking sound – open-mouthed, words failing him. Michael spooned sugar into his coffee. He thought it would add up to something like thirty powerful, well-crewed battleships – each of which on her own could take on this whole squadron – and up to fifty cruisers. Ignatzius was murmuring to Sollogub, ‘As well as God knows how many torpedo-boat destroyers…’

  There was some motion on the ship, this Sunday morning, a rhythmic pitching as she stemmed a long swell funnelling up-Channel from the Atlantic. Sound-effects to match: groaning, and creaking, the rattle of gear
on the upper deck and the regular slam of the sea as she drove her ram and forepart into it.

  ‘So let’s pray to God –’ Chaplain Rasschakovsky munching a rusk, crumbs of it decorating his beard – ‘that diplomacy may prevail.’

  ‘Amen.’ Thinking perhaps it would. If Balfour and his Foreign Secretary, Lansdowne, were so minded – depending on what other irons they might have in the fire, internally and/or internationally. Rasschakovsky was telling him that he’d be conducting a mass on the seamen’s messdeck in half an hour’s time, and vespers this evening. In harbour, he added, the morning service was always held on the upper deck – following, Michael gathered, some kind of ritual equivalent to the RN’s Sunday ‘Divisions’. He added, ‘You’re Church of England, I know, but you’d be welcome at either or both.’

  ‘Very kind. Thank you.’ He’d attended Russian Orthodox services on occasion; with his mother in London a few times, and on earlier visits to Injhavino and to his grandparents the Sevasyeyevs. The difference, to him, was only a matter of outward form: at home there’d been the village church where he and brother George had often enough played marbles on the floor of the family box-pew while their father read the lesson – thumping the lectern with a fist when the Lord had reason to be displeased – then the Navy where Divine Service was very much an extension of ‘Divisions’. Stand at – ease! Stand – easy! Off – caps! Then shout the Lord’s Prayer and a few others, bellow Oh God Our Help in Ages Past, and invariably a prayer one had known by heart since cadet days, referring to those who passed on the seas upon their lawful occasions – in terms of which, come to think of it, there might be some doubt as to whether this lot would qualify, in God’s eyes. They wouldn’t in Jackie Fisher’s, you could be damn sure.

  He said to Rasschakovsky, ‘I’m very sorry to hear that your colleague in the Aurora was wounded last night, Padre.’

  ‘Indeed. The mass will be said for his early recovery.’

  A priest by name of Afanasy: he’d had most of one arm torn off when a shell, possibly but not necessarily from this ship, had passed through his cabin when he’d been in it. Probably hadn’t exploded in there, or he’d have been dead, but he was in a bad way in any case and they were worried for him. Michael had heard of it from Narumov, who’d arrived in their cabin – waking him – at about six, having stayed up all night in case of being required to cope with action damage. He’d sat here in the wardroom, he’d told Michael, with Flagmansky snoring in his lap; the squadron steering southwest at its best speed, cruisers three miles ahead of the battleships, visibility much reduced by fog, and at one stage passing through an even larger fleet of trawlers than they’d been involved with earlier. The violent alteration in course to avoid collision with them had alarmed Narumov, who – to Flagmansky’s annoyance, he’d said – had rushed up on deck to see what was happening.

  ‘Some we passed very close indeed. In fact we carried away some of their nets – trawls, if that’s what they’re called. I met von Kursel up there, he was telling me there’s a danger of nets and such becoming wound around a ship’s propellers. As of course you’d know. We were in luck, though.’

  ‘But the trawlers weren’t.’

  ‘You mean losing their nets?’

  ‘At least they weren’t shot at. You might say that was lucky.’

  He wondered where the Ryazan might be, where she’d join the rest of them. Whether he’d ever get to transfer to her now – or might indeed disembark at Brest. If last night’s blundering did lead to war, he’d have to. Another possibility was that the squadron might be recalled to the Baltic: if the admirals in St Petersburg reacted quickly enough, facing up to the fact that if war did break out now it hadn’t a dog’s chance of getting past Cape Finisterre – let alone around Africa, across the Indian Ocean and up to the Yellow Sea.

  * * *

  The fog was lifting: pale patches on the beam to starboard were the white cliffs of Dover. Michael had come up to the after bridge again, bringing Sollogub for his first sight of England – also, by intention, for some English language practice, which turned out to be mostly Russian with a few English words or phrases injected from time to time.

  ‘Not very impressive, I’m afraid.’

  ‘A pity we’re not a little closer. Although we do seem to be cutting the corner rather, don’t we? What’s worth looking at to the west of Dover?’

  ‘Nothing much. Seaside towns. A biggish one called Brighton – in a couple of hours or so. Then Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight – which as a navigator you’ll know is just about opposite Cherbourg, where you tell me the destroyers have gone. We won’t be that far west until the afternoon, of course. What are we doing now – fifteen knots?’

  ‘Aiming for that, but making good more like thirteen. Well behind schedule. For one thing we had to stop for a while – just after four, the start of my watch – the Oryol again, more steering problems.’

  ‘Which must be why the second division’s ahead of us. I was going to ask you. But Oryol – at this stage, with so far to go… Anyway, more work for poor Narumov!’

  ‘Not necessarily. She has her own engineer-constructor on board. Narumov’s a nice fellow though, isn’t he? Very good at his job too, they say. A rough diamond, of course…’

  ‘I like him. Even if he does hate England and the English.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘So he says. He maintains that everyone on earth hates us. We’re cunning and arrogant – and “Russia’s eternal enemy”. Despite which I find him entirely friendly – amusing, too.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s accepting you as part-Russian.’

  ‘I did suggest he might. How do you feel about the English, Nikolai Sergei’ich?’

  ‘Oh, I take ’em as they come – the same as Russians. One can’t love all one’s fellow men. I’ve never been to England, as it happens, but I’ve spent a lot of time in Paris, where as you know one meets the whole world – including English. Same in Biarritz, always lots of you in Biarritz. I used to go there with my parents, they loved the place… Do you think England will go to war over this?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’ll be an outcry – political and popular – to avenge those trawlermen. And when one has a Navy such as ours – to which Narumov objects, incidentally – and one’s citizens are assaulted on the high seas, what’s it for?’

  They’d moved aft to the signal deck, the rearmost part of this bridge level. Michael filling his pipe, gazing astern at the rolling, out-spreading wake: and at the Borodino, their next-astern, for once exactly in station, although the two astern of her were wandering somewhat. The four astern; the transports Sibir and Anadyr were still there – in sight, anyway. He went on, ‘The Japanese are another factor, or they might be. The image of your war with them, in our newspapers, is the huge Russian bear looming over a midget in a loincloth who’s valiantly standing his ground. “Plucky little Jap” is the phrase. Last night’s business, I’m afraid, will match that – huge battleships blasting away at fishermen in cockleshells, who tend to be national heroes anyway, defying foul weather and all the dangers of the seas in order to feed their countrymen. Not all that far off the truth, as a matter of fact.’ He’d got his pipe going. ‘Not a promising outlook, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You’d leave us, I imagine.’

  ‘I’d have to. Perhaps in Brest – if we get that far… Changing the subject, though, tell me about Captain Klado? On the bridge last night he and the admiral almost came to blows!’

  ‘I heard about it. And I may say it’s not at all unusual. Klado’s a poseur and a schemer, more politician than naval officer. He writes articles on naval matters – in Novoye Vremya especially – and he’s somehow managed to convince our most senior admirals that he knows more about – oh, strategy, in particular – than anyone else. Shows how much they know! But it’s said that the Tsar himself reads his rubbish. It was the naval staff – headed by that great heap of lard Grand Duke Admiral Alexis Alexandrovich, the Tsar’s uncle – who forced Rojhe
stvensky to accept Klado on this staff. Old Zenovy’d throw him overboard if he thought he could get away with it. The root of it is that Klado’s responsible for our having with us the oldest, least seaworthy, let alone battle worthy ships. Rojhestvensky fought tooth and nail against taking any of them – and we’d have had a lot more and worse encumbrances if he hadn’t. Some ancient coastal-defence vessels for instance they threatened to send with us, he absolutely refused, and Klado hates him for having won even that much of the battle.’

  ‘Your Petersburg administration isn’t quite the finest in the world, is it?’

  ‘How nicely you put it. But Klado’s last employment was at Port Arthur, as naval advisor to Viceroy Alexeyev – which by association damns him for a start – and although neither he nor Alexeyev was ever anywhere near any action whatsoever he’s now accepted by Petersburg as the authority on all matters relating to the naval war. Extraordinary, but true. Listen: the way he argues that particular nonsense is that the more old crocks you can take along, the more targets the enemy has to shoot at – ignoring the facts that they slow the entire squadron to their own crawl, burn thousands of tons of precious coal and constantly break down, that their guns are museum-pieces, and that the enemy will shoot not at old wrecks but at the head of the line – the flagship, first and foremost – which is precisely how they defeated us at the Round Island battle – uh?’

  ‘Yes. Admiral and staff wiped out – confusion, no alternative command structure—’

  ‘You were advancing a theory the other day that Togo missed his chance?’

  ‘He did. Admiral Witheft’s orders were to break through to Vladivostok – and as you know, a lucky or astonishingly well-aimed salvo killed him and his staff and wrecked the flagship’s steering. Well, Togo had them at his mercy then – admittedly did a lot of damage and sent them running – but if he’d followed through as he should have, he could have wiped up the whole damn lot.’