The Straits of Tsushima: An action-packed historical military adventure (Marcus Baxter Naval Thrillers Book 1)

by Tim Chant

  THE STRAITS OF TSUSHIMA

  Marcus Baxter Naval Thriller Series

  Book One

  Tim Chant

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  EPILOGUE

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  ALSO BY TIM CHANT

  PROLOGUE

  His world has narrowed down to simple sensations. The smell of cordite and powder, hot metal, fire and blood. The sight of a seemingly endless cloud of smoke from the fires raging uncontrolled on the deck, through which enemy ships could occasionally be glimpsed. But above all, the noise.

  Surrounding, all-encompassing, so constant that all the elements of it form a single unbroken cacophony. The immediate symphonies are the crash of the gun he crouches beside, the thunk of the heavy breech slamming open and the distinctive rattle of the spent brass cartridge hitting the deck to join the mound surrounding them. The heavier guns — one 6-inch gun still operational on the cruiser, so many of the enemy’s weapons still hammering away at the squadron — are the bass counterpoint; the rumble of the main battle an increasing drum roll. And the crew, the choir.

  The shouts of the gun crew, his own hoarse voice — almost that of a stranger, bellowing in a foreign tongue. No orders to speak of, just men exhorting each other to fight harder, stand their ground. Somewhere, someone screaming in pain or rage or fear, it’s hard to say. Petrov Ilyich’s sobs, gradually diminishing as no help comes — soon enough they’ll be sliding his body over the side. It’s shattering, consuming, and something Marcus Baxter knows he’ll never forget.

  A hand grabs his arm. His muscles are aching from the constant exertion, moving up and down behind the line of unprotected guns helping where he can while enemy shells wail overhead and shrapnel wickers past viciously, and he appreciates the moment’s pause.

  Cristov Juneau’s face is grimy, sweat-streaked dirt and crusted blood from a shallow head wound. He leans in close to be heard. “It seems we have made a proper Russian of you — I could hear you swearing from the bridge!”

  Baxter grins back. “And I’ve made proper sailors of you lot!”

  CHAPTER 1

  Port of Leith, Scotland, October 1904

  A train was rattling under Great Junction Street bridge as Marcus Baxter sauntered across, jangling his last few shillings in his hand to prevent their escape through the holes in his pockets. He hummed tunelessly; the sound lost in the shriek of the train’s whistle as it announced its approach to the station.

  He stopped halfway across to look down on the Water of Leith. A tramp steamer was manoeuvring up to the concrete slipway, grimy dockworkers standing by to lift off the coal required by Edinburgh’s insatiable rail network. The wind coming in from the Forth blew smoke across the road, making him cough as he caught a lungful. It would have reminded him of being on the deck of a ship under way, but it wasn’t the finest Cardiff coal that went into the boilers of His Majesty’s warships. The locomotives that plied the network of rail that connected Leith and Edinburgh, moving goods from the port to the city, didn’t warrant anything like that.

  Baxter darted around a rag and bone cart onto Ferry Road, head down and hands shoved in his pockets. The wind had cooled, bringing with it the smell of rain overlaying the reek of packed people. A dray, heavily laden with beer casks, rattled past as he turned up Madeira Street and almost absently counted the doors along.

  The cheap whisky he’d had earlier hadn’t helped his black mood, just lay in a sour coil in his gut and reminded him of the humiliation of another berth lost because of his damned name. At least this time it had been the merchantman’s owners, finally catching up with her by telegram. Her captain had seemed genuinely distressed to discharge him.

  He pushed the memories away — they wouldn’t do him any good.

  “Good evening, Mrs Dunbar,” he said as he pushed open the door to his lodging house.

  “Rent’s due next week, Mr Baxter.” It was said with a hard-eyed stare, flour-dusted hands planted firmly on broad hips. A tone of voice and a posture that would brook no demure. “Any luck finding a new berth? The Teuchter ferry always needs more hands.”

  He grimaced. In truth he had spent the day wandering between the pubs of Leith, which were many and varied. He knew there was little point trying to lie to the formidable Scotswoman — she had so many children he hadn’t quite managed to take a reliable headcount. Tomorrow he would try some of the freighters currently berthed in the harbour, or failing that the puffers which plied the coastal route. Protesting that he would act tomorrow, though, would be as fruitless as trying to lie to Mrs Dunbar.

  Instead, he tried his most winning smile, one which had turned more than one lady’s head. Mrs Dunbar merely sighed. “Pork chops for dinner, and you have visitors. I showed them up to your rooms.”

  He blinked, slightly nonplussed that she hadn’t seen fit to mention that before. As far as he knew the local plod wasn’t currently looking for him, and he couldn’t imagine anyone would have tracked him down to offer him a job. He shrugged and headed up the rickety stairs to the garret she grandly referred to as his rooms. It was a roof over his head, though, and board, and he’d lived in worse conditions.

  The door was standing ajar — it took a certain amount of physical force to close it properly — and light spilled out. He shouldered it open and strolled in, not acknowledging his visitors until he’d dropped his newspaper on the bed and deposited a small bottle on the rickety table.

  He sat on the bed, as the sole chair was occupied. As the dandy who had the presumption to commit that sin opened his mouth to speak, Baxter held a finger up and then proceeded to work his left boot off. His big toe protruded from a hole in the sock, and with a deep sigh of real relief he finally freed it of the constriction.

  The man in the chair watched the ostentatious performance with a certain amount of amused indulgence. His companion, half-seen in the dim space under the rafters, shifted from foot to foot in annoyance.

  “Mr Baxter.”

  “You have the advantage on me, sir.” Baxter wasn’t quite sure why he’d called him ‘sir’, but there was something of a senior officer about the man.

  “Arbuthnott. Naval Intelligence.” A long-fingered hand pushed a card across the table, forcing Baxter to lunge forward to rescue his bottle as the surface tilted. He let the card drop.

  The mention of Naval Intelligence told Baxter everything he needed to know. That Arbuthnott really should have been in uniform but was more comfortable out of it; particularly in this sort of environment. That his bulky shadow was not just there for show. His pulse quickened slightly. “Russia desk?” he asked.

  Arbuthnott uncrossed his legs and he leaned forward, lacing his fingers, giving the impression of a vulpine
schoolmaster. A smile creased narrow features. “I see you keep up with current affairs at sea,” he said, nodding to the copy of The Times on the bed. “What do you make of the so-called Second Pacific Squadron?”

  Baxter thought of the Russian Imperial Navy’s almost-mythical formation of vessels a lot. Particularly the big, beautiful Borodino battleships that formed its core. Destined to restore the Russian situation in the Far East and deal with Togo’s so-far unbeaten Japanese fleet, if it could manage the journey to the other side of the world.

  “Broadside weight is more or less on a parity with the Japanese,” he said at last. “And some of the ships are brand new.”

  “I suspect a ‘but’.”

  “If weight of broadside counted for everything, Nelson wouldn’t have won at Trafalgar. The new ships and crews haven’t been properly worked up, and the rest of the squadron is something of a hotch-potch. And the less said of the officers the better.”

  Arbuthnott nodded, almost as though he was seriously listening to the analysis of a former RN sub-lieutenant, and a disgraced one to boot. But then, Baxter suspected the question was more of a test of his own capacities. “There are,” Arbuthnott now said, “of course, many in the Admiralty who share that exact view. However, while we remain neutral in this affair the decision has been taken to assist our Japanese allies as much as we can. Mostly this will mean requiring strict observance of the laws of the sea when it comes to neutral harbours.”

  Baxter wanted to urge the fellow to get to the point. He wasn’t a patient man, but he guessed the gentlemen dilettantes drawn into intelligencing liked playing these sorts of games. He contented himself with studying Arbuthnott. Slim, but not the leanness that came from hard work. Soft hands, more like an artist’s than a naval officer’s. High intelligent brow and a long nose, hair starting to thin. The very acme of a desk officer, who if he had ever served at sea had probably found the whole experience miserable.

  “However, we are also resolved to provide the Japanese Navy with as much intelligence as possible. If Rozhestvensky’s ships make it there, our allies will need all the information they can get their hands on.”

  “I recommend The Times as a good source. The make-up, nature and trials of the squadron have already been well-reported on.”

  “Perhaps. I imagine this speculation will reach something of a peak now that the squadron has entered the North Sea. But I am sure I don’t need to tell you how things can become … blown out of proportion. Exaggerated to the point where any kernel of truth is lost.”

  Baxter felt his expression become stormy. Civil inhibitions, already loosened by whisky, were almost overcome by the temper that always lurked just below the surface. “Get to the point,” he snapped.

  The intelligence officer made an apologetic gesture, his expression bland. “I am here to offer you a job.”

  “You want me to observe the Russian squadron as it passes. See what … kernels of truth I can extract.”

  “Specifically, a single ship. Three days after the squadron finally managed to clear harbour, the Russians despatched a reinforcing vessel. So far we have been unable to ascertain any details.”

  “Sounds like a job for a destroyer or two, if you even want to bother with a single ship. We already know the modern Russian battleships are all in the squadron, and they’re the only ships that’ll count.”

  “Perhaps it is of little import, but we are keen to have all the relevant details. As to why a destroyer is not being sent to have a look, we feel it is best if this is done … incognito, so to speak. Our warships getting that close to the Russian ships could provoke all sorts of unwanted unpleasantness. We are given to understand that Russian intelligence networks have led their Admiralty to believe that the North Sea will be thick with Japanese torpedo boats. As you say, the standards of training and discipline on the Russian ships are not expected to be high.”

  Baxter snorted. The very thought of the RN shying away from getting a close look at some uppity Russians passing through their own waters. A little bit of him, that quiet bitter corner of his mind, stirred at the idea of Russian and British warships firing on each other. A war would mean the Navy would need good, experienced officers — no matter any previous blotches on their records. Previous rearmaments had saved or resuscitated more than one career.

  “You’ll offer me my commission back in return?” he blurted, now the idea was in his mind.

  Arbuthnott laughed, a thin sound. “My dear Baxter, that would be quite impossible, as you well know.” The smile left his face as Baxter threatened to rise from his reclined position. As well it should — Baxter knew the impression he made at his full height, towering above most men, certainly physically more powerful than most of his contemporaries. “However, as I said, you will be well-paid.” Arbuthnott’s voice had lost some of its smooth self-assurance — he had come expecting to offer payment, rich payment, to a man who had been an officer but hardly a gentleman, to do ungentlemanly work. He obviously hit upon a new idea. “Of course, if you do this well, you will be seen favourably within my own department. We always have use for capable men who know the sea.”

  Sly dog. In truth, though Baxter would not admit it, the money would have been enough. “I assume you don’t want me to swim out there?”

  “A boat has been procured. Currently berthed in … Granton, I think? She has a small crew, picked men, but they need someone with an eye for warships, and to add an aura of … verisimilitude. It is, after all, a gentleman’s pleasure boat.” Arbuthnott reached into the expensive-looking briefcase beside the chair, placed a plain manilla envelope and a slim file on the table. “We expect the ship to pass through adjacent waters two days from now.”

  “Well, I’d best make an early start then.”

  Arbuthnott looked momentarily discomfited — he was obviously the sort of man who liked to signal the end of an interview — but then his minder stepped forward into the light. Quite obviously a former prize fighter, he was broader than Baxter but not as tall. One ear was a cauliflowered mess and his nose had been broken at least once. The two men measured each other without speaking, then the burly old boxer gave Baxter a gap-toothed grin that acknowledged that it would be an interesting fight.

  “One last thing, Mr Baxter, by way of satisfying my curiosity,” Arbuthnott said from the doorway, his smart trilby already on his head. “I understand your father lives scant miles from here — I’m curious why you have chosen this … abode.”

  “I wouldn’t let Mrs Dunbar hear you use that tone about her home,” Baxter said evenly, belying the rage coming to a boil in him.

  Arbuthnott’s minder, recognising that violence could very well occur, swiftly bundled his lord and master out and closed the door, hard enough to latch it this time.

  Baxter yanked the cork from the bottle and took a drag straight from the neck, letting the burn wash away some of the anger. The folded notes in the envelope went the rest of the way towards calming him. Or near enough.

  He found a glass, poured himself a generous measure and sat, flipping the folder open. One thing that had struck him was that Arbuthnott had continuously said ‘we’. Not their Lordships of the Admiralty desire. We desire.

  He scratched his chin. This whole thing seemed … wrong. His gut told him that he should have said no. It seemed like a lot of effort to get a look at one Russian ship, and not even a guaranteed look — even with details of the assumed course he couldn’t promise an interception. Chances are it was just another fleet tender or supply vessel, part of the long logistics chain Rozhestvensky would need to get his ships to the far side of the world.

  And there was just something … off about Arbuthnott. Baxter knew that he could still get out, return the money, destroy the folder. Or not return the money and make damn sure he got a berth on something bound for distant shores.

  His tatty clothes and the fact that he was not far off losing the roof over his head meant he had to ignore the former, and a vestigial honesty inherited fro
m his Presbyterian father quashed the latter notion.

  “It’ll be fine.” He drained the whisky, rose and yanked the door open. “Mrs Dunbar!” he boomed down the stairs. “I have an early start tomorrow and must trouble you for a solid breakfast. And I have your rent money!”

  CHAPTER 2

  A sea haar clung like a shroud to the buildings and streets as Baxter made his way down towards Granton. He went by the coastal road past Newhaven, to give himself time to clear the vague, throbbing headache that lurked behind his eyes. The cold air was certainly achieving that. His brisk walk and the thought of fresh funds in his pocket kept him warm.

  It was early still, the sun still hours from rising, but the streets were coming alive around him with cries of ‘gardyloo’ and the rattle of wheels over cobbles. The mist would be keeping the fishing boats in Newhaven harbour for now, the fishermen chafing at the herring that would escape their nets. Baxter knew it would lift soon and the small flotilla would put out. He smelled yesterday’s fish from the market, and the brine of the Forth, and that more than anything put the spring into his step.

  “But ya promised!” a voice piped at his side, threatening to dampen his cheerful mood. “Ya promised me ma as well!”

  Little Tommy Dunbar bounced along beside him, forgotten about until he’d got over his sulk and spoken up again. The youngest of Mrs Dunbar’s extensive brood — Baxter thought he was about twelve or thereabouts — and the literal runt of the litter, it had apparently been decided that it was time he started earning his keep. And as Baxter had been until recently on the impecunious side, he’d made the rash promise to see about taking the boy to sea, help him get his sea legs before he was packed off to the Navy.

  “I did promise, Tommy, that I did. But…”

  “And Ma said you’re the skip, an’ all, so ya don’t even have to worry about squaring it with the skip!”

  “Seeing as that would be myself,” Baxter said drily. Tommy’s voice was threatening to resurrect the sore head he’d previously managed to shake off in the cold morning air. “However, this is…” He stopped himself short — part of his instructions had been not to discuss the job. A somewhat ridiculous requirement, but he was suddenly seized by a sailor’s superstition about not tempting fate over a berth.