by Tim Chant
The first few rounds, even at that range, didn’t manage to hit, but the explosions shook the yacht. He could hear ominous groans and creaking that suggested her hull was broken. He ran back out and madly waved his hands over his head. Tommy was crawling along the deck towards him, one hand clutched to his shoulder and leaving a trail of red that was swiftly washed away. He started towards the boy, but rifle rounds were now hammering into the yacht, clawing up splinters and ringing off the metal work. He ducked back, locking eyes with the desperate boy, and then the yacht finally took a direct hit.
Baxter’s world dissolved into fire and noise, uncontrolled movement, and then the hard water hitting him and cold darkness.
Baxter went deep, stunned by the explosion that had wiped away the bow of the yacht. He let himself sink, limp in the water; but some survival instinct kept his mouth closed when the rest of him just wanted to breathe in and have it all done with.
Then the familiar, hot anger returned. He jerked his limbs into action against the aching cold that had started to seep into them. His lungs were burning as he struggled out of the heavy, waterlogged tweed jacket and then his boots. He kicked towards the very slightly brighter patch that he had to assume was the surface. He was dimly aware of fragments of his brief command settling through the water around him, and for a terrifying moment he almost got caught by a section of hull as it slid towards the seabed.
Then, abruptly, he breached. Into the light, and life. Cold air flooding his lungs until he became giddy, spray on his face and his body lifting to the familiar rhythm of the waves. A section of the mast was floating nearby and he grabbed onto it, letting it support him as he gulped down air and stared about wildly for Tommy.
A small head broke the surface not far away, the lad flailing madly. “I cannae swim!” Baxter heard just as he struck out from his improvised float.
Tommy went under again and Baxter, always a strong swimmer, dove down after him, hands grasping. He saw a pale round face, huge eyes, and just managed to snag the boy’s slightly-too-long hair, dragging him back up to the surface and clinging onto him as they both breached.
The cruiser was churning water not far away, bringing images of being dragged down into those massive bronze screws. She was holding station, though, while a longboat nosed its way gingerly through the wreckage towards where he trod water.
He was shivering uncontrollably by the time it reached him. A haughty-looking officer stared down at him contemptuously. “Est-ce que vous rendez?” he asked in perfect French.
“Do I look like I have a bloody choice?” Baxter managed to snap back from between chattering teeth, pleased at that little bit of defiance.
He regretted it a second later when one of the bluejackets smacked him in the head with an oar, rendering further defiance impossible.
The blow didn’t knock him out entirely, just dazed him. The following minutes were a blur, from which some moments stood out with stark clarity. The angry stare of the officer who had captured him counterpointing the dull disinterest of the bluejackets on the oars; a precipitously groggy clamber up the ladder to be bundled into the care of armed Russian sailors; Tommy cursing their captors in language a boy of twelve had no right knowing as he was carried away. Worst of all, watching the last pathetic pieces of his little command being swallowed by the cold grey waves.
Baxter passed out properly at that point, overcome by the blow on top of his almost-drowning and the shock of being caught in a shell blast.
CHAPTER 3
“It was an audacious plan, but one doomed to fail.”
Baxter tried to pull himself up on the hard cot. His whole body ached, as though he’d been subjected to a thorough beating from head to toe, and a bandage bound his head tightly. The worst of the pain radiated from his brow, where the oar had caught him.
What was stopping him rising, though, were two somewhat large paws on his right shoulder. Opening his eyes, he found himself being surveyed calmly by something that could quite easily be described as a wolf.
“Well, I thought the weather might turn a bit dirty for a sail, but I’m not one to back down from a challenge,” he found himself saying, pleased that his wits remained about him until he realised he was talking to the canine.
The Russian officer laughed at that, clapping his hands with delight. Even seated, it was clear he was not a big man, and he had an open, friendly face and intelligent eyes. Baxter was a little rusty on Russian ranks, but guessed he was probably dealing with a senior subordinate rather than the captain.
The dog looked back at his master, then set about licking Baxter’s face — a slobbery assault he was in no position to fend off.
“I see Maxim likes you, so I think we shall get on. He is a fine judge of character.”
“That or he is determined to drown me.”
The officer said something in Russia, not too sharply, and the big hunting dog reluctantly abandoned his task and padded over to a corner of the small cabin. “My name is Juneau, Cristov Sergeyivic, Second Captain. Yes, I know, a French name for a Russian officer! I have the honour of being first officer of the Vsevolod Yaroslavich. Might I have your name?”
“Baxter,” he grunted. He noted the name of the ship, that she wasn’t the Monomakh, but didn’t want to give a clue as to what he was about by admitting he’d recognised the class at least. “Late owner and master of the Doyle. And might I enquire as to what the ruddy hell you think you were doing, opening fire on an unarmed yacht?”
“My dear Mr Baxter — it seems clear from the course you were steering and the fact that your crew had abandoned ship that you were attempting to ram us. We were expecting suicide attacks by Japanese vessels, but to find a British gentleman attempting the same somewhat perplexed us.”
It was Baxter’s turn to laugh, through the hammering in his head. It was a harsh sound even to his ears. “Why the de’il would I try ramming a cruiser with a sailing yacht? Even if I was quite mad — and I assure you I am not — I wouldn’t be daft enough to think it would achieve anything.”
Juneau made an expressive gesture, somewhere between acknowledging and dismissing his point. “I can only assume that there was a bomb of some description, or you were closing to fire torpedoes.”
Baxter stared at him, flabbergasted. “I may not be daft, but you quite clearly are, sir! Dear God, there was a boy aboard! The very thought…”
Juneau rose, confirming Baxter’s first impression of him as a small, trim man. He seemed neither angered nor intimidated by Baxter’s rising choler. “We all recruit young men into your navies. I myself was thirteen when I first donned the uniform.”
“I can assure you, Mr Juneau, that I am not a member of the Royal Navy, nor am I a member of any department or organisation associated with the RN!” Which was the truth, as far as it went.
“That is an interesting assertion, Mr Baxter, given that we recovered this from the wreckage of the vessel.”
Juneau lifted a somewhat ragged jacket into Baxter’s view. Though it sent spasms of pain through him, Baxter managed to pull himself up far enough to have a proper look at it.
“Do you deny that this is the uniform jacket of a Royal Navy sub-lieutenant?”
“I do not, nor could I. I can certainly deny it’s mine.”
“And yet we retrieved it from the water where your yacht went down.” Juneau’s voice had hardened. “The captain will wish to interview you personally — I suggest you carefully consider how you respond to his questions. He is not as … congenial as I am.”
Baxter found himself at a loss for words. The pain that reverberated around his skull was making it hard to think, to come to any sort of sensible conclusion about what was going on. It was rapidly becoming clear to him that Arbuthnott was up to something far more sinister than just spying on the Russian squadron, but it was beyond him what that could be.
He pushed that all aside — it could wait until he had a clearer head. “Mr Juneau,” he said, controlling his emotions and trying
to modify his tone towards the contrite. “Might I know how the boy is?”
Juneau paused in the cabin’s hatch. “Mr Dunbar is certainly in fine voice if not in fine form,” he said. “He was injured by a wood splinter, but not seriously.”
Baxter let himself sink back onto the pillows, but only briefly. He pushed himself upright, ignoring the pain, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I must insist that we are returned to shore. At your earliest convenience.”
Juneau made an apologetic gesture. “Alas, that cannot be. The captain has decided that we cannot reveal to your masters that your attack failed and that we have taken you prisoner. You will both remain in custody until we can determine how to handle this … rather unique situation.”
Baxter made to rise from the cot, but sank back groaning as the pain threatened to split his skull open. Even if he hadn’t been incapable of launching an attack, he realised it would not have been a wise idea.
Juneau beckoned an enormous bluejacket into the cabin. “This is Vasily Ivanovitch. He does not speak any English, I am afraid, but will assist you in making ready to be interviewed by the captain.”
The Russian captain’s day cabin was perhaps the most opulent thing Baxter had seen afloat. The floor was highly polished wood, but strewn with deep rugs; the furniture was all heavy mahogany. An enormous icon of the Virgin Mary and Christ dominated one wall; the others were dotted with portraits of the young Tsar and Tsarina and what he could only assume were family members in positions of lesser import. A side table almost groaned under crystal decanters.
“Captain Alexander Petrovich Gorchakov,” Juneau announced pompously, in English for the benefit of the prisoner. “May I present Mr Baxter?”
Where Juneau was cheerfully open, Captain Gorchakov had a closed face surmounted by an impressively jutting beard and a tall, spare frame. Baxter got the sense that the opulence of the cabin was as much for appearance’s sake than any desire for creature comforts. It didn’t make it any more practical, of course.
Gorchakov did not look up from what he was writing, and merely raised a finger to instruct silence. That casual contempt and a natural inclination to go on the offensive tipped Baxter over the edge. “What the devil do you mean, opening fire on a British gentleman’s yacht?” he barked. “Threatening the lives of his crew and taking them prisoner in contravention of all rules and conventions of the sea?”
Gorchakov rose then, snapping ram-rod straight and resting his clenched fists on his desk, his prominent eyes almost popping from his skull. He snapped something in French, his voice somewhat reedy and scratchy.
“Captain Gorchakov says…” Juneau began, his voice calm with perhaps the slightest warning note in it.
“I speak French, thank you.” With an effort of will, Baxter mastered himself and re-ordered his thoughts. “I apologise, Captain,” he said, slipping into his slightly broken French and mustering as much contrition as he could. “As I’m sure you understand, this is a frustrating situation for me…”
“I am glad,” Gorchakov spat, “that we have frustrated your sabotage!”
“Captain, as I have already explained to your first officer, I had no ill intent towards your vessel.” It was becoming an effort of will for Baxter to keep his tone level. “I was merely curious about your vessel, and certainly had no intention of ramming her.”
“And yet you sailed on a collision course while your crew abandoned ship.”
“They fled when you opened fire!” Baxter dropped back into English and deliberately let his voice rise. It was the only outright lie he had told, and he’d often found that shouting a lie often made it more believable. “Quite understandably!”
“Nonsense!” Despite the certainty of his tone, Baxter could see a flicker of doubt in Gorchakov’s eyes. Fights were messy things and it was often difficult to recall the exact order of events after the fact.
Juneau coughed gently, and said something in French to his captain, quickly and quietly so that Baxter could only make out enough to guess that Juneau was mentioning the uniform they had recovered from the water.
He managed to resist the urge to demonstrate picking this much up, and instead waited for Gorchakov’s black eyes to swivel back to him.
“And how do you explain the naval officer’s uniform we recovered, as you deny being a Royal Navy officer?”
Baxter had thought hard about this while he was being guided through the cramped confines of the cruiser. He had one or two suspicions, the voicing of which would not help, but there was a perfectly simple explanation which had the benefit of being the most likely. “The Doyle was a recent acquisition, sir, and I believe the previous owner was in fact a RN officer. I can only assume that he left an old jacket behind, which my crew had yet to dispose of.” It came off pat, perhaps overly so, but for a moment Gorchakov almost seemed to believe him.
There was a sharp rap on the hatch, breaking the tense silence that had fallen. Juneau flinched and Gorchakov’s head snapped round. “Voyti!”
A young officer entered, somewhat hesitantly, and hurried across to Juneau, a message slip clutched in one trembling hand. Juneau read the message swiftly, broke into rapid French that Baxter couldn’t follow.
Gorchakov shouted something at the junior officer, who hurried from the cabin. The Russian captain snatched his white cap up off the desk and jammed it onto his head. “It seems your attempt on us was only the first wave!” he snapped at Baxter, before turning to Juneau and waving a dismissive hand at Baxter.
Baxter didn’t resist as Juneau guided him from the cabin, following the long, hurried strides of his captain. “What’s going on?” he whispered to Juneau.
“The squadron has identified Japanese torpedo boats closing to the attack,” Juneau said, his voice excited. “We are going into action!”
As he said that, bugles started sounding throughout the cruiser. After a longer pause than Baxter would have liked if he was one of her officers, Vsevolod Yaroslavich came alive with running feet and shouting as the crew dashed to its action stations. Baxter couldn’t tell if the shouting was panicked or excited, but he knew enough to recognise that a lot of the bluejackets clearly had no idea what they were supposed to be doing. A ship closing up for action could resemble pandemonium to an outsider, but the chaos was very much of the organised variety with a properly worked-up crew and taut officers. As they ploughed through a milling mass of shouting sailors, it was clear to him that this was just chaos.
“Torpedo boats? Here?” Baxter shouted above the noise. “Are you people quite mad? There’s no way the Japanese could deploy torpedo boats here!”
Juneau threw a glance over his shoulder. “Not without the connivance of the English, certainly,” he snapped. “Here!”
They exited onto the deck, behind one of the deck guns, and then Juneau led him up a steep, narrow gangway past the armoured wheelhouse — the most important compartment on any ship — and finally onto the ship’s old-fashioned open bridge platform.
Juneau gestured to Vasily Ivanovitch, who had appeared silently from somewhere, and the big Russian sailor drew Baxter to one side, out of the way of the only slightly more organised chaos on the bridge. Gorchakov was already barking orders from his tall chair while the bridge crew scurried around. Baxter couldn’t help but feel a little bit of contempt for this effort compared to the calm, ordered efficiency of the navy he’d been thrown out of.
It was night, slightly misty, and he realised from the sound of bugles echoing across the water and the searchlights springing into life that the cruiser had managed to join the 2nd Pacific Squadron. The whole sea seemed to be full of the great, dark shapes of ships that were beginning to sprout the beams of searchlights. He could make out the hulking shadows that were the four Borodino battleships at the heart of the fleet, and arrayed around them the myriad of older battleships, what might have been cruisers, and support vessels.
And ahead of it all, caught in a pool of day-bright light, was a collection of tiny,
fragile-looking trawlers and their steam carrier vessel.
Baxter felt his stomach turn as he realised that all of the warships appeared to be bringing their batteries to bare on the defenceless fishermen.
“They’re just —!” he started to yell, but his shout was drowned out by the sudden thunder of artillery.
The entire squadron seemed to open fire at once, the long muzzle flashes of the battleships’ enormous twelve- and ten-inch guns lighting up the night when the smaller armaments merely prickled the darkness between the main salvoes. The sea for hundreds of yards around the trawlers was churned to white froth by the shell spouts and whirling shrapnel.
Baxter stood in open-mouthed astonishment, partly at the sheer physical shock of being so close to so many guns firing, and partly at the truly abysmal state of the Russian gunnery. His hands gripped the wooden screen around the bridge so tightly that his knuckles hurt as he willed the Russians to continue being atrocious. The lead Russian battleship — he could only guess it was the Suvorov — was narrowing the range to barely a hundred yards though. It seemed unlikely that they would continue to shoot wide.
Juneau appeared at his side. “I am told there were torpedo boats hiding amongst the trawlers,” he shouted over the guns. “Our bombardment is driving them off.”
Baxter seized the smaller man’s arm, so hard that the Russian flinched. Vasily’s hand landed on his shoulder, but he didn’t care, bending close to growl into Juneau’s ear. “There are no torpedo boats here! You are in danger of murdering innocent trawlermen, just as you almost murdered me and Tommy!”
Juneau blanched at Baxter’s intensity, his certainty. “The captain is convinced,” he said, voice low enough that it was almost lost in the noise of the ‘action’. “There is nothing —”
Baxter’s mouth twisted into a sardonic grimace. “Just tell your gun crews to continue what they’re doing.”
“I don’t —”
“Juneau, they couldn’t hit a battleship let alone a little fishing boat!”