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

by Tim Chant

  The lie was put to Baxter’s words a moment later when a cheer went up from the crew of a 6-inch gun below the bridge wing. “Udar!”

  Baxter snapped his attention back to the hapless targets. Something had quite obviously hit the lead trawler, which seemed to be bearing the brunt of the attack. Many gun crews would be claiming the hit, though none of them would ever be able to prove it. The cruiser was steaming close enough past the boats that he could see blood on the decks and at least one headless corpse.

  Some of the fishermen were on their vessels’ decks despite the danger, and it took him a moment to realise that they were holding fish over their head, trying to signal to the Russians that their business was purely peaceful.

  He almost laughed then, at the tragedy of it all. He knew that, now the Russian gunners’ blood was up and they were starting to get the range, a few fish would not discourage them. Juneau was no longer by his side, and to his relief he saw the officer moving along the line of the secondary battery, earnestly giving the crews instructions. It was impossible to tell in the storm of shellfire landing around the trawlers, but he got the impression that Juneau was deliberately mislaying the guns.

  Gorchakov was shouting more orders, his voice urgent. The bridge deck shifted under Baxter’s feet as the Vsevolod Yaroslavich changed heading. She was moving with the rest of the squadron, and he realised through the ringing in his ears that the battleships’ big guns had fallen silent. They merely seemed to be changing target, however — searchlights stabbing out of the misty darkness were illuminating the great vessels as their ponderous turrets swung round to a new bearing. Those of the ships’ secondary guns which could bear were still firing while undamaged trawlers pluckily braved the bombardment to reach the stricken lead ship. She was obviously sinking but there were men still on deck, unable to lower their own boat, and Baxter felt like cheering as the other civilian vessels disregarded their own danger to come to their colleagues’ rescue.

  Shells were whizzing overhead now, the main guns of this new threat. He didn’t see any hits scored, the rounds disappearing into the darkness, and for an ecstatic moment he thought that a passing Royal Navy force — perhaps Beresford’s Channel Fleet returning from Tynemouth — was intervening. Flame spat from the Russians’ main batteries again while the searchlights were trained round.

  Juneau appeared by his side again, his expression furious. “No torpedo boats indeed! But Japanese cruisers, yes!”

  Baxter was staring into the darkness as this new force continued to fire, hopelessly inaccurately. “Not Japanese!” he shouted back over the cruiser’s continued bombardment of empty sea.

  “How can you possibly know that?”

  “Japanese gunnery is better!” Baxter grinned suddenly, then bent over laughing, pounding his thigh with a clenched fist.

  Vasily dragged him upright to face Juneau’s wrath. “How dare you! How dare you! I demand to know what you find so funny!”

  “You’re firing at your own ships! Only Russian gunners could be that inaccurate.”

  Baxter had the pleasure of watching the colour drain from Juneau’s face again. “Enkvist’s cruiser squadron. But they should be fifty miles from here!”

  “If their navigation is as bad as their gunnery —”

  Juneau struck Baxter then, an open-handed slap delivered at his full reach. Baxter jerked his head back, surprised more than hurt, and Vasily’s hand returning to his shoulder made any reply impossible. The little officer stormed off, calling out to his captain.

  “Don’t hurry on my account,” Baxter muttered. He realised Gorchakov was watching him, his stare piercing even across the busy and crowded bridge. The captain shouted something to Vasily, who tightened his grip on Baxter’s shoulder and started pulling him towards the hatchway.

  Baxter let himself be dragged — while his first instinct was to fight back and try to escape, he knew they were miles from a friendly coast and, as strong a swimmer as he was, he really had nowhere to go. As a minor act of rebellion, he reached up one hand and slowly but surely prised Vasily’s meaty paw from his shoulder. It took a lot of effort, despite the bluejacket obviously not exerting himself too much.

  Free of the grip, he turned and grinned at the Russian. “Lead the way, my good man!”

  Vasily grunted, shaking his head and shooing Baxter before him.

  Obviously understands more English than he’s letting on, Baxter thought as he was led from the deck and back to confinement. Learning that was only a small triumph, but still a victory of sorts.

  CHAPTER 4

  “Bugger this.” Baxter peered at his reflection in the dim light of a bare electric bulb that swung with the steady roll of the cruiser, casting a puddle of unpleasantly yellow light that illuminated an arc of the sparse cabin.

  The hours after the ‘engagement’ had been a mix of pure tedium, frustration and apprehension for him. Although he was locked into a small cabin deep in the armoured bowels of the ship, he could still tell when the supposed battle had come to an end. Even the light guns could be heard, the vibration of their recoil felt; when the firing petered out the relative silence, broken only by the throb of the ship’s engines, had been unnerving.

  Exhausted, he had slept at some point, but woke from a nightmare about being dragged into the deeps by a woman wearing expensive perfume; he could almost smell it in the cabin after he woke and for a good few minutes afterwards.

  The face that peered back at him from the mirror was unsurprisingly drawn, slightly haggard, shadowed with stubble. Pulling the grubby bandage from around his head, he was pleased to see that the Russian oar hadn’t left him with extensive injuries. More like heavy bruising around a slight cut. He grinned when he noticed Juneau’s blow hadn’t even left a mark.

  “Vasily Ivanovitch!” he roared, wincing only slightly as the stitches in his hairline pulled. “Come on, man, in here!”

  The door opened almost hesitantly, and the big Russian peasant stuck his head round it. He’d obviously been asleep, the deep rumble of his snore giving Baxter a clue as to who was there. “Shaving gear and hot water, if you please,” Baxter boomed, miming shaving when the sailor just stared blankly at him. “And clean clothes.” He plucked at the front of the shirt he’d been wearing when he’d gone into the North Sea. It was stiff and scratchy from dried-in saltwater and grime. “And please inform Mr Juneau that I would be glad to speak with him at his convenience.” He couldn’t quite work out how to mime that, but the mention of the officer’s name seemed to get the message across.

  Everything seemed to arrive at once — not just hot water, soap and a razor but also the ship’s barber. Juneau and Maxim were hot on his heels, all sign of the first officer’s anger during the action dissolved into what appeared to be his usual bonhomie.

  Juneau perched on the cot, his enormous hunting dog lying across his feet, while Baxter submitted to the barber’s attentions. The man had thick, stubby fingers but a light touch; he had a sailor’s habit of moving with the roll of the vessel to keep the shave close, but not too close.

  “We have anchored opposite Brighton,” Juneau announced. “Taking on coal.”

  “Were there any casualties from the night’s action?”

  Juneau heaved a heartfelt sigh, perhaps slightly exaggerated. “Some injured and one or two killed. I regret to say that you were right — Enkvist’s cruiser squadron was off-course and we mistook them for the enemy.”

  “I can state with a fair degree of confidence that you will not meet the enemy until you’ve reached the far side of the world. Those trawlers were certainly not your foe.”

  “And I regret they were caught in the crossfire.” As far as Baxter could tell, Juneau’s contrition was real. “The sooner we are out of these foggy waters, the better!”

  “I trust Gorch … Captain Gorchakov, I should say … has reconsidered and that Tommy and I will be put ashore here?”

  Juneau twisted his hands miserably. “The captain feels that it would be …
impolitic to land you at this time.”

  Baxter knew exactly what Gorchakov would be thinking — it would be a little while before the battered fishing vessels made it to shore and reported what had befallen them. The news would spread like wildfire then, and the last thing the Russians would want would be reports being made of an unarmed yacht being destroyed as well. They’d know that the three sailors had made their escape in a dinghy, but they could be ignored, discounted. A Russian cruiser putting a British gentleman ashore would cause something of a stir.

  A few things started to fit together in Baxter’s mind, causing him to start and put himself in danger of a good gash from the sharp straight razor.

  Causing a stir was exactly what Arbuthnott had been after. If he had to guess, the attack on the trawlers was an unhappy accident. His own circumstances, however, were entirely created. He’d known in his gut, right from the start, that there had been something fishy about the Naval Intelligence officer — if he was even what he claimed to be. He cursed himself now for letting his desperation for paying work override that niggling sense, and moreover that he’d put Tommy in danger as a result.

  A thin, sallow, nervous-looking chap tapped on the cabin door. “Ah, Gregory. He is the officer’s tailor — I have asked him to prepare attire more suitable for you.”

  “Thank you for that consideration, though I do not think I shall need it for long.”

  “I see you are a sanguine man, Mr Baxter.”

  “I’m more often characterised as choleric, Mr Juneau.”

  “When you have changed, Vasily Ivanovitch will take you to see young Mr Dunbar.”

  The cruiser’s sickbay was slightly busier than Baxter expected, and not just with the usual seaman’s complaints. Several bluejackets had been injured in the night-time blundering. The injuries were all consistent with the sort of things he’d seen amongst inexperienced RN ratings operating a ship’s guns — burns from contact with hot breech blocks, sprains or breaks from standing too close to the guns as they leapt back on their springs. Tommy was at the far end, in a curtained-off bed.

  “Mr Baxter, sir!” Tommy piped as Baxter lifted the curtain and stepped through. Vasily courteously remained standing outside, no doubt listening intently.

  “Mr Dunbar, how’re you fairing?”

  “Well, my shoulder is reet sore.” The boy looked desperately pale, upper body wrapped in bandages to hold his shoulder still. “The doctor said it was broken by a shell fragment.”

  Baxter settled onto the stool by the bed, shifting uncomfortably. “I am sorry this has happened, lad. Should never have brought you with me.”

  “You weren’t to know these Russian blighters were going to open fire on us, sir!” Tommy said, his voice maybe a little too loud for comfort.

  That’s the thing — I should have known it was going to be dangerous. I should have seen the betrayal coming. Baxter wanted to explain that to Tommy, but he remained certain that Vasily spoke more English than he’d let on. Or at least understood more. “Well, life at sea is dangerous,” he said eventually, wincing at how stiff and pompous he sounded.

  “Was there a pagger, sir? I heard the guns firing.”

  “I wouldn’t call it a battle, lad.” Baxter dropped his voice. “If you can believe it, these Russian blighters opened fire on a fishing fleet, thinking they were Japanese torpedo boats!”

  Tommy’s eyes lit up and the thought of action, then the implication struck him. “Were any of them hit? Oh, they must have been destroyed!”

  Baxter snorted with disdain. “These chaps were trained by the French, Tommy, which means their gunnery was shockingly poor. Sad to say one trawler was hit and I do believe some fishermen killed…” He realised that tears were welling up in Tommy’s eyes and remembered that a number of his brothers had taken to the fishing boats. “But not to worry about your family, Mr Dunbar,” he said, forcing himself to sound stern. “I imagine that fleet was out of Hull or one of the other northern English ports.”

  “Rotten thing to happen, either way, sir.” The boy sounded more subdued now. “Will it lead to war, d’ya think?”

  Baxter rocked back, running a hand through his hair to give himself time to ponder the question; or rather how to answer it — the thought had been in his head since the incident. “I don’t know, Tommy. It might do. But those bugg … honourable gentlemen in Whitehall probably won’t go to war over a few fishermen, and the Russians will be in a hurry to apologise once enough pressure has been brought to bear. No, I shouldn’t wonder if this won’t all blow over in a few days.”

  Tommy digested this information, then asked the most pressing question. “When are they going to put us ashore, sir?”

  “I’m working on that, Tommy, trust me. Just have a … misunderstanding to clear up with the captain.”

  Bizarrely, the boy brightened slightly. “Maybe the nice lady will come back to see me, then!”

  Baxter shook his head. The boy was obviously more ill than he’d realised, hallucinating a woman aboard a warship that was sailing towards battle — albeit one a long way away. Even a Russian warship.

  “A woman!” Juneau declared. “Quite preposterous!”

  They were standing on the cruiser’s quarter gallery. In better climes, it would be a pleasant space at the back of the ship, onto which the wardroom gave. Now they wore heavy fur coats. Baxter’s was, of course, borrowed, from a slightly smaller Russian. He was glad of it as the wind that whipped in from the North was icy; he could smell snow on the air.

  Baxter took a slug of the fine brandy that Juneau had offered him, savouring the warming burn. There was something about his denial that seemed to quick, too heated. He shook his head, putting such notions aside. There was no point antagonising the Russian over the ramblings of an injured boy; it would be hard enough for him to muster sufficient diplomacy to negotiate his and Tommy’s freedom.

  He stared now across the expanse of choppy water towards the physical embodiment of that freedom. The Vsevolod Yaroslavich was anchored within sight of Brighton, and even though the light was failing he could see throngs of people clustered along the pier, staring out to sea to catch a glimpse of the fabled Russian squadron. He caught the occasional glint of light reflected on telescopes or field glasses, and idly wandered how many of the people there were from Arbuthnott’s organisation.

  Looking around, he had to admit that they had quite a view. The Russian squadron had split, the 2nd Division under Rear Admiral von Falkerzam mooring off Brighton. The admiral was flying his flag from the only modern vessel of the division, the Oslyabya, a monstrous grey steel citadel that towered over the low-freeboarded Navarin that had no business being out of coastal waters. Beyond her lay the Sisoy Veliky, a slightly newer vessel but one that Baxter suspected was already outclassed by the Japanese navy. Scattered around them were a handful of destroyers and cruisers of various vintages.

  The ships gently rocked on their anchors, the crews enjoying a rest after the back-breaking work of coaling from the pair of German colliers that were now standing back out to sea. Baxter could not help but feel a sense of permanence and power from the sight of them, one that would be far more intense for the civilians ashore.

  He scowled, knowing that it was a false impression. He could not shake the feeling that these fine ships and their crews were sailing to their doom. It was a powerful enough force, but any Royal Navy battleship squadron, or even a determined attack by cruisers and destroyers, would send this lot to the bottom if provocation was given. Given that the trigger could very well be the insane decision to bombard Brighton, the Russians’ destruction would hardly be solace to the people who would be caught in the fire.

  “You will coal like this, all the way round to Port Arthur?” Baxter asked, distracting himself from such morbid thoughts.

  Juneau smiled. He appeared to be a man much given to smiling, and the expression came easily to him. Baxter, not for the first time, wondered how he had managed to become the first officer of an armou
red cruiser, particularly at such an apparently young age. The answer, of course, was the same as it would have been in the RN — wealth, and influence. “We will coal in port where we can, of course, until we have reached … our destination.”

  Baxter had to grin at that. “Your own broadsheets have made no secret of the squadron’s destination, Second Captain. And it is not as though I’m about to dive in and swim for Brighton to pass this intelligence along.” Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind, but he knew the water would be numbingly cold. He also could not, in good conscience, abandon Tommy.

  Juneau shrugged. “I have my orders, Mr Baxter, and I am not responsible for the conduct of journalists foreign or domestic.” The Russian became serious, coughing awkwardly into his hand before he continued. “I feel I must apologise for my conduct earlier.”

  Baxter couldn’t keep the confusion from his face. “Earlier?”

  “I struck you, in a most ungentlemanly manner.”

  Baxter grinned — in truth he had forgotten that a blow had been struck. Seeing Juneau’s expression start to fall, he thrust out his hand. “My dear Juneau, there is nothing to forgive. I needled you in an unpardonable manner.” He surprised himself with his own reaction, but Juneau seemed to have a way of putting people at their ease. It was easy not to be an arse around him.

  Juneau smiled with relief. “Come, let us go in. Dinner should be served shortly.”

  The next day, Baxter stood on the same little stern gallery as the squadron steamed further south and west. The great steel behemoths had got under way in the cold light of early dawn, their smokestacks belching great black clouds into the sky in a challenge to the weak sun as it rose.

  The Yaroslavich had got under way with little fuss or difficulty, but from his observation point it was clear that the sailors and officers of the squadron had little experience of operating in a large group or carrying out anything other than the simplest formation manoeuvres. It was perhaps unsurprising — the cream of the Imperial Russian Navy had died in the early battles in the Far East or were bottled up in Port Arthur, awaiting these reinforcements.