by Tim Chant
“So we are agreed,” one of them, a younger man, was saying in a hoarse whisper when Baxter got close enough to hear. Dark hair, intense eyes that glinted out of the shadowed sockets. “Now is the time to strike, to create the necessary conditions for our comrades at home to rise up.”
A rat-faced sailor nodded earnestly, speaking rapidly in a dialect Baxter was less familiar with and couldn’t make out. Rat-face seemed to be the actual leader of the cell, from the way he was clearly giving out orders. Baxter crouched lower as those watery eyes swept the shadows, but no alarm was raised.
He hunkered down as far as he could — no mean feat for a man of his size. The meeting seemed to be concluding, and he remained motionless as they left the compartment. He was plunged into darkness as the youngest man was last out with the lantern, and cursed under his breath — he didn’t relish the thought of fumbling his way out of here in the pitch darkness, not with the deck still rolling under him.
He started to move, having given the conspirators about enough time to move on. Someone else in the storeroom obviously had the same notion, muttering and giving him just enough warning to duck and close his eyes as light flared. It wasn’t the warm glow of a match, but a harsh electric glare.
He was astonished to see, when he opened his eyes a moment later, Ekaterina crouched on the far side of the compartment, holding a large box that appeared to have an electric lightbulb mounted in the front that cast a pool of light wherever she pointed it. Baxter was so startled to see her, he let out a grunt of surprise. She whirled and he caught a flash of steel that told him she was carrying her automatic. She tucked it away quickly when she saw it was him and moved quickly to switch on the light to provide better illumination.
“Ah … Mr Baxter.” She sounded surprised to see him — which was perhaps natural — but also confused, and that rang oddly with him.
“Countess.” He’d never worked out the proper honorific, and didn’t much care for such fripperies anyway. Mrs Juneau would just have sounded odd, though. He shifted his feet awkwardly. This was well outside his experience of normal society. “Ahhh … Pavel was concerned for you and young Tommy and asked me to have a look round for you.”
Her expression of confusion deepened but only briefly before her brow cleared. “Ah yes, Tomas’ka. I have yet to find him, though I imagine I will return to my cabin to discover he has returned quite safely and is being fussed over by poor Pavel.”
There was something odd going on here, of that Baxter was sure. For one, why was she carrying a pistol while searching the ship? Under normal circumstances, she was in no danger from the crew, of that he had no doubt. She was very much the ship’s darling, in fact, and more to the point if any harm befell her Juneau would tear the vessel apart to find and punish the culprit. The fact she had come armed suggested she knew there would be some chance of danger.
“I was just searching in here when those … individuals came in. Sensing they were up to no good, I hid from them for my own safety.”
“Umm … yes. I had much the same experience, having been drawn in here by the light.” Baxter knew he wasn’t much for eloquence, but his capacity to string words together in a sentence seemed on the verge of deserting him.
She looked doubtfully at him — while she was tall for a woman, she still had to crane her neck to look up at him when she stepped closer. Her implication was clear. “And what did you make of their conversation?” she asked quietly, her voice in deadly earnest.
He opened his mouth, but closed it again when her warning look told him that she would not brook any claim of ignorance — she wasn’t buying his lie that he didn’t speak Russian. “It seems to me that mutiny is fomenting aboard,” he said. “We had best warn your husband.”
“It would seem that way, yes. I must ask you not to speak of this further, though, for your own safety. And that of Tommy. I shall speak to Juneau.”
“May I escort you back to your cabin?” he asked, forcing a note of gallantry into his voice.
“You may not,” she said sharply, then softened it with a smile that made his knees go slightly weak. She laid a hand on his upper arm, only briefly, and he fought down an urge to take her hand in his. “We would not want people to talk if we were seen leaving a storeroom together.”
He was about to ask what they could possibly be talking about when the ship gave a great lurch. They were deep enough in the ship that the roll imparted by the storm, though stomach-turning on the higher decks, had been almost normal until that moment. Ekaterina lost her footing and he reached out to steady her. She caught a shelf upright and braced her legs apart, giving him a cool look as the lurch became more of a roll that seemed to go on forever as the cruiser slid down the reverse of an enormous raise.
Baxter realised he was holding his breath, waiting for the roll to continue all the way into a breech, the ship turning over — which would be fatal for everyone aboard in these conditions, but especially for those as deep below decks as they were. Ekaterina’s cool dismissiveness had turned to alarm, the first time he’d seen her in any way discomfited. Then he blew out the breath convulsively as the cruiser righted herself and began a slightly less extreme climb up the next wave.
Before he knew what was happening, she was against him. He could feel her deep, shuddering breaths, the length of her against him as she threw her arms around his neck. For a panicked moment he thought she was just seeking comfort after they’d come so close to danger, then she was pulling his head down to kiss him with a fiery hunger.
He almost froze, then. It had been a long time since he’d kissed a woman, and never one quite like this. Then he found himself responding unconsciously, arms going around her waist to pull her even closer, lift her against him, and they lost themselves in that moment.
She broke away eventually and he found himself almost gasping for breath. She rested her cheek against his chest, hands flat against his shoulders, and he knew it had passed; whatever it was. She wasn’t pushing him away, as such, but there was a distance opening between them. He relaxed his grip.
She turned to look up at him, something … unreadable in her expression. She brushed her lips against his, one last time. “It cannot be,” she whispered. “I love my husband.”
He nodded, jerkily, despite himself. The mention of Juneau, who he had come to think of as a friend — perhaps his only friend in the world, let alone aboard this ship — cooled his ardour. A sudden sense of shame filled him. “Of course.”
She laid a warm hand against his cheek, her expression still opaque to him as her eyes met his. She turned without another word and left the storeroom without looking back.
Baxter turned over the night of the storm often in his mind in the following days. The blow had been a bad one, but not the worst he’d ever experienced, and the Russian ships seemed to have weathered it without too much trouble. The longer they spent at sea, of course, the better both officers and crew handled their ships — even when all they mostly did was plod along with the coast of Africa off their port beam. They still didn’t perform well in the occasional exercise that Rozhestvensky ordered.
Baxter found himself, though, increasingly distracted by what else had happened on the night of the storm. He couldn’t shake the memory of Ekaterina, her body in his arms, her lips against his. With it came a rush of unaccustomed feelings. Shame was amongst them, but not the chief one. Desire, yes. He could not help a feeling of envy for Juneau, that such a remarkable woman should be his; that even if she wasn’t, that an accident of birth should have entitled the Russian to so much when Baxter’s own parentage and class meant he could never aspire to anything of that life.
Not unless things changed, and changed radically.
He forced his mind away from those dark thoughts, focusing instead on things that made sense to him — the sea, and the ships that sailed upon it. He couldn’t help but smile as he watched Enkvist’s lean cruisers charge around further out to sea. From somewhere up ahead, out of his sight as he
was taking his ease on the quarter gallery, he could hear the occasional peremptory signal gun from the flagship. The sharp reports were getting more and more frequent as the evolutions broke down into chaos. They were obviously attempting a torpedo drill, and he wished he had a set of glasses to observe the operation more closely.
Juneau, coming off watch, emerged on the little balcony next to him, causing Baxter to start guiltily. The Russian officer didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He looked tired and drawn, cradling an uncharacteristically early glass of brandy. But then, running an old ship on a very long journey under an absolute tartar of a captain would make anyone look tired.
“Torpedoes,” Juneau sniffed. “An ungentlemanly weapon, even if they are the only true ship killers. I cannot see them ever replacing the big guns. It would be a sad day if they did.”
Baxter had often wondered if a lot of officers in Britain’s Navy were, perhaps, overly concerned with gentlemanly conduct and not with winning; it seemed this was not unique to the RN. “I understand the Japanese have already made good use of them,” he said carefully.
“And thus we train both to use them and to defend against the enemy torpedo boats. Our new searchlights will sweep the waters constantly once we are closer to Japan.”
“Some say that lighting your ships up like Christmas trees will just make you easier targets for night-time torpedo runs.” Baxter marvelled at his own restraint in not pointing out the debacle in the North Sea again.
Juneau seemed to acknowledge that with a vague smile. “I gather your new First Naval Lord is a proponent.”
Baxter smiled. Being overly concerned with gentlemanly conduct instead of crushing your enemy was a charge that could not be laid at JackyFisher’s door. “He is, and more generally in favour of reform.” He tried to keep bitterness from his voice, not at the man himself but at the service in general. Fisher had been a breath of fresh air through the Navy’s training practises and attitudes, but too late to benefit Baxter. “I served with him, briefly. Met him once.”
“Fisher?”
No, the bloody Tsar. Baxter bit back the sour retort, realising it was just to do with his mood and not his friend. “Yes, when he had the North America station, one of my first postings after I was commissioned.” Perhaps, though, it was as much to do with Juneau as it was his own mood. Or rather, the woman to whom the Russian Count was married. It was an uncomfortable sensation for him.
“And may I ask — do you feel his reputation is deserved?”
“Depends to what reputation you refer,” Baxter said mildly. That had been a happier time in his life. “Brash, aggressive, quite a showman. Utterly ruthless if you cross him or even if you’re just in his way. But a hard worker, brilliant, open to new ideas no matter who is bringing them forward. All this and more.”
“I met him also, taking the water in Marienbad along with certain of my family. I just wish he was more of a friend to Russia.”
The mention of Marienbad, where the great and the … good of Europe went to take the restorative waters, threatened a divide between the two men. It was not somewhere the likes of Baxter would ever find himself.
“Well, if all men on Earth were more of a friend to each other we would all be out of a job,” Baxter said with a grin, bludgeoning his threatening foul mood.
“Perhaps that would not be a bad thing.”
Yefimov emerged onto the after gallery, a smug smile on his face and a particularly venomous look in his eyes when he looked at Baxter. He bore a folded piece of paper that he held out to Juneau without really looking at him.
A delighted smile spread over Juneau’s face. “It seems our friend in Gabon came through after all!” he declared.
“How the devil did he get a message out?” Baxter asked sourly.
“Details are limited, but I believe he took ship to the nearest colony that has a telegram station, sent a message to St Petersburg, who then sent it to us. Is the modern age not magnificent?”
“And what does our French chum have to say?” Baxter wasn’t sure why his mood had turned so dark suddenly — perhaps because of Yefimov’s expression, or merely his presence.
Juneau’s face fell. “It is the lieutenant’s considered opinion that the bullet that almost struck you was of point-four-five-five-inch calibre. Most likely fired from a Webley or similar British revolver, as yours are the only people who use that particular cartridge.”
“Well, that puts an interesting face on things,” Baxter said, fighting to sound casual and only partially succeeding. “Though I don’t imagine it’s impossible that Africa might be awash with them. More than a few must have fallen into Boer hands, during the recent unpleasantness, for one thing.”
Juneau squinted at him, his expression bemused. “Indeed. It does seem … coincidental, though, does it not?”
Baxter shrugged, discomfited. “Perhaps, but I have seen stranger coincidences at sea.”
CHAPTER 10
Passandava Bay, Madagascar, January 1905
“At least we have one friend in the world,” Juneau commented, mopping his brow with an already-soiled kerchief.
The Yaroslavich barely rocked at her moorings in the beautiful bay, the gentle swell hardly noticeable.
“Do not confuse this for friendship,” Baxter said, his dark tone surprising even himself, and for a moment he wondered if he was talking about the nations or their own relationship. “France may seem to view your expedition with some favour. I suspect this is more to do with putting mud in the eye of my own government than any real friendship with you.”
“Ah yes. That ancient blood rivalry. This I understand — to a Russian, the holding of grudges is a way of life.” Juneau sighed. “I fear we all have a new, common enemy.”
Baxter nodded. The French Republic seemed to revel in its status as Britain’s arch-enemy, but many — Admiral Fisher included — looked with more concerns at the rise of the young, vigorous German Empire’s Navy.
He looked out across the now-oily water. The bay, until recently, had been more or less pristine, but the local authorities had outdone themselves to prepare it as a berth for the 2nd Pacific Squadron, even if they could not provide the docks and shore facilities the squadron desperately needed. The village of Nosy Be was growing into a full-blown town, springing up along the white sands of the beach and into the cleared jungle beyond, and a slight pall of smog lay over everything as the Russian ships kept their boilers at harbour pressure. Where once there would only have been the cry of exotic animals, now there was the sound of industry as the battered Russian ships were prepared for what would be the longest and most difficult stage of the journey — across the Pacific.
The squadron had separated into detachments not long after rounding the Horn and the gale that had hit them, the Yaroslavich remaining attached to the battleships as she could not keep up with the faster, more modern cruisers.
There, of course, had been no sign of ‘torpedo schooners’ as the slow squadron rumbled through the established fishing grounds off Durban. Opinions were divided as to why this was the case, with most of the Russian officers ascribing it to Rozhestvensky’s well publicised threat to destroy any vessel that came within torpedo range of his battleships. Wise heads — Juneau amongst them — suspected that the suicide boats never existed.
The authorities in Madagascar were well prepared, forewarned by the arrival of the older ships, despite this being the largest assembly of ships they would ever have seen. After some days off Ile Sainte Marie, the main force had been piloted into Passandava Bay on the north-west coast of the island, to be greeted with some degree of relief and joy by the elements that had come through the Suez Canal. That had been a week and two days ago, and the reunited squadron had settled into harbour life with remarkable speed.
“The Second Pacific Squadron is together again,” Juneau commented with some satisfaction. Sweat dripped from his brow as the two men gazed out at the pleasantly calm bay and the green-cloaked mountains that rose beyond
the sheltered water. “And reinforcements are on their way. We will need all our strength in the coming months, I fear.”
Baxter cocked an eyebrow at the lower inflection of that last statement. Catching the expression, Juneau shrugged. “Word is spreading round the fleet,” he said quietly. “The major at Angra Pequena had news for Rozhestvensky, and of course nothing stays secret for long on a warship.”
Baxter was astonished that Juneau was telling him all of this, but kept his peace and let the man speak.
“The Japanese Army has taken a key hill overlooking Port Arthur, bringing the remnants of the First Pacific Squadron, not to mention the heart of our fortifications, into range of their heavy guns.” Baxter didn’t want to imagine what that must have been like — even if no army dragged guns as big as those on battleships to war, the remaining Russian ships would have been fish in the barrel for the Japanese artillery and would have perished swiftly if they had not escaped. And escape would have been a desperate charge into the waiting ships of Togo’s fleet. A sigh heaved from deep within the Russian officer. “I fear, increasingly, that we are on a fool’s errand.”
“I imagine you will go on, though?”
“Oh, I am sure Rozhestvensky has every intention of continuing. He will not understand the import of this news, as it does not pertain to the Navy, and he has his orders.”
“He must know our chances of survival, of victory, are minimal.”
Baxter paused, realising he had just referred to ‘our victory’. Juneau did him the courtesy of not pointing that out beyond a slight tweak of an eyebrow. “Oh, I suspect he has always known this,” Juneau went on resignedly. “But he also understands orders, and that His Imperial Majesty is set upon this course. He would not let another man go in his place, nor does he think anyone else would be up to the task.”