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

by Tim Chant

  Ekaterina had one go at getting more out of him. “What happens? What exactly?” She didn’t seem shocked or horrified, didn’t baulk at holding the man’s bloodied hand and stroking his brow.

  The man didn’t say anything more of sense, and by the time a drunk ship’s doctor was prised out of a nearby bar, he had died.

  Ekaterina felt for his pulse and then gently closed his eyes. “Rest well, Georgy Alexeivich,” she whispered, then looked up at the three men crouched or kneeling around her with fierce eyes. “Tommy, run down to the dock and get a boat to the ship immediately.” She pressed a coin into his hand. “Tell my husband I need to see him at once. At once, those exact words. In English.”

  Baxter was about to object to the boy being sent by himself, but held his peace. Tommy was proving to be able to look after himself. The lad shot off without demure.

  “Vasya, stay with the body until we can send someone for him,” Ekaterina went on. The big petty officer bobbed his head in silent assent, clearly ready to keep the solemn vigil without complaint. The countess looked at where he knelt in the growing pool of Georgy’s blood. “It seems you and I are in need of a change of clothes, Mr Baxter.”

  CHAPTER 11

  It was close to the 6pm curfew, when all sailors and officers were expected to be back aboard their ships, by the time Juneau arrived, red faced and sweating, at the house. Tommy was in tow, and not long after Vasily reappeared.

  Ekaterina had been silent since they’d left the market, a look of stony resolve on her face that brooked no attempt at questioning or conversation on his part. Esme, pale and shaken, was sent home. Pavel hovered, horrified by the fact both his mistress and Baxter were more or less covered in blood that was already sticky and ripe. Luckily, it wasn’t far from the scene of the murder to the house and they hadn’t attracted too much attention.

  “Should we not, at least, have waited for the local authorities?” Baxter asked, gently. The rapid tropical sunset was casting bars of light across the front room of the house, bathing them both in a warm glow. He felt physically clean after a tepid bath and fresh clothes, but he still fancied he could smell the coppery tang of blood on his hands. He sipped a gin and tonic that Pavel insisted on topping up frequently. Baxter didn’t object, not least because it gave the nervous servant something to do.

  Ekaterina looked like she was about to spit. “What local authorities? This is a Russian matter and will be dealt with by Russians.”

  “And by me,” Baxter said with a flat certainty that surprised himself as much as her. She smiled briefly, a genuine expression that seemed to light up her face. He hesitated before speaking further. “You believe you know who did this?”

  The smile went. “Who do you think?” she asked, her voice hard, just as the front door opened and Juneau flew in.

  “It is soon? Tonight?” Juneau asked immediately, but Ekaterina made a shushing gesture with a significant glance at Baxter.

  Baxter rose, setting down his glass. “I think it’s fair to say that I’m in this, whatever it is. And I can’t help feeling you’re going to need all the help you can get.” He stared at them each in turn, but his gaze lingered on Ekaterina, as she seemed to be the one in charge. At least when it came to these matters. Juneau gave an expressive shrug, and the countess nodded as she came to a decision.

  “There is clearly a group of revolutionaries on board the Yaroslavich,” she said. “You have seen this much yourself.”

  “There are dissidents throughout the fleet, in fact,” Juneau went on.

  “Hence the higher than average levels of mechanical problems,” Baxter said, voice dry.

  Juneau gave another one of his shrugs, acknowledging that but also the state of their engineering. “The cell aboard our own ship, it embarrasses me to admit, are more organised and ambitious than the others. They have seen the somewhat poor state of discipline in the squadron, as we languish here, and they are going to seize their moment.”

  “What they think is their moment,” Ekaterina said, her voice grim. She had seated herself at the table in one corner of the room and, in the dying light, was carefully disassembling and cleaning her Colt automatic pistol.

  “What could they possibly hope to gain?” Baxter asked. “Beyond being on the wrong side of a firing squad?”

  “We have pieced some of it together, from the planning session you stumbled upon and some other opportunities, as well as informants among the crew,” Ekaterina replied. Baxter was slightly transfixed by the way she was popping the vicious little bullets from the pistol’s clip and then reloading them. She handled the weapon with a certain degree of surety. “We know they think they will start a fire here, serve as an example for the other ships. How they plan to do it, though…”

  “Killing a friend of the Tsar would be a step along the way,” Baxter brooded, staring out of the window before turning back to them. “But why the devil haven’t you brought this to the attention of Gorchakov or the admiral’s staff?”

  “It is no secret that the squadron’s command is in disarray, and we are left to our own devices to deal with problems. Gorchakov refuses to believe that anything like this could occur on his most blessed ship — God would not allow such things. We are on a holy crusade, after all.”

  “Useless bloody idiot!” Baxter exploded. “Maintaining discipline is his first duty!”

  Ekaterina made a calm gesture. “When you have quite finished, Mr Baxter,” she said coldly. “We do not know who aboard we can trust — there may only be a few conspirators, but I am not confident that we have identified all of them and it would be disastrous if we take even one into our confidence. Who you see here and some few others are all we can rely on. Husband, did you manage to acquire arms without being noticed?”

  Juneau managed to look slightly shamefaced, Baxter guessed in part because he was going to disappoint his wife. “Alas, my dear — I believe the conspirators to be on high alert and watching all officers’ movements. Luckily Tomas’ka managed to give the appearance of being on a domestic errand when he came aboard, which did not panic anyone. I have my service revolver and there are my sporting guns still in the cabinet in our cabin — though I fear they have not been fired for some time.”

  “We and the weapons we have will have to be sufficient,” Ekaterina said decisively, slotting the clip into the grip of her pistol and tucking it away in her handbag. “Mr Baxter, as you are with us — do you favour a pistol or long gun?”

  Juneau broke in. “Mr Baxter doesn’t have much time for a gun in less than four-inch calibre,” he said.

  Baxter grinned as he was reminded of his words, thousands of miles and thirty degrees in temperature ago. “I’m better up close,” he admitted.

  Ekaterina looked at them as though they were quite mad. Or rather, that they were dangerous amateurs and she was the professional, which was a bizarre notion. “Well, let us be aboard and see what we can do,” she said with a sigh.

  They returned to the cruiser as quietly as they could, using a hired local boat to transport them across the increasingly oily and detritus-filled water of the bay; an occasional rotting animal carcass floated past, jettisoned from Esperance supply ship after her refrigerators broke down. All around them they could hear the evidence of how lax discipline had become. Singing could be heard from many of the ships, different songs perhaps but rendered interchangeable by the obvious drunkenness of the singers. No sentries challenged the boat as a pair of surly locals dipped their oars into the water and drove them forward, the rowlocks creaking.

  The Yaroslavich, at least, had a semblance of order. Juneau had threatened, encouraged or cajoled his subordinates into standing proper harbour watches in addition to the exercises Rozhestvensky demanded. Gorchakov had not been seen for days, retiring to his cabin or the ship’s chapel, and Baxter had yet to decide whether this was a help or a hindrance. A proper guard was being kept, or at least the semblance of one. This night, of course, an alert sentry would be a problem. Even if he w
asn’t in cahoots with the mutineers, he could accidentally alert them to the return of Juneau.

  They’d discussed it in low, hushed tones as the boatpulled to the outer anchorage where the cruiser lay. Ekaterina, it was agreed, was right. Both they and their opponents were few in number — at least they would not be facing the entire crew or even a significant faction of it, as officers had over the centuries of seafaring when mutinies occurred. It also meant they could not risk rousing the crew — while most would be obedient, it would alert their quarry and they could not trust every man implicitly. Instead, they would effectively be carrying forward a ‘cutting out’ expedition on their own ship.

  Baxter realised, as the boat slid towards the stern, that his hands shook slightly and his stomach churned acid. Boarding actions were things one talked about when training, but it had been years since the Royal Navy or any other had carried one out in anger. Particularly when unarmed, he admitted to himself wryly. He knew this was utter insanity, that he was risking life and limb to help people who held him captive and had dragged him and Tommy to the far side of the world. But at the same time, Juneau and Ekaterina at least were his friends.

  And, he realised with a sudden fierce grin, how could be pass up the opportunity to do something like this?

  The two oarsmen grinned back at him. Juneau had convinced them that they were only sneaking aboard to play a practical joke on a brother officer, and had mistaken his expression for humour at the coming japes.

  Baxter turned back into the bows as the bulk of the cruiser filled the sky in front of them. She was lit up — there was no reason not to be in a friendly harbour — but it was dark at the waterline as the skiff slid up to the stern, the oars out of the water so it came alongside with only the sound of the oily water running along the sides.

  His grin faded as he readied himself, poised to make the jump. Juneau had tried to dissuade him, arguing this should be his own duty as the first officer, but he had insisted. He told himself it was because the choice was logical, not that he was trying to impress Ekaterina.

  At Juneau’s hissed command, the boatmen fended their fragile wooden vessel off with their oars, one scraping along the barnacle-encrusted hull. The noise was almost shattering in the dim silence that had enveloped them, but it was too late now. Baxter reached up, but as he suspected the quarter gallery was higher than even he could reach. He crouched as the boat came broadside on to the cruiser, launched himself up to catch the smooth oak railing. One hand slipped and for a moment he thought he was about to disappear into the murky water. Someone behind him gasped in alarm. Then his plimsolls found purchase and he vaulted lightly onto the deck, crouching in the dimness. He turned and stuck his hand out, receiving a line thrown up from below.

  He looped it over the rail and had barely finished knotting it before Juneau was with him, revolver in hand. They’d agreed that Vasily would hand Ekaterina up, but as Baxter glanced back he realised she was shimmying up the rope to join them.

  “Remember, quiet as we can,” she said as she arrived. “My husband, do not discharge that.”

  Juneau switched his grip on his Nagant revolver with a tight smile, holding the weapon by the barrel. “It will make an excellent club.”

  “You’re all quite mad,” Baxter said, realising as he did that he was probably madder than any of them. “Let’s be about this.”

  They went as a group through the silent, dark wardroom. It seemed oddly empty and devoid of life now the officers and their menagerie of dogs were mostly ashore. Beyond it were the officer’s quarters on either side of a narrow corridor. Baxter cracked the door very slightly and peered out, but drew back sharply when he realised there was someone at the door to Juneau’s quarters.

  He held a finger to his lips, raised his other hand and pointed. He didn’t wait to see if they had understood his half-seen signs. He opened the door just far enough and twisted out. His ma, rest her, had often commented how light he was on his feet for such a big lad and he made best use of that now as he covered the distance between himself and the interloper in a few long strides.

  He grabbed a handful of collar, hauled the man away from the first officer’s quarters and lifted him against the opposite wall, putting his hand across his mouth.

  Yefimov glared at him, a mix of fear and anger in his eyes. Juneau was with them a split-second later, whispering quickly in French as Baxter put the older man down. “Sorry, old chap,” he whispered, causing Yefimov’s eyes to narrow in anger.

  Baxter caught an odd flash in the lieutenant’s eyes, then Yefimov seemed to come to a decision and clicked his heels together, bowing towards Juneau and rattling off French too fast for Baxter to follow.

  Juneau replied, then turned with a small smile to Baxter and translated for his benefit. “It seems we are not completely alone — Lieutenant Yefimov had realised that things were amiss and that the revolutionaries have already seized control of the armoury. He’d come here as he knew I have some fowling pieces and wanted to arm himself.”

  Something didn’t quite ring true about that, but Baxter put it out of his mind — now was the time for decisive action, not rumination, if the revolutionaries had already seized the ship’s small arms.

  Juneau quickly unlocked his cabin door and ushered them all into the cramped space. Yefimov’s eyes widened in surprise when he saw Ekaterina with them, but he made no comment. Nothing about this situation was within the bounds of normality, so a pistol-wielding noblewoman wasn’t going to throw him off his pace too far.

  “So, if the revolutionaries are armed, our task is even harder,” Juneau said, switching to French.

  “Let us call them what they are,” Yefimov spat. “Mutineers.”

  “The technicalities can wait,” Ekaterina said, her voice imperious. “We must prevent them distributing arms to any of the crew who might be foolish enough to rise with them.”

  “Who amongst the officers are aboard?” Juneau asked his deputy, his voice patient.

  It wasn’t a good picture. The doctor was aboard, seeing to his duties, and the quartermaster as well, inspecting the stores. A handful of the other juniors. The officers with permission to be ashore were expected back imminently, as part of the mad rush to return to berths before the curfew and the lowering of the flags at day’s end.

  “I’ll see to the armoury,” Baxter said, glancing at Vasily who nodded heavily. The ship didn’t carry a lot in the way of small arms — gone were the days of close-action necessitating sailors to fire on their opposite numbers, let alone boarding. It seemed they had other plans than to try to rouse the entire crew, though. “Best that those who are already armed should make their way to the main magazine.”

  Neither Juneau nor Ekaterina could muster an objection, but neither looked happy. Juneau unlocked a long, low chest in one corner and produced a rather fine looking hunting rifle, the furniture in a well-polished dark oak and the brass fitting gleaming. He handed that and a box of heavy bullets to Yefimov, then produced an equally finely-made double-barrelled shotgun and cartridges that went to Vasily. The big petty officer looked delighted to be given the use of such a weapon, breaking it open and loading it without any need for instruction.

  “Perhaps I should attempt to rouse some of the other officers and such crewmen as are in a fit state,” Yefimov offered.

  Juneau thought about that for a moment, his lips pursed. “Very well — see who is aboard and awake. Quick as you can, though, as we shall not wait.” He looked between all of them, his expression stern. “We know what we need to do. Move fast, and for God’s sake take care of yourselves.” His gaze lingered on his wife, then he nodded sharply and they filed silently out of the cabin.

  The armoury wasn’t far from officer’s country clustered in the stern. If it was anything like those on RN ships, it would be little more than a locker with racks of rifles, pistols and possibly even some cutlasses.

  Baxter stole silently down a companionway, Vasily as light on his feet not far behind wit
h the shotgun broken over his arm. He could hear voices ahead, not many — but hard for him to say exactly. He wanted to get as close as he could before any noise, for instance the firing of a fowling piece, could alert them or their compatriots. But he also needed to succeed and do it quickly so they could get to the magazine and help the others.

  A soft noise from an adjoining compartment startled him. He whipped round, but rather than an ambush or a lookout he saw Tommy’s face grinning from the open hatchway.

  He darted in, pushing the boy back. As far as he or anyone else knew, the young Scotsman was supposed to be ashore, in the care of Pavel. Juneau had brought him back from the ship and they’d all but locked him in his room. “What the de’il do you mean, sneaking back aboard?” Baxter whispered, his expression making up for the lack of volume.

  Tommy barely quailed. “Thought I could help,” the lad protested in an equally low voice. “Pavel was saying how worried he was, how few you were. I’ve already scouted down there, there’re only three of the buggers.”

  “Language,” Baxter said almost automatically, then ruffled the boy’s hair. “Well, that’s one more than us — even with the best will in the world you won’t match up to a full-grown sailor, not for a few years yet. But they don’t know we’re coming.” He looked down. “I mean it this time, lad — stay here.”

  Ignoring the look of disappointment on Tommy’s face he went back out and gestured Vasily forward. They went down a companionway onto the lower deck, the steps creaking slightly under their feet. The mutineers were so confident that they were undetected they hadn’t even posted a look out, but a particularly loose tread caused a cessation of the chatter. “What was that?” one of them whispered.

  A moment later, a slightly tentative voice called out. “Hey, shipmate?” in an innocent tone that tried to suggest they had nothing to do with the armoury hatch standing open.

  “It’s just me, Vasily Ivanovitch,” the big Russian at his shoulder said cheerfully, without missing a beat. He winked at Baxter as he looked back, surprise on his face.