by Tim Chant
“Vasya who has been guarding the British spy?”
“The same, though I have been relieved of that duty and glad to be away from the officers.”
They were almost at the door, and Baxter could feel his palms sweating. Almost there…
A head emerged from the hatchway, an uncertain smile on its face. Baxter lunged forward, grabbing a handful of shirt, and with a great heave hurled the man across the narrow gangway. The mutineer hit with a sickening thump but Baxter didn’t have time to check on his first victim. He went through the hatch, low and fast, and his shoulder connected with the upper chest of the one behind, sending him sprawling through a pyramid of stacked rifles. Vasily was through like a shot, wielding the expensive shotgun like a club to drop the third revolutionary in the room.
Baxter rose, breathing hard, and kicked the man he’d collided with in the midriff, causing him to double up with an agonised gasp. He wouldn’t be calling for help any time soon. He was astonished that they’d actually succeeded at that.
“Is he deid?” Tommy asked querulously from outside. Baxter rolled his eyes but didn’t snap at the boy as he went back out and crouched by the man he’d thrown into the bulkhead. Reaching out, he felt for a pulse. It was there, albeit thready, but from the dent in his skull and the way his eyes were rolled up showing only whites he’d be surprised if the fellow lasted the night. “No, he’s still with us.” He didn’t add anything else, for instance that even if the wretch recovered he’d be shot as a mutineer. “Is there any chance in hell you’ll do like you’re told and stay out of trouble?”
Tommy shook his head firmly. Baxter shrugged. If the mutineers succeeded in damaging the ship or even blowing it up, the lad would be as much at risk as everyone else.
Vasily emerged, having tied the other two up with the sort of quick efficiency only an experienced sailor could manage. He handed a heavy Nagant revolver to Baxter, who took it without demure this time. They’d got away with it at the armoury, but he knew turning down a weapon had been pure bravado. The big Russian had a few of the awkward rifles slung over his shoulder, no doubt in case they met any more loyal bluejackets, and carried a sack that clinked with the sound of gunmetal. He handed it to Tommy, then shook his head firmly as he looked pointedly at the hand holding it.
Baxter grinned mirthlessly. “Well, on we go then.”
The magazines were deep below the waterline, where they were well protected. Hoists allowed them to serve the batteries above, once the ready lockers had been expended. That was something Baxter knew was inevitable, given the Russian penchant for enthusiastic but inaccurate fire.
They found a couple of nervous looking bluejackets and a midshipman Baxter didn’t recognise guarding the first of the magazines. They had a belaying pin and the middy’s dirk between them, and gratefully received the firearms once Baxter had reassured himself that they were indeed loyal and had been left there by Juneau.
It felt surreal, creeping through the darkened and slightly ill-smelling decks of the ship he had come to know and think of almost as his own. He could hear snoring on either side, and somewhere singing. At least the ever-present, cloying stench of the coal, the feel and taste of it on everything, had abated as they burned the stocks down.
That peace, the lives contained within this steel shell, could be shattered in an instant if they failed, if they couldn’t stop the revolutionaries carrying out their insane plan.
“Can’t let myself think about that now,” Baxter muttered. Vasily, knowing this part of the ship far better than he could, put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. They were approaching the central magazine, where the bulk of shells and propellant for all the artillery was stored before being portioned out to compartments that served the individual weapons and batteries. They found Ekaterina at the top of a companionway that led down to one of the two hatches. She was crouched in a most unladylike manner, staring intently down the companionway with her pistol levelled. She turned at their approach — their clanking did make stealth slightly harder — and smiled slightly.
“Juneau and a few others approach from the far side,” she whispered. “There are four in the magazine, preparing fuses, and we will take them by surprise.”
Baxter sucked in a breath. If they gave the revolutionaries no chance of escape, he suspected they would choose suicide, and an explosive suicide at that. Nothing awaited them but the firing squad anyway. It was too late to do anything about it now. “Do we think this is all of them?” he asked, keeping his voice low and clutching the unfamiliar pistol.
She glanced at him and he fought to relax his grip. “Try not to miss if you have to fire that,” was all she said in response, then rose smoothly and started creeping down the steps.
“Stay here,” Baxter said to Tommy before he followed her. “I mean it this time.”
It was beyond madness, really. If he’d had any sense, he’d have waited at the house until the inevitable disaster occurred, then seen about getting himself and the lad out of Madagascar. The very thought of abandoning her, though, made him feel sick to his stomach. And he’d never been one for running from a fight.
The revolutionaries here were on guard, at least. Baxter could see the shadow of one passing to and fro across the open hatchway, occasionally coming close enough to peer out. Perhaps they were worried that their comrades were late getting back.
He wanted to nudge Ekaterina, who was leading them, out of the way so he could dive in first. Something about her cool poise and confidence held him back, right up until the point that the first shot was fired.
None of them had time to think. The guard on this side stuck his head out of the door, seeing them rather than the expected comrades. He opened his mouth to shout at the same time as he raised his revolver. Baxter was already launching forwards, but the time for subtlety and quiet was gone. Ekaterina’s pistol cracked, surprisingly loud, and he tasted powder smoke. The Bolshevik cried out and span away, pulling the trigger as he fell. The bullet went past him close enough that he felt the hot wind on his face, and the noise and the tang of the smoke triggered something visceral.
Baxter exploded into the magazine, casting about with a cold, furious clarity. The circular compartment was lined with racks bearing gleaming shells, chests of bagged propellant and cases of belts for the machine guns. If any of them was hit by a stray round, it could be disastrous.
Juneau was already at the opposite hatch, wrestling with a revolutionary who was trying to stab him with a clasp knife. Baxter started forward to help, then realised there were two more, one of them vaguely known to him, who were quickly slicing open powder bags.
Juneau would have to wait. Not wanting to risk his poor aim, Baxter instead threw the heavy revolver. It smacked into the nearest, not hard enough to put him over but enough to distract him from preparing his own weapon to fire into the open powder.
It seemed they had chosen death before capture. Couldn’t have that.
The one he’d hit with the gun went down fast, a solid blow to a long rodent-like jaw that Baxter knew he’d be feeling the next day. His mate was faster, and though he’d dropped his rifle he had a knife and from the way he sent it darting towards Baxter’s guts he knew how to use it.
Baxter caught the knife hand with a downward-sweeping forearm block, jabbed for the man’s face. Hissed as blood was drawn as the knifeman turned his blade and danced out of the way of the blow. He kicked low, for the shins, grunted in triumph as the man staggered.
There was a feral, cornered look in the sailor’s eyes as he cast around, knowing he was doomed but wanting a final act of defiance. He launched his knife at Baxter and dove for the discarded rifle. Baxter landed hard on him, ignoring the knife. He felt the other man’s ribs crack, butted him hard on the bridge of the nose as he tried to squirm round. Got his hands around his throat and, vision going red, squeezed until he felt something pop and his victim go limp.
He rose, breathing hard, not knowing or caring if he’d killed the mutineer.
His shoulder stung where the flying blade had caught him and blood dripped hot down his fingers. He didn’t care much about that either.
There was an odd silence in the compartment that suggested things had either gone well or were about to go much worse. Turning slowly, trying to master his rage, he saw the former was the case. Juneau had his man down and was holding him at pistol-point. Ekaterina and Vasily were both there, and the little bugger Tommy had somehow found his way in.
Good job he had, too. The knife, having slashed Baxter, had knocked an oil lantern some utter buffoon had brought in off its perch. Tommy lay across the open case of powder bags it had fallen towards, pale and shaking, with the lantern held away from his chest in both hands.
“Ah ya blighter,” Tommy yelped suddenly, as the heat of the lantern finally got through the adrenalin. Vasily had it out of his hands in a jiff and Ekaterina was gathering him into a tight hug. Her eyes, meeting Baxter’s over the lad’s tousled hair, held a mix of fascination and horror.
CHAPTER 12
“You are lucky no tendons were severed,” Dr Andropov told Baxter as he peered at the wound in his arm by flickering gas light. “This would be easier in my sickbay.”
“The sickbay on a ship neither Mr Baxter nor I have been near for days, good doctor?” Ekaterina said serenely.
Watery blue eyes regarded her from behind round spectacles. “Indeed, my lady,” Andropov said evenly.
“And if I had been aboard, I’d have been bloody lucky not to have been blown up, let alone not lose the use of a hand,” Baxter grunted, trying not to wince as the doctor bent over the upwards cut in his forearm with needle and thread in hand.
The wound in his shoulder was slight — the blade had merely caught him on the way to its true target of the lamp. The slash in his arm had been deliberate and deeper. Oddly enough, despite years at sea on both warships and merchantmen, he’d never been seriously injured, but he had picked up his fair share of this type of knock.
“As I was, indeed,” Andropov said gently. “There.” He dabbed the wound with surgical spirits without warning, causing Baxter to flinch slightly, and commenced bandaging it.
Baxter looked across the room at Ekaterina, who was cradling a neat whisky in her hands and staring broodingly at the medical tableau. They had been spirited, along with Tommy, from the ship as soon as the magazine was secure. It was better for everyone if the official story — and it would come out at the courts martial — did not involve any of them. Juneau and Vasily had remained aboard.
“How are your other patients, Doctor?” Ekaterina asked guardedly.
“Those who are likely to live will do so, until the firing squads,” Andropov said. There was no trace of bitterness in his voice; like many doctors Baxter had met in the course of his life at sea he had a fatalistic streak. “But I should attend to them.”
He rose, washed his hands in the basin provided and rolled down the sleeves of his linen shirt. He was in mufti, preparing as he had been for a night ashore, and he looked every inch a colonial doctor as he gathered up his straw hat and bid them all good night.
“How do you feel, Baxter?” Ekaterina asked after a moment.
He bit back on the urge to sound off with fake bravado. “In truth, lucky to be alive,” he said. His whole body ached, aside from those bits that were actively painful, but despite that he felt his heartbeat quicken again as their eyes met. “Such events do tend to put things in perspective…”
She rose before he could say anything else, particularly anything potentially embarrassing. “There is truth in that, Mr Baxter,” she said quietly, not meeting his eyes.
He sat back, slightly deflated. “And you, ma’am?” he said, letting an unfortunate level of formality creep back into his voice. “You shot a man this evening, and that is no small thing.”
“You killed one with your bare hands,” she shot back, then stopped with a look that suggested she didn’t know why she was angry. “I apologise, Mr Baxter. I am tired — I shall look in on Tommy and retire, I think.”
“I imagine we all need rest,” he said, keeping his voice as mild as possible.
“You were very brave,” she said quietly from the doorway.
“I have a thick skin, Mrs Juneau,” he said, looking into the shadowed corner of the room.
“I wasn’t talking about the stitches, Mr Baxter.”
“Neither was I. Good night, ma’am.”
“Good night, Mr Baxter.”
Baxter was unable to sleep, tossing and turning under a thin sheet despite the fatigue. Although he’d tried his best, he’d come within a hand’s breadth of killing both him and Tommy, again, and that gnawed at him. Charging headlong into the fight like that was exactly the sort of blockheaded behaviour that hadn’t helped his cause in the RN.
The door creaking open at some point — the heavy night was still pitch dark — brought him bolt upright. For a moment he thought it was Tommy, looking for someone to talk to, but Andropov had given him a sleeping draught and Pavel was watching over him.
Ekaterina was a dimly-seen form through the mosquito netting; then she lifted a flap and slipped inside. She wore a robe belted loosely over a light nightdress. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw he was bare chested, and he hurriedly pulled himself up and the sweat-soaked sheet up to his shoulders.
“This is … quite improper…” Baxter mumbled.
There was no preamble “I didn’t want to leave things like that,” she said, in her pristine broken English. “Between us.”
“There was nothing between us,” he said, trying and failing to meet her steady gaze.
She sat on the edge of the bed, and shifted closer to him. “I should very much like there to be.” Her voice was quiet, but it wasn’t a shy whisper.
“Your husband…”
She reached out, very gently touched his cheek and turned his face, leaning forward until they were almost nose-to-nose. Her robe had fallen open and her nightdress was very thin indeed. “Is a good, kind, and honourable man who I love very much, and he loves me. In his way.” Her other hand stole up his leg, bunched the sheet and started pulling it down. “Not in this way. I am, how do you say…?”
A sudden jump of intuition. “A false flag?”
She laughed at the terminology, her whole face lighting up, and he laughed with her. Then she was sliding into his arms, the sheet and her nightwear seeming to disappear of their own volition, and they smothered each other’s laughter before they could give the game away.
She was gone the next morning, which was sensible. If it wasn’t for the scent of her on the pillow and sheet, he would almost have thought he’d dreamed the whole thing.
They hadn’t talked much after, falling asleep side-by-side, so he had no idea what her intentions were. But then, he’d never known what she was after. All he could really do was carry on as normal and see what happened next. That had become his life, in these last few months.
Baxter felt tired and shivery as he pulled himself out of bed and to the wash basin. It had been filled at some point in the early morning, and he guessed that Ekaterina had already been back in her room by that point. He didn’t normally sleep that heavily.
“Just an after-effect of the action,” he mumbled to himself, and shoved his head into the deep basin of tepid water. He could smell coffee and frying bacon, but his stomach churned at the thought of food.
His shoulder and arm were both stiff and sore, and looking in the mirror he could see a bit of blood through the bandage around his shoulder. They’d been careful last night, gentle, so he didn’t think the wounds had been reopened then. He resolved as he dressed to see the doctor.
He found the denizens of the house in the dining room. Ekaterina looked up at his came in with only the politest of welcoming smiles, but there was a slight gleam in her eye.
“Good morning, Mr Baxter,” she said as he bent to scratch Maxim behind the ears and then ruffled Tommy’s hair, which got him only the vaguest of reproaches f
rom the lad. The big dog was obviously not enjoying the heat and barely opened his eyes. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like the dead, ma’am,” he said, fighting to keep a straight face.
Pavel appeared silently, no hint of disapproval or even awareness in his quiet efficiency as he served Baxter his breakfast.
Tommy was picking at his food, eyes downcast and face pale. Baxter regarded him for a few minutes. “You did well last night,” he said, his voice level. “In future, you don’t get left behind.”
Ekaterina’s eyes flashed a warning, but Baxter just gave her a slight smile and nodded. He didn’t intend to say more, but Tommy needed to hear that. The lad nodded, looked up briefly when Baxter rested a hand on his shoulder.
Young Master Dunbar had already seen more than many men twice his age, including death and danger at very close hand. Baxter had only been a little older when he went to sea, though, and those who chose a maritime life had to become accustomed to such rough and tumble.
“You do not appear hungry, Baxter,” Ekaterina said, a note of concern in her voice.
He realised he was only turning his fork over in his hand and poking at the mountain of bacon, fried bread and eggs in front of him. He reached for something humorous to say about appetites, but his brain was slow and before anything came to hand Juneau exploded into the room.
Baxter winced at his cheerful greeting, the noise going right through his head. He mumbled a response, guilt shooting through him despite what Ekaterina had said last night. He had bedded another officer’s wife before — one of the many ways, he was coming to realise, he hadn’t helped his own case in the RN — but never the wife of a friend.
That friend seemed oblivious to his mood, chattering away cheerfully as he filled a plate. “Well, I have to say that was something of a relief,” Juneau said after a few minutes of hearty eating. “Knowing those ublyudki were aboard and planning something was wearing on me.”