by Tim Chant
“Gorchakov seems to be becoming increasingly irrational — every attempt to take action against our friend, he sees an attack upon his own authority. Which, if I am truthful, I fatally undermined weeks ago.” Juneau’s voice was tinged with the slightest hint of regret. Not that he had undermined Gorchakov in particular, Baxter suspected, but rather at the notion of having undermined his captain — no matter how incompetent he was.
“Well, we’re where we are — we’ll have to do what we can.”
“Ekaterina will go ashore as well, and try to keep an eye on him.” Juneau shook his head at Baxter’s hopeful expression. “You are expressly forbidden from going ashore, I am afraid. And no, this is not an order I can quietly ignore. The captain was most specific.”
“Well, I had best occupy my time as best I can,” Baxter said, trying not to sound churlish as he poured himself another drink.
“If you had not noticed, morale aboard this ship is as low as the rest of the fleet,” Juneau said, his voice tinged with coldness. “The flag is … completely passive. No orders have been given, not even for drills. We must find a way to keep the men active and distracted. I fear the consequences if we do not, even in this damnable heat.”
Baxter carefully put his glass down. “You’re right, of course,” he said, by way of a tacit apology. “Well, we may not have orders to drill, but that doesn’t mean we’re not allowed to.”
“Colliers are also expected daily,” Juneau said, his voice weary. “And with the engines repaired we will be expected to raise steam again. That at least will provide some distraction.”
“The joy.” Baxter picked up his discarded glass and stared down into the amber liquid, before drinking it off.
Confusion and uncertainty. They weighed on the squadron. With no clear instructions or even an indication of what Admiral Rozhestvensky’s intentions were, speculation was rife when men had the energy for it.
Baxter, despite the soggy weight of the air, felt tension ramping up inside him as he watched the ship’s boats pulling for the tiny town, crammed with sailors and officers relieved to be away from the cramped and filthy confines of their ship.
It wasn’t that he particularly wanted to be ashore, though being able to stretch his legs would help. It was the fact that Yefimov was in the stern of one of those boats and Ekaterina, accompanied by Vasily and Tommy, in another.
Baxter leaned on the rail, forearms crossed on the polished mahogany and straw hat pulled low over his eyes against the glare of the rising sun, and stared hard after the boats. Ekaterina did not look back, but Yefimov turned on his bench to stare back at the ship. Even at that range, Baxter felt their glares lock. Yefimov looked triumphant — an expression he had worn since the fateful interview with Gorchakov and Juneau — and raised a hand in contemptuous salute to Juneau.
“Bastard,” Baxter muttered under his breath, straightening and wrapping his hands around the rail, squeezing and twisting it in lieu of Yefimov’s throat.
A discreet cough at his shoulder drew a baleful look that caused poor Koenig to quail. “I believe we were going to be drilling the crews in accurate gun-laying?” the diffident young officer asked in his flawless but careful French.
Baxter forced himself to master his anger. “We are indeed, Mr Koenig. I see you have drawn the short straw and will not be going ashore.”
“I had the option,” Koenig said, almost piously. “But I feel we have much work to do and little time before we must put these skills into action.”
Baxter nodded. “Good lad.”
They had even less time in Cam Ranh Bay — as perfect a natural harbour for desperately needed maintenance as anyone could ask for — than anyone had anticipated. A French cruiser, flying the flag of the station commander Admiral de Jonquières, had visited not long after their arrival. That evening the sleek vessel slipped into the harbour again, having exchanged courtesies and identification with the destroyer pickets. The fast, dangerous vessels were the only ships in the squadron that remained active, burning precious coal as they patrolled relentlessly in case the Japanese should try a sneak attack. Or, as some Russian officers maintained, another sneak attack.
It didn’t take long after the French admiral’s boat had put off from the Suvorov for signals to start flying, ordering preparations be made for the squadron to put to sea the following day.
By that point, of course, the rumours were already flying. Rozhestvensky was known to have agreed, finally, to wait for the arrival of the 3rd Pacific Squadron — or rather, to follow the Admiralty’s orders to wait.
“I heard Togo is prowling the coast with his full force,” Koenig said excitedly over dinner.
“We are close to Japan now,” Dr Andropov said, his voice more measured. “But as far as I understand things, being a mere medical man rather than a fighting officer, it is still … a bit far? More likely pressure has been brought to bear on the French to evict us — we have already outstayed our welcome by some margin.”
“I heard the Japanese were already at the outskirts of Vladivostok!” a particularly young and impressionable lieutenant exclaimed. “We are sailing to their rescue now!”
That led to a round of tolerably good-natured abuse that left the young man red-faced but otherwise unharmed. Only Juneau did not engage in the ribbing — he sat massaging his forehead at his end of the table, paying rather more attention to his wine than to the food. It was the best fare they’d had for some time, fresh supplies having being brought aboard that morning.
“The French are our allies!” the young man protested weakly. “They would not evict us…”
“The French are profiting handsomely from you,” Baxter corrected him, not ungently. “Where do you think that steak came from?” he went on as the boy gave a puzzled look. “Still, various governments will be pressuring them to enforce the rules of neutrality.”
“Where is Mr Yefimov?” Juneau asked suddenly, raising his head from his hand. His voice was harsh and strained.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the assemblage. The second officer had been a brooding, silent presence for so long that his absence had barely been noted. “I … I believe he has retired to his cabin. I understand he ate something ashore that disagreed with him.” The last part of Koenig’s sentence came out in a rush as Juneau’s eyebrows knitted together.
“Well — he should have reported it to me!” Juneau snapped. He looked as though he was going to say more, but bit it off. Disciplinary matters were best not aired over the dining table.
After that, the dinner lapsed into by-now familiar morose silence and broke up not long after. Andropov retired to see to his malaria cases in the sickbay and the officers of the watch left to take up their stations. Soon it was just Baxter and Juneau. Feeling sweaty and a bit shaky, Baxter called for Pavel — who doubled up as the senior wardroom steward — and sent him off to raid their dwindling supply of gin and tonic.
“I notice the countess did not join us,” he said mildly, once the welcome cool drinks had been delivered.
“What of it?” Juneau flared, furious gaze turned on Baxter.
Baxter felt a stir of his own temper, but tamped it down. “I merely worried that she too had been laid low while ashore,” he said. He found himself worried Juneau knew about the … affair was the wrong word. Entanglement, perhaps.
Juneau sagged back in his chair and took up the gin. “I find myself liking this peculiarly British drink more and more,” he said in a different, milder tone. The glass he raised was half-toast, half-apology for his temper. “Katya was entirely, how do you say, fagged out? And has retired.”
“Inactivity can be tiring, just as it wears on the morale.”
Juneau gave him an odd look. “Oh, I doubt she has been inactive at all.”
CHAPTER 18
They did not realise that Yefimov was missing until they were already at sea. Moving almost forty warships of all sizes through the narrow mouth of the harbour had been a time-consuming and, at times, hai
r-raising experience, even though the cruiser squadrons had been the first out to secure the surrounding sea.
The ships formed a great arc, almost five miles long, beyond the mouth of the bay. The Yaroslavich was standing well out, on station to repel any attack. The crew was on high alert, British cruisers having being sighted observing the fleet’s departure from beyond the edge of French territorial waters. The French Admiral steamed with them, escorting them towards that territorial limit — not as a watchman but a polite host seeing his guests on their way.
“The flagship has signalled for all commanders,” Juneau said. He had invited Baxter to join him on the wide, open bridge — it was his domain now, and Gorchakov was a rare sight indeed on it. “And of course Gorchakov wanted his aide.”
“Who was nowhere to be found?” Baxter asked.
“Who was, indeed, complete and glaring in his absence.” Juneau’s voice was dark as he raised glasses to sweep the seascape again. “It appears he deserted in Cam Ranh — he was last seen heading for the telegraph office. Beyond that, there has been no other sighting.”
“Could he be hiding there?”
Juneau pursed his lips and then shook his head. “No, the town is too small. And even if he had laid low there, he will already be on his way somewhere larger. Somewhere that will allow him to disappear.”
“He will be weeks if he goes overland or even by river,” Baxter said confidently. “By the time he has got anywhere to do anything, assuming he survives the journey, we will be safely north. Away from this damnable heat,” he added as an afterthought, mopping his brow.
“You sound like you speak with experience.”
“Of travel inland in these parts? Not direct experience, no — I’ve spoken with old hands who’ve done the coastal trade here. I much prefer blue water sailing.”
“That’s as may be, of course, but we think he did stop at the telegraph station first. Unfortunately my wife hadn’t had time to … cultivate contacts, as she had done at Nossibeisk. We do not know what he told his masters.”
Baxter felt his heart sink. It was entirely possible, then, that the Juneaus’ plan had backfired and backfired badly. As Ekaterina had said, he would now be stuck aboard this ship until they were safely in Russian waters; that was the least of their issues now assuming Yefimov was aiming to cause more mischief rather than just fleeing for his life.
He quirked a smile. He’d never, in his worst nightmares, imagined considering Russian waters as being safe. Then he shrugged. “Well, our course has been set for us, then.”
“Indeed. The damnable thing is the admiral promised his French counterpart that he would not interfere with anything shipping even if we feel like it might be bound for Japan — so we cannot even stop and search any ships he might be taking, if he was to try to get to Hong Kong by sea.”
“He won’t,” Baxter said. “Yefimov is, in essence, a cautious man.” He hesitated to say cowardly. “And he cannot know that we have orders not to molest shipping. No, he will go by river. And hopefully the river will claim him.”
Juneau raised an eyebrow at the vehemence in Baxter’s voice.
“I think I’m allowed to think ill of the fellow, don’t you?”
“That is … reasonable.” Juneau raised his glass in salute.
Ever onwards, ever northwards — that’s what Vice-Admiral Rozhestvensky told his assembled commanders that day. Gorchakov, without Yefimov to confide in, grudgingly told his officers at a conference in his cabin. Baxter heard all of this second hand from Juneau after the event. It seemed that, for most of the officers and crew, he was more or less one of them; but for Gorchakov he was still a prisoner and, at best, an inconvenience.
“It’s clear, though, that Juneau now runs the ship and the captain has little or no real influence,” Ekaterina told Baxter over breakfast. They were dining in the adjunct to Juneau’s cabin. With Yefimov gone, the wardroom was returning to some semblance of normality — or at least a pastiche of it — and there were a few off-duty officers breaking their own fasts before the day became too hot to contemplate food. That meant that it was no longer a suitable space for any sort of private conversation.
Baxter looked across the rim of his coffee cup as she spoke, struck again by what a remarkable woman she was. And she was striking. Not beautiful, but her strong-boned face and cool eyes that almost matched her raven hair would turn plenty of heads. More important than her looks, though, was her cool, clear mind. Her way of looking right through people and getting exactly what she wanted from them.
And, he had to admit wryly, she’d done exactly that with him. He knew it, but knowing it did not break her hold over him. He’d certainly never imagined sitting down to breakfast with a countess — at his lowest point, broke and broken down in Edinburgh, he might even had punched a man who’d predicted this. Least of all a noblewoman he’d bedded, although those long hot nights on Madagascar seemed like a half-remembered dream now.
He realised she was watching him, obviously expecting some kind of comment. “Well, she could do worse for a commanding officer,” he said after taking a swallow of still-scalding coffee. “Juneau’s a damn fine officer. I’d be happy to sail into action under his command.”
“And you may have an opportunity to test that theory,” she said with a slight smile.
He suppressed a frown, knowing she was right but not wanting to admit it.
The subject of their discussion burst in at that point, stripping off his uniform jacket with a grateful sigh as he came off watch. Juneau glanced between then, an odd expression playing briefly over his face. Baxter wondered if he’d expected to find a slightly less domestic scene.
“We are moving, husband?” Ekaterina enquired.
“We are, but not far,” he replied, nodding a greeting to Baxter and securing a cup of coffee. “Ever northwards and ever onwards, it seems, means merely the next bay north while we wait for the Third Squadron. It sometimes seems to me that we will be trapped on this infernal journey for the rest of eternity, like some punishment meted out by Baba Yaga.”
“Finishing the journey could mean a battle,” Baxter pointed out. “Not everyone is in such a rush to face that.”
Juneau grinned at him. “Many men who wear a uniform crave it, though. And I for one would prefer that to this interminable heat.”
Baxter thought back to what little action he had seen during this brief stint in the Royal Navy, and even the experience of being under fire from this very ship. He wasn’t entirely certain he’d ever craved action, though the thought of it did not fill him with trepidation. Before he could put any of that into words, though, there was a gentle rap on the door. Pavel, serving them this morning and leaving the wardroom to the lesser stewards, glided silently to it and exchanged a handful of words with the visitor before returning with a slip of paper.
Juneau glanced at it, no doubt expecting a message about some minor happening, then straightened and reread it carefully. He shot a glance at Baxter. “It seems you were wrong, my friend. A report has reached us from Cam Ranh — Yefimov was seen boarding a fishing vessel late yesterday, which immediately put off and headed north.”
Silence greeted that pronouncement, but it was not prolonged. Ekaterina put down her tea with a decisive gesture. “I have a sudden desire,” she said, without a hint of irony and with a great deal of asperity, “to go on a pleasure cruise.”
“I dunnae ken why you’re all in such a rush,” Tommy commented as they watched one of the cruiser’s steam pinnaces being prepared. “Sure oor friend has already made his report by cable.”
Baxter glanced down at the lad, surprised. Perhaps it was the time he was spending with Ekaterina, but he seemed to be developing an astute understanding of his own. “True. We haven’t been able to confirm whether or not he did send anything from the telegraph office. It’s difficult, not to mention expensive, to send details by cable, though. He might have given them some warning of our position, may even have blown Ekaterina’s cover,
but the real information will be in his head.”
“So we’re going after him? What chance in hell do we have?”
Baxter pursed his lips. It was a difficult question. Yefimov had a head start, but less than he might imagine. Baxter and Juneau had poured over charts while Ekaterina oversaw preparations for her ‘jaunt up the coast’. They knew when the fishing boat he’d hired had left, knew the currents and the prevailing wind, what the weather had been doing. The hired crew knew the waters better than them, admittedly, but not necessarily much beyond Cam Ranh.
Against that, though, was the challenge of picking out the right fishing boat and managing to close with it. Many boats plied these waters, small and large, and they only had the vaguest description of what they were looking for. Not to mention the possibility of foul weather and the ever-present pirates who still plagued these waters.
He shrugged. “We have to try.”
“Well, ah’m coming with ye.”
Baxter glanced down at Tommy — even in the last couple of months he’d grown enough that there was less ‘down’ in the look. “And if I say no and try to prevent it, I imagine you will find a way on board.”
The lad’s grin was broad and self-confident. “You are learning,” he said, dropping easily into Russian.
Baxter laughed and tousled his hair, causing Tommy to duck in annoyance. “Well, you’d best get your kit,” he said, knowing the lad was right. He was just going to keep finding ways to get himself into trouble, so he may as well do it under Baxter’s watchful eye.
He turned his suspicious gaze to the preparations being made as Tommy hurried off. The cruiser carried two steam pinnaces — a larger complement than many ships her size — and one had already been swayed out and sat in the lee of the ship as supplies were passed down. Vasily and the three other bluejackets who would crew the boat were already aboard, and the big petty officer was busy checking over the 3-pounder Hotchkiss gun mounted in the bow.