by Tim Chant
Now that their quarry was confirmed, the tension aboard ratcheted up. The harassed engineer’s mate who had charge of their propulsion managed to squeeze a few more knots out of the engine, but with dire warnings of both fuel consumption and the long term viability of the machinery. It took him a little while to do so, which allowed the fishing boat to open her lead slightly before they started clawing back distance.
“He must have paid them well,” Baxter commented, watching the opposing sailors’ efforts.
“Or he’s threatening them — his service pistol was not in his cabin,” Ekaterina countered. “Tommy and I searched it carefully. Can we catch them before nightfall?”
Baxter chewed his lower lip. Glanced at the little Russian ensign they had broken out on the flagstaff to gauge windspeed and direction. Glanced over the side at the rushing green water of the Pacific. “If this wind holds or freshens and maintains direction, probably not. And they could very well lose us in the darkness.”
“And, now he knows he is being hunted, he will want to — crack on, is it? — until he reaches the safety of Hong Kong.”
“Indeed.” He was watching the fishing boat carefully, and realised Yefimov was starting back at him through a set of glasses. “Vasily, how far would you say we are? One, two miles?”
The big Russian petty officer squinted, then shrugged. “Maybe a little more than two.”
“I think we shall try the range of the Hotchkiss in a little while.”
“Gunfire?” Ekaterina asked. “Is that wise?”
Baxter turned a slow circle, sweeping the sea all around. There was still other shipping around, including a smudge of smoke on the horizon that could have been a bigger steamship. “Probably not, but it is just a small gun. I doubt it will attract too much attention. We’ll try a warning shot or two once the range has closed. And Vasily? Issue the rifles, if you please.”
Yefimov was not evading him this time.
They commenced firing a half hour later. It was still long for the little popgun and Baxter had it on its highest elevation. The goal, of course, was not to hit the boat but to drop shells into the water close enough that they would take the hint.
The Hotchkiss went off with a crash as he pulled the firing lanyard and everyone held their breath and watched for the fall of shot as the pinnace shot out of the little cloud of smoke. The waterspout as it landed was pitiful compared even with the Yaroslavich’s secondary armament, but its effect on the chase was almost comical. Baxter did feel a bit guilty about putting the fishermen — probably honest, hardworking folk who had been offered an undreamed of amount to do a simple job — in harm’s way. They were now trapped in a nightmare of someone actually firing on them, and there was obvious consternation on deck even though the shooting had been remarkably poor.
“Well, let’s not stand about, eh?” Baxter said to the scratch gun crew he had assembled. There wasn’t the same need for rapid fire as there would be in a full on battle, but he knew that first round probably wouldn’t do the trick.
“They’re starting to bring the sails down!” someone cried out with delight.
“He’s brandishing a weapon!” Tommy reported almost at the same instance. “He’s not giving up that easily.”
There was a brief confusion on the fishing boat, some men trying to bring the sails down in a panic and others, equally disconcerted, obeying Yefimov’s orders at gunpoint. The end result was that, though the chase didn’t stop, she lost a lot of headway and allowed the pinnace to close faster.
“Right, let’s see if we can land this a little closer,” Baxter said, squinting along the barrel. The gun didn’t even have a proper gunsight and he was having to do everything by eye and guesswork. He dropped the elevation slightly and waited until the pinnace’s bow had started to drop down a wave. “Stand clear!”
This time, the shell landed close enough that the wind carried the waterspout over the stern. Yefimov whipped round, actually brandishing the pistol at them. Baxter grinned fiercely around the circle of crew.
“Baxter…” Ekaterina said.
“One second if you please, Countess,” he said gruffly. This was his element, his role in life. While he had long since accepted her as a superior in most ways, he was not to be interrupted in his execution of this duty.
The third shell he laid a lot more carefully. Although the second shot had landed close, Yefimov still seemed to have control of the crew. He crouched over the gun, staring along its length, as the swell caused his target to bob in and out of sight. There was no science to this, barely any skill — intuition told him when to step back and fire again.
The Hotchkiss gun fired a variety of three-pound shells. They hadn’t thought to stow solid practice rounds when preparing for the expedition, so had been hurling standard steel, black-powder-filled shells with a delayed fuse.
The shot, as even Baxter had to admit, was spectacularly lucky. They’d come close enough to fire on a flatter trajectory and the round went low over the fishing vessel and clean through her mainsail before bursting on the surface of the water. The explosion did no harm but it did drench the entire boat with spray. Even at that range, though, they heard the canvas tear as the sail split down the middle. The sudden loss of thrust threatened to turn the boat over, even with the crew — obviously experienced — managing to get the remnants down and the vessel under control.
Yefimov threw his hands up in disgust and then, with a baleful look towards the closing pinnace, threw his revolver overboard.
They were closing fast with their target now. Ekaterina’s stern, slightly alarmed voice cut through the start of the cheering. “Marcus!”
Baxter turned, her use of his given name finally getting his attention, and followed the direction she had aimed her glasses. Taking up his own pair, he was startled to see the low, lean shape of a cruiser closing at speed, the White Ensign of the Royal Navy snapping from her flagstaff.
CHAPTER 20
“Russian pinnace, what is your business?”
Baxter listened to the voice shouting slowly in English from below decks. Yefimov sat opposite him, pale and wide eyed, as Baxter kept the muzzle of a revolver pointed at his belly. The traitor glanced over his shoulder, obviously trying to get a look out of the porthole; trying to see if he could do anything to effect his salvation.
“I may be a terrible shot, old chap,” Baxter said urbanely, “but even I won’t miss at this range. I’m told being gutshot is … not pleasant.”
Yefimov subsided, glaring at him.
“Russian pinnace, I repeat, what is your business?”
Despite the speaking trumpet distorting the voice, Baxter had the vague and unpleasant feeling that he knew the owner.
“We were out for a cruise,” Ekaterina called back in frosty English. She had been keeping out of sight behind the deckhouse, stepping into view as the cruiser came up alongside — the sudden appearance of a woman, and an attractive one at that, calculated to discomfit the RN officer speaking. “We happened upon a deserter from our ship. He is now in custody.”
The voice became considerably more affable. The light coming in through the small porthole was occluded by the much bigger ship coming alongside, her engines idling. The pinnace rocked in the wash and Yefimov’s eyes darted for the hatchway. Baxter twitched the muzzle of the gun and he subsided.
“Fortuitous for you, my lady,” the fellow shouted, and Baxter was now certain he knew the voice. “Though we heard you firing on those poor chaps.”
The Vietnamese fishing vessel was already underway with all possible sail set, beating away into the wind to turn round and make for home. Baxter couldn’t blame them. They’d still done well out of the incident — Ekaterina had insisted that Yefimov pay them what was promised, and she had compensated them generously for the destroyed sail. The whole thing had been a miserable experience for them, though.
“I trust none of them were hurt?” the speaker went on, and Baxter felt a cold rage settle over him as he fin
ally recognised the voice. No, not settle — resurface from where he had buried it. Bradshaw.
“They were paid for the damages,” Ekaterina called back, her voice still cold despite Bradshaw’s obvious attempts at being charming. The dapper young officer Baxter had known had always thought of himself as being a lady’s man, and had some success to validate that opinion. Baxter suspected that their clash over a young lady in Portsmouth was what had brought Bradshaw into the coterie that had plotted against him aboard the Doyle; it wasn’t surprising he would try flirting on the high seas.
But what ship was he assigned to, now, and in what role? He had patronage, certainly, but probably not enough to have seen him elevated to command rank — not even the sort of small, old ships one generally found on the further-flung stations.
There was silence from the British warship which now lay barely more than twenty yards from them. Baxter stared at Yefimov, wondering if after all this the blighter was going to get away with it. He toyed with the idea of shooting him right then and there. While he wouldn’t be the first man Baxter had killed, he would be the first one he’d killed in cold blood — and while he was many things, he wasn’t a murderer.
“I’m afraid, my lady, that I need to come aboard and ensure that everything is as it should be,” Bradshaw shouted across a moment later. In the background, Baxter could hear orders being called out to lower away one of the ship’s boats.
He saw hope spring in Yefimov’s eyes at this new development. If Yefimov could convince Bradshaw that he was in the employ of British Naval Intelligence, things could get extremely uncomfortable. The bastard might actually get away with it, and continue to cause trouble for them.
“You shall do no such thing!” Ekaterina replied. “This is a ship of the Imperial Russian Navy and as such is sovereign territory — you shall not step aboard without an invitation.”
“Well — I suggest you invite me on board when I get there.” Even through the speaking trumpet, there was an air of menace in Bradshaw’s voice now. There was no doubt that the British ship outgunned them, as surely as they would outgun the little boat he would be pulled across in.
Baxter rose quickly and smoothly, and Yefimov didn’t even see the right hook that laid him out cold. Baxter didn’t have time to mess around with tying and gagging the man. He knew how quickly a Royal Navy crew would get a boat away, and how keen Bradshaw was to get invited aboard by Ekaterina.
He didn’t hurry as he made his way on deck and towards the Hotchkiss gun. Vasily caught his eye and raised a ponderous eyebrow. Baxter casually gestured to the weapon, which the petty officer had just finished housing after the brief ‘action’, and Vasily nodded his understanding. The two of them converged on it.
Baxter glanced towards the British ship without appearing to give her too much attention. He recognised her at once as an Apollo-class protected cruiser, old but still powerful — probably more than a match for the Yaroslavich herself. He knew there were a few assigned to the China Station, though at least she wasn’t flying an admiral’s pennant.
That should make the bluff slightly easier.
Bradshaw’s skiff was already halfway between the two vessels, close enough that Baxter could tell immediately that the arrogant little shit hadn’t changed. He sat erect and proud in his hot weather uniform, an expectant expression on his face. Perhaps a little plumper around the middle and in his face.
The haughty expression dissolved into something like confusion when he appeared to recognise what Baxter and Vasily were doing. The weapon was still pointed forward, over the pinnace’s stem, and it was very clear that they were — calmly, without any hint of hurry or panic — loading it. At Vasily’s direction some of the Russian bluejackets were also preparing the long, cumbersome rifles brought on deck in case Yefimov had decided to make a fight of it.
“I say, ah…” Bradshaw was close enough that he didn’t need to shout, and his consternation caused Ekaterina to turn to see what was going on behind her. Her eyes widened when she saw the martial preparations. Baxter met her eyes and winked.
She turned back, any hint of surprise gone from her face and nothing but cold superiority showing. “As I said, this is a Russian warship. You are not invited nor permitted to come aboard.”
Bradshaw didn’t like that, not one bit. Baxter recalled that he didn’t like it when someone stood up to him — particularly not a woman. He nodded to Vasily, and between them they trained the long gun on the boat. He knew he should keep his head down — there was a reasonable chance Bradshaw wouldn’t even remember him, but he shouldn’t really be taking that risk.
He stepped up to the railing, leaning on it and staring hard at the officer.
Bradshaw had ordered a halt to the boat’s progress but seemed determined to blister it out. “How dare you aim a weapon at me!” he snapped, face reddening. Baxter could tell he was becoming flustered as a slight Highlands accent crept into his voice. “Not only is it deeply discourteous, you must know that you are significantly outgunned!”
It was true. The cruiser — HMS Iphigenia, Baxter was fairly sure — was not cleared for action but there was no way they could escape her broadside guns, let alone the turret-mounted six-inch guns, if it came to a shooting match.
“However, do you really want to risk war between our nations?” Ekaterina asked, her tone more reasonable. She’d cottoned on to the bluff. “Even if we were all to die here, word would still get out. And you are civilised people — if you sink us, there will be survivors in the water and you will not leave them there. You should also know that I am connected to the Imperial family.”
That really took the wind out of Bradshaw’s sails, but he gave no indication of ordering a withdrawal to the ship.
Baxter spoke up, making no attempt at sounding Russian. “And whatever happens, sir, you should know — if it does come to shooting, you will almost certainly be hit first.”
Bradshaw’s mouth dropped open at the obvious threat. Baxter couldn’t quite tell, at that distance, if the little prick recognised him. He couldn’t see the faces of the British sailors crewing the boat, but he could tell from the set of their shoulders that they were deeply unhappy about the whole thing.
“Well … I, ah, must confer with the captain,” Bradshaw stammered, then snapped orders that turned the boat and sent it skimming back across the water.
“I don’t believe he gave us any instructions to remain stationary, did he?” Baxter asked Ekaterina. She shook her head with a smile. “Tommy, jump down to the engine room and get us full steam ahead. Vasily, a course directly away from the cruiser as soon as we have headway.”
“They could still open fire on us.”
Baxter shrugged. “We’re sunk either way unless they decide the doings of mad Russians are not worth the bother. My money’s on them coming to that exact conclusion. Sinking us would be worth less than the shells they’d fire.”
“You knew that officer.” Ekaterina’s voice was certain, delivering a statement not asking a question.
Baxter nodded briefly, and his hard expression obviously startled Ekaterina. “Bradshaw. He was senior to me on my first posting, but only just. He’s done well for himself.”
“Bad blood?” she asked softly.
“I’ll tell you about it sometime,” he said, knowing he never would. It was a painful episode and one he could live without revisiting. “The important thing, though, is that he’s a coward. He’ll run back to Iphigenia and report that everything is in order.”
Ekaterina was obviously a fine enough judge of character that she didn’t press the point and they lapsed into a comfortable silence, both of them watching the British ship as the pinnace gathered way. Vasily followed his orders exactly and soon they were steaming directly away from their potential killer. It would be hours before they would clear the effective range of Iphigenia’s main battery, of course, but the further away they got the better chance of surviving if the British ship did open fire.
She gav
e no sign of clearing for action or even turning some of her secondary guns on the pinnace, however.
“There — she’s getting under way,” Ekaterina said after ten minutes of tense silence.
“And turning for Hong Kong.” He flashed her a smile. “Mad Russians — not worth the bother.”
Her own smile lit up her face. She wasn’t a woman much given to idiot grins, which made the rare expression even more startling. “Well, this has been quite an adventure, but I feel we should cut the cruise short and return to the Yaroslavich, yes?”
He inclined his head. “I shall plot a course for Cochin immediately, my lady.”
They found the squadron at sea just off Van Phong Bay, slightly further north than Cam Ranh, from where they had been evicted.
They had taken their time heading back south and west — to conserve fuel and protect the over-strained machinery, Baxter told himself, nothing more — and arrived a little after Easter. They’d celebrated the feast day as best they could, putting in to a small Vietnamese village to buy stringy beef at an exorbitant price. “It is a very important festival in Russia,” Ekaterina explained with an unconcerned shrug. “Surely it is so in Britain as well?”
It was Baxter’s turn to shrug. “I’ve never taken much note of such things,” he said gruffly. “Don’t recall the Navy making much of a hullaballoo about it though.”
Ekaterina’s expression conveyed exactly what she thought of such heathens, but later she and the crew had done their best to show Baxter and Tommy how the resurrection should be celebrated, dining around the mess table in the front cabin with an odd mix of boiled beef and local vegetables. They’d drained the last of the small keg of vodka that had been put aboard, and the more adventurous had tried the local rice wine they’d re-provisioned with. Even Yefimov had been invited — though a traitor and deserter, he was still Russian.