by Tim Chant
The hospital ship was taking the opportunity of a break in the weather to signal the other ships in her vicinity with her lamp. It all seemed terribly … routine, though.
“There goes our armed merchantman, turning back into the fog bank.”
“I don’t think that was any of our compatriots,” Baxter said, that sense of dread growing with every passing moment. “She’s definitely a warship, though.”
“Japanese?” Koenig asked, and Baxter had to stifle an urge to throttle the young man. He was growing to be a competent officer, but he could still be remarkably obtuse.
Juneau didn’t bother responding. “Mr Koenig, signal the flag — possible sighting of enemy warship. Add our position and the time of first sighting.”
Baxter was certain it wasn’t a ‘possible’ sighting. No other navy would be foolish enough to operate in these contested waters. The newly minted captain had to be cautious in his reports, of course.
“Are we going to quarters, Graf?”
Juneau thought about it for a few moments, but not too long. He had come into his own, now that he was formally in charge, and there was a new decisiveness to him. “No — she’ll shadow us but stay out of range.” Juneau stepped back to the railing beside Baxter and lowered his voice as he switched from French to English. “Well, I think we can assume she was Japanese, and therefore Togo will soon be aware of our position.”
“Technology marches on.” A few years ago, this would have been less of a problem as the picket ship would have to race to within visual range of either a relay point or Togo’s flagship to signal a position that could very well be out of date. Now, with wireless telegraph, Togo would put to sea once he knew the enemy was in the area and be kept up to date by the shadowing vessels.
“Well, that’s it then.”
Juneau nodded, his own expression bleak. Baxter felt a frustration right in the pit of his stomach — they had made it this far and were barely a hundred nautical miles from their destination. It would be hard for them to avoid a battle now, and unless Togo was more incompetent than his record suggested it would not be a Russian victory. From the look on Juneau’s face, he was thinking the same thing.
“No need to alarm the other officers or the crew,” Juneau said after a moment.
Time enough for that later. Baxter sought about for something to change the subject. “How is the countess?” he said eventually.
“Still laid low by sea sickness,” Juneau said unhappily. “She has managed a journey close to sixteen thousand nautical miles with few issues, and is struck down now — I can only assume there is something particular to the motion of the Sea of Japan that does not agree with her.”
“If we’re about to engage the enemy, it would be as well if she and Tommy were below decks.”
“Oh, agreed.”
“Where do you want me?”
“Wherever you feel you can do most good — you have been training the secondary batteries, and this close to the Japanese Home Islands we may actually encounter torpedo boats.”
It was a tacit acknowledgement that Baxter had slotted into the chain of command, though without any specific duties. He didn’t and would never wear a Russian uniform, but the ship’s purser had outfitted him in something that looked a bit like one without any of the insignia or braid.
“Aye, Captain.”
Juneau’s smile had more warmth in it this time. “I will certainly get used to hearing that.” His expression became more serious. “However, there is something you must do for me. Concerning my wife, and Tomas’ka. And Pavel.”
“And Maxim.”
Juneau took his glasses off and peered myopically at the lenses, already misted over again. “I should really have lodged him ashore in Cam Ranh. I should have put all of you ashore. But, yes, Maxim as well.”
The fog cleared to a patchy mist over the course of the morning, and from the Yaroslavich’s position to port of the labouring fleet auxiliaries they had a perfect view of the Japanese cruisers as they steamed up past the Russian lines on a parallel course.
“I make it eleven,” Juneau said without lowering his old-fashioned, finely-wrought telescope. “They appear content to steam just out of our maximum range.”
“They’re just making sure we don’t go anywhere.” Baxter found himself oddly calm now that the die was cast and action seemed inevitable. The mix of excitement and apprehension on the bridge was palpable in the slightly rushed, too loud conversations going on. “This isn’t the main force, and some of those ships are bloody ancient — think the lead cruisers are that bizarre French design with the single massive main gun. Though I’ve no idea what in God’s name that monstrosity is.”
He lowered his glasses and pointed with the blade of his hand towards an odd, dumpy ship with twin big guns — probably twelve-inchers — in barbettes rather than turrets, one on each side.
Juneau smiled, obviously pleased to have more knowledge of at least some naval matters. “That’s the Chinyen — the Japanese took her from the Chinese a decade ago.” He patted the railing in front of him. “She’s not as … venerable as this girl, but nor is she new.”
“What an odd battle this will be — some of the most modern ships afloat, and any number of relics of the last century. I shouldn’t be surprised to see Victory herself come sailing into the fight.”
“Having the Third Division here is bad enough.” Juneau gestured to the four battleships that comprised a full third of their line of battle. “They shouldn’t even be at sea, let alone out of coastal waters, and while they do mount ten-inch guns they’ll still be out-ranged by the Japanese.”
“Flagship is hoisting a signal, Graf,” Koenig reported, and they turned all eyes forward. To an untrained eye or on paper, the Imperial Russian Pacific Fleet was grand enough, eleven battleships and nine cruisers along with a clutch of destroyers, armed merchantmen and dispatch boats. As Juneau had said, though, some of those battleships should have been scrapped years ago and were holding the fleet’s speed to less than ten knots when speed was the only thing that might have saved them.
They could just about make out of the hoist on Rozhestvensky’s flagship, offset as they were from the main line of battle. They dutifully waited for the signals to be passed down the line until their own ineffectual commanding admiral, Oskar Enkvist on the Oleg, repeated it.
Clear for action.
“Today is the anniversary of the Tsar and Tsarina’s coronation,” Juneau said, almost wistfully, then nodded decisively to Koenig. With Yefimov dead and Gorchakov strapped to his cot, raving and delusional (or so it was said), the young man was now Juneau’s deputy. “Mr Koenig, you may clear for action.”
“I’ll see to the secondary guns,” Baxter said.
Juneau stopped him as he turned, stuck out his hand. “Good luck.”
Baxter shook the proffered hand firmly. “To us all.”
Clearing for action had been a rush of activity and excitement. Non-essential items and personnel were struck down into the hold and ammunition for the cruiser’s armament was brought up to the ready lockers. The tompions, stoppers put into the gun muzzles to keep the barrels clean and dry, were pulled out. In the sickbay, Andropov and his two attendants laid out the gleaming instruments of their grisly trade. They weren’t at quarters so the crews didn’t assemble at their stations for combat, but in all other respects the ship was prepared for what was to come.
For a while at least, what was to come seemed to be the fleet continuing on its steady way. Rozhestvensky seemed to be ignoring the shadowing Japanese cruisers. There was little point chasing the fleet enemy ships, though. Short of some contrivance or cunning device they would not be able to bring the enemy to action. All the cruisers had to do was turn away until they were ready to offer battle. That would happen when their own battle line appeared.
Occasionally, a gum thumped, making everyone jump as the tension increased. The smattering of shots seemed to be skirmishing or accidental discharges, though, and
did not presage the general cannonade.
Vasily had appeared silently by Baxter’s side as the preparations began. He had long since stopped being his guard, but somehow had never returned to his own usual duties.
Baxter noticed preparations for some sort of ceremony on the foredeck. “What the devil’s going on there?” he asked.
“A mass will be celebrated. For the coronation.”
“Damned odd time to be having a church service,” Baxter grumbled.
Vasily shrugged, in that silently expressive way the Russian peasant had. It was a shrug that said it wasn’t his place to question such matters, but perhaps the eve of a fight wasn’t such a bad time to invoke a deity’s help. “You will not attend?”
“Never been much of a church-going man, Vasily, but you go ahead.”
Preparations for the service were stalled, however, by the sound of gunfire to the east. Everyone stopped in their tracks. Some stared upwards as they listened intently, others scanned to starboard. It wasn’t the encompassing thunder of a general action, though, but the sporadic crack of lighter guns. “A skirmish — probably our own lighter vessels driving off destroyers,” Baxter decided, then shooed the gun crews towards the foredeck as an announcement was made for all hands to muster for church. “Go, pray!”
He remained with the port battery, staring out towards the tail end of the Japanese cruiser line which was now keeping pace with the Russian ships. They were still miles away, and mostly all he could see was the dark smudge of their coal smoke. Juneau was still up on the bridge, over on the port wing and looking in the same direction as the sonorous tones of the Russian Orthodox priest got the service underway.
He heard a light footstep behind him, didn’t need to turn to see who it was. “Master Dunbar, you should be tending to the countess.”
“Ah wanted to see what was going on.”
Baxter lowered his glasses and turned. “I can’t blame you for that, but I need you to listen to me now. It’s going to get very, very dangerous on deck, particularly if we end up in the thick of it. Heavy shells are going to go straight through our sides and men are going to die. So you can stay on deck for now — I imagine her ladyship will want updates — but as soon as the fighting starts I want you below decks.” He saw the lad’s rebellious expression starting to take shape. “You need to look after the countess — it’ll be the most important job you can do.” That got through to him. “I want you to promise me, now — your word as a man that you’ll stay by her side.”
Tommy nodded jerkily, eyes like saucers. For the most part this had been a jolly jape for him. Baxter needed him to understand, though, that what was coming was no grand adventure.
“All right — off with you and tell Ekaterina what’s occurring.”
Baxter turned back to his watch-keeping. He was sweeping the sea when a small smoke cloud caught his eye; lean grey shapes beneath it on a closing course. “Destroyers on the port quarter!” he bellowed. “Closing fast!”
Juneau waved an acknowledgement, and a second later a bugle sounded from the bridge.
Action stations!
The three Japanese destroyers came on with great dash, slim rakish little vessels that stirred Baxter’s blood to see. “They’re probably probing,” he said, to no one in particular and mostly to himself. “They won’t try a full torpedo run in broad daylight.” The Russian lines would be a tempting target for a spread of torpedoes, but the fast light ships would be chewed up long before they got into range.
The Yaroslavich was deployed about a mile to the west of the main cruiser formation that brought up the rear of the fleet, there to warn of and spoil such an attack. Baxter wasn’t overly familiar with the Russian signalling system — he wasn’t trusted enough for that information — but he guessed the flags that had run smoothly aloft said something like ‘destroyers sighted’ and ‘am engaging the enemy’. Sure enough, the fore port six-inch gun spoke with a terrible roar, the long barrel crashing back into the barbette as it spat a long tongue of flame and smoke towards the Japanese ships. A moment later the aft port gun fired and he watched for the fall of shot.
Twin splashes rose ahead of the lead destroyer. “Short, but on the right line,” Baxter muttered. From the barbette pits he could hear the cadenced shouting of the gun crews reloading. The destroyers were already well within the range of the six-inchers — something for which the lookouts would have to be chastised for — and it wouldn’t be long until they were in range of the secondary batteries. The quick-firing 4.7-inch guns were designed for exactly this sort of close-in work, and he could tell their crews were chafing to open fire.
“Mr Baxter!” Koenig shouted down from the bridge. His next words were mostly swallowed by the crash of the main guns firing again, but he caught ‘at will’ and knew what he was being ordered to do.
He looked along the line of gun crews, their expectant faces turned to him. There were two guns next to each other, more or less amidships, and one fore and aft on the other side of the main gun barbettes. He stepped back until they could all see him. “Ready and lay your weapons! You may commence independent fire when Number Two gun fires!”
He stepped forward again. There was no point trying to co-ordinate broadsides against such small, fast-moving targets and he’d trained each gun crew to work independently. He crouched over the gunsight of the number two weapon. It was a simple enough sight, crude even, and his target bobbed up and down in the small magnified view. He had to think of it in that way, just a target, not a ship not so dissimilar to some he’d served on, crewed by people who may look different to him but were cut from the same cloth.
He stepped back and pulled the firing lanyard. The gun cracked, not as loud as the six-inch but still deafening, and a second later the rest of the battery fired. A moment later both the big guns fired at the same time and the lead destroyer disappeared in a cluster of waterspouts and spray — remarkably good shooting. A cheer went up from at least one of the bluejackets, dying as soon as the Japanese ship came flying out of the cloud, still intact but — seen through glasses at least — some damage obvious around the prow.
At that point the destroyers’ three-inch popguns opened up, the ships firing in turn as they veered away from the Russian line. They were at extreme range and primarily intended for killing torpedo boats. Only one shell came close enough for its spout to splash against the side of the cruiser, and then the destroyers were speeding out of range, chased by continued but ineffective Russian fire.
“Cease fire! Cease fire!” Baxter bellowed once it was clear the enemy ships were out of accurate range. He had no doubt that the Russian crews, with the bit between their teeth, would continue to expend ammunition uselessly. “Sponge and house your guns!”
The six-inchers gave the impudent little ships one more round each and desisted.
He looked along the line of gun crews. “Bloody good shooting, all of you! Certainly a step up from the North Sea!”
Grins answered his joke but he struggled to match them. The Yaroslavich had fired her first rounds of the battle, but he knew a long day lay ahead.
There was no warning when the battle commenced properly. The men had their lunch, with an extra tot of vodka in celebration of the auspicious day, and if it wasn’t for the silent and sullen presence of the enemy forces and the fact the ship was cleared for action, it could almost have been a normal day of steaming. Ever onwards, ever northwards. Conversation in the wardroom was desultory and Juneau, who normally drove the socialisation, was still on the bridge. Just after noon, the squadron turned onto its final heading, towards Vladivostok.
Baxter went to see Ekaterina in her cabin a little bit after that. She looked pale but defiant, sitting in a chair by the porthole so she could peer out. She smiled over her shoulder as Pavel let him in. “Mr Baxter, how delightful of you to visit,” she said, and he was shocked at how gaunt she had become since he’d last seen her. The seasickness must be taking a terrible toll on her.
“My l
ady. Do I find you well?”
She waved a hand languidly. “It seems I improve in the afternoons, and the firing of the guns earlier certainly stirred the blood. I take it we are not yet engaged fully?”
“We seem to have manoeuvring and skirmishing. I shall ask the captain to come down and tell you more.”
She reached out a hand to take one of his, pressing her lips to his knuckles. “That is kind of you, but I wouldn’t disturb him now.” She looked up at him, eyes large in her face. “I imagine he has asked you to look to my safety while this is all going on?”
He smiled. “Of course.”
She scowled. “I don’t need looking after,” she snapped, letting go of his hand then relenting. “I would ask you to do the same for me, and look after Juneau. The bridge is a terribly exposed place.”
He crouched next to her so he could look her in the eyes without her having to crane her head back. “I’ll do you a deal, Katya,” he said, voice deadly serious. “If I know you’re safe — as safe as you can be in the middle of a battle — I can focus entirely on keeping your husband out of harm’s way. As much as I can, in the middle of a battle. Tommy’ll stay with you.”
She glared at him, then sank back in her chair. “Very well,” she said almost petulantly, then sighed. “You are excellent for looking after people, Baxter, but you do not have anyone to — what is the expression? — watch your back.”
“There’s Vasily. And I’ve managed to make it to the ripe old age of twenty-six mostly by myself.”
She blinked at him in surprise. “You are barely halfway to thirty?”
“A lot of the men aboard are younger,” he said with a shrug. He’d never even wondered how old she was, though she looked barely older than himself. He rose. “I should return to my station,” he said gently. “Promise me you’ll go below. And keep Tommy with you — I don’t want him wondering around in a battle.”