‘In that respect –’ Rojhestvensky explained, still beaming down at him – ‘we can only thank the Lord that he made the entrance of the bay more than six miles wide, and that between the inshore stretches of Portuguese territorial waters – the neutrality of which is, of course, sacred to me – he has placed this piece of sea, open and accessible to all. What’s more, as you can see, we’ve started coaling. So, appreciative as I am of the courtesy of your visit…’
From the gangway head he’d waved the man goodbye, and as it went chuffing off down the line of battleships – the Alexander, Oryol, Borodino and Oslyabya – the little ship was jeered on its way, making about ten knots in the direction of Benguela.
Coaling was completed by noon on the 7th, and by dusk the squadron was reformed and on its way to Angra Pequena – alias Luderitz Bay – German territory where Rojhestvensky was sure of a warm welcome. The weather on the other hand was less certain, varying day by day from calm and clear to rough and windy, wind directions shifting constantly; by the time the squadron reached latitude twenty-seven south and turned in to close the land a force eight gale was blowing from the south-south-west, with a heavy sea pounding straight into the bay. The battleships none the less clawed their way in and anchored. They’d had a hard time of it, especially when turning for the run inshore, having in the course of it to turn beam-on to wind and sea, unstable to start with and in those fraught minutes rolling really dangerously; then with their sterns into the force of it, every few minutes being ‘pooped’ – seas sweeping over them from astern to rush for’ard white and heavy, smashing and pluming up against obstructions such as ventilators, funnels and the bridge superstructure. The Ryazan in her turn had been pretty well over on her ear; bridge staff clinging to stanchions or other fittings, Michael himself wondering at each really bad roll whether she’d roll back again. Mental images of loose coal shifting, smashing the flimsy, temporary barriers to pile massively on one side or the other and weigh her over. All you’d need… Clinging on with that picture in mind – a calamity that could strike at any minute – and not a damn thing anyone could do about it: Michael grinning ruefully at the michmen’ris taut faces and wide eyes, conveying to them that it wasn’t all that unusual – scary, of course, but nothing one hadn’t been through a dozen times before.
The battleships were inside, anyway – not that with the wind where it was they’d be getting much shelter in there, wouldn’t be able to lower any boats for instance – but cruisers and transports were to remain outside, anchor and ride it out. With limited room inside – in the western part the harbour being divided by a spur of rock which hid this end from the eastern part where the German settlement was located – and the colliers in there already, while in conditions like these the hazards of manoeuvring in restricted spaces were obvious – well, it made sense. Of a kind, anyway, since one had to economize on precious coal, although in more normal circumstances the seaman-like option would have been to stay out at sea rather than anchor this close off a lee shore. Steam had to be kept up anyway, in case of anchor-dragging – which Ryazan seemed to be doing her best to achieve, wrenching and tugging at her cable, bucking like a frightened horse. She was the farthest out, with Enqvist’s Nachimov, Donskoi and Aurora astern of her. Quite distant from the shore therefore, and stuck here as long as the gale lasted. The Orel had left them, incidentally, continuing on course for Cape Town where as a hospital-ship she couldn’t be classified as a belligerent and the girls would be given a welcome break from seafaring. She’d be rejoining the squadron later. The rest of the transports were anchored quite randomly half a mile south of the cruisers; they looked from here like abandoned, storm-swept wrecks.
At about seven in the evening Michael was in the bridge – watches were being kept as they were at sea except that one didn’t need assistant OOWs – when a signal was made by the admiral to all captains, telling them that (1) there was no intention of trying to coal until the gale had blown itself out, (2) the squadron had been welcomed by this territory’s German governor, who had no objection to their remaining as long as might be necessary, and (3) a consignment of mail which had been brought up from Cape Town would be delivered to ships when it had been sorted and distribution was physically possible.
Zakharov came from his cabin to show the signal to Michael. He was having a copy sent down to the wardroom and another put on the notice-board outside the ship’s office.
‘You’ll be getting your letter from England, perhaps. Those newspaper cuttings.’
‘If any of it could have got to Cape Town…’
‘If it had been sent via the agency in Odessa, it could. There are regular passenger services with which Gunsburg would be familiar, and plenty of steamers returning northward calling at all these places.’
‘Do you make use of Gunsburg?’
‘For private correspondence, yes.’
‘From Moscow?’
‘How did you know my family home’s in Moscow?’
‘Prince Igor must have mentioned it. In fact he did, didn’t he, in his speech introducing you – mentioned your father’s bank – or banks…’
‘You’re quite right.’ Expressionless sideways glance. He was in oilskins, as Michael was – protection against the spray that burst up several times a minute from the Ryazan’s plunging bow and lashed over even at this height, at times quite heavily. Zakharov nodded. ‘He made a big issue of my family’s business interests, didn’t he. Referred to my father as “one of Moscow’s most eminent merchant princes”.’ A snort. ‘How was that for condescension? Well – it’s the truth, but the way he said it – nobody could have missed the point that he was admitting to his own people that mine are kupechestvi.’
Kupechestvo meaning merchant class. One grade up from merchantsvi – shopkeepers and artisans. Every passport carried such a designation. Minor government officials and junior officers were chinovniki, and the nobility were the dvorianstvo. Michael said, ‘It’s not a system I’ve grown up with as all of you have. But incidentally, Prince Igor did make a point of telling me that your father – and grandfather, am I right? – were highly successful and extremely rich.’
‘It’s his sole interest in having me marry his daughter, that’s why. After that explanation he’d have expected you to approve, that’s why he told you. Explaining the whole business. Didn’t you realize that?’
‘The way I heard it, you came to Prince Ivan’s attention on the strength of your service in the Black Sea.’ Michael ducked – they both did – avoiding a bathful of flying green sea. It had to be gusting force ten now, he guessed. Straightening, spitting salt down-wind… ‘Prince Ivan, surely—’
‘I served under him – and achieved some success, yes – but I’d been eligible for promotion for quite some time and I wasn’t about to get it then either. In fact I doubt very much whether if I’d not been the only son of this quote merchant prince unquote – as well as seeing which side of my bread had butter on it, for God’s sake – after Prince Ivan had of course suggested me to his uncle as a candidate for princely favour – huh?’
‘You’re being very frank, Nikolai Timofey’ich.’
‘I can be – can’t I?’ That hard stare: glittering eyes in deep holes in the wooden face running wet. ‘With impunity?’
‘If you mean I’d respect your confidence – of course.’
‘None of it’s news to you, in any case. Or to anyone else – least of all Natasha Igorovna. Correct?’
‘I suppose she’d have guessed—’
‘Damn right she would have!’ Gritting this through his teeth. ‘And her mother, and the rest of ’em! Man has no background, only a pot of gold – or will have – and what more do we want than that, we Volodnyakovs!’
‘Two comments, Nikolai Timofey’ich. One, Tasha herself would never think that way. Two, on your own two feet you must have great prospects in the navy – irrespective of—’
‘Wrong. Without the Volodnyakov influence I was a satisfactory work-hors
e, nothing more – and I’d be that again, believe me!’ Hugging the binnacle, gazing at the end-on, tossing shapes of the cruisers astern of them, and farther beyond them the backdrop of seething white, the ocean spouting where it flung itself against sand and rock. Back to Michael then: ‘When did you last check the anchor-bearings?’
* * *
He wrote to Tasha, in the wardroom after breakfast:
I have my fingers crossed that within a few hours of writing this I may have a letter from you. Or even two or three! We’re anchored outside a bay in German Southwest Africa; the big ships have gone inside but we’ve stayed out here because it’s blowing hard and manoeuvring in that confined and crowded space would be difficult. The purpose of stopping here is once more to fill up with coal, but again, while the wind’s this strong the colliers couldn’t berth alongside; so we have just to sit it out. And meanwhile we’ve been told by signal that there’s a quantity of mail on shore, brought here in a steamer coming north from Cape Town; and the highly frustrating thing is that until the weather improves no mail or anything else can be brought out to us. All I can say is that I’m trying not to bite my nails. It can’t blow like this for ever, though, and when mail can be brought out it can also be landed – this dull letter with it – so I’ll add to it from time to time and append some sort of reply to whatever I get from you. Please God there’ll be something!
This was December 12th. It blew hard all day and throughout the night, but by dawn on the 13th was easing up, and at five a.m, the battleships began coaling by means of launches under tow from steam pinnaces and cutters. A slow, tedious and back-breaking business, with the boats always in danger of being crushed alongside the ships. But the Rus managed to come out during the forenoon with the promised mail; each of the cruisers in turn gave her a lee by using their screws to swing, still anchored, across the direction of wind and sea, the tug then closing in on the sheltered side to pass a line and then a taut wire for setting-up between jackstays, the mail sacks then being hauled across. The wire was backed-up by hand, at this end passing through a snatch-block on the jackstay, three or four seamen maintaining and/or relaxing the tension on it as ship and tug both rolled. It had to be done just right or you’d be in trouble: snap the wire or let a sack dip into the sea – huge strain then on the wire as well as the mail soaked, maybe lost. Michael watched the sacks come over: with considerable relief as each was received in the cruiser’s waist. The wire then being cast off and hauled in and the tug as it were spinning on her heel, dancing out of that partial shelter and heading for the transports, fighting like a gamefish over and through the sea’s white-sheeting ridges.
Half an hour later he had two letters in his hands, both addressed to him – by Jane – in care of the Gunsburg agency. Posting dates smudged, illegible: so open them, then take them in date order. But on second thoughts, not in here, in the crowded wardroom: glancing round it, his eyes lingering on the sick-looking parrot which a michman had brought on board at Gabon. Might have done worse, at that: there were parakeets and monkeys on the messdecks, even a snake or two, and in the Oryol apparently a small herd of goats. He told Radzianko, ‘Going up to read these in the chartroom.’
‘Good idea.’ A shrewd glance at the letters in Michael’s hands. He had a few of his own, had just ripped one open. ‘I might join you.’
Jane had written in mid-November, in a letter that had no enclosure from Tasha in it:
I think you and your princess must be writing to each other behind my back. I’ve had nothing from her for ages and I’m sure she can’t have fallen completely silent. I had the one you wrote from Spain – in which you told me you were writing directly to her – but by now I’d have thought there’d have been one or two from her. Entirely your own business, I just want you to know I’m not neglecting my duties here, anything that does come in will go out! Yes, I’ll also send you any cuttings relating to the crazy enterprise you’re engaged in, but so far I’ve collected only this small snippet which doesn’t concern you directly but does suggest all is not exactly tickety-boo back there on the home front. In fact if they’re getting down to their peasant rioting again one can only hope that your beloved is safe wherever she is. As regards newspaper reports in general though
He broke off to read the cutting:
Troop Moves Spark Riots In Moscow. The call-up and treatment of reservists has led to trouble in several Russian cities. The worst incidents appear to have taken place in Moscow when a detachment of over a thousand reservists were passing through the city on board a train. Most of the men were more or less drunk. They left the station and tried to break into the state liquor shops and restaurants. Police were called out and some shots fired.
On the back of the cutting was a report from the USA headlined Roosevelt Romps Back To Power and continuing,
President Roosevelt won a full four-year lease on the White House today, carrying most of the northern and western states in the presidential elections. Democrat Alton B. Parker, his challenger, sent the president a telegram, congratulating him on his overwhelming victory. In a statement issued from
Finish. Back to Jane:
newspaper reports in general though, my difficulty is that I can’t cut great swathes out of The Times before your esteemed brother has finished with it, and quite often he peruses it in fits and starts over a period of several days and it then disappears. So I’ve had a brainwave of which I hope you’ll approve when the results start coming in. My nephew William has a project going at school which concerns the Russo-Jap war and I’m getting him to hang on to whatever bits and pieces might be relevant. For his background information – they have to write essays and so forth – he’s mainly using the Daily Telegraph – but anyway it’s up to him. As you know he’s hoping to become a naval cadet in about a year’s time – which I suppose is why he chose this subject out of several alternatives – he admires you tremendously and is apparently only too pleased to have been asked to do this. Whatever he sends me that makes sense I’ll forward to you right away – oh, and Mary says she’ll arrange to get the Telegraph as well as The Times so that he can carry on with it during the Christmas holiday. She thinks it’s probably good for him to have something like this to keep him out of mischief.
I wonder where you’ve got to now, where this will reach you. I do hope the outlook for Rogersvosky isn’t as bad as most people seem to think. Because we really do want you back here with us one of these days, dear Mick –– with, let us hope (for your sake), your princess. Incidentally, having recruited young William, I’ve had to tell George and your mother (to whom you really should have written by this time!) that you and I are in touch. I had a note from you giving this Gunsburg as a forwarding address and asking for any newspaper reports etc. I sent it on to William so as to make clear what was wanted, and William now says it wasn’t enclosed with my letter – so it’s lost and gone for ever, just like my darling Clementine.
He thought, having finished that one and slid it back into its envelope, what amazingly competent liars some women were. All right when such arts were employed in one’s own good cause – in fact splendid – but that couldn’t always be the case, and by God one should remember it, keep a weather eye lifting and one’s wits about one. This dodge of Jane’s, for instance – neither Mama nor brother George would doubt her for a moment, she simply knew at the drop of a hat how to be disarmingly convincing… He glanced over her slightly later communication – a note with which she’d enclosed this one from Tasha – and was about to switch to Tasha’s when Radzianko arrived, squeezing in sideways through the narrow doorway.
‘All well at home, I trust?’
‘Not at your home, it isn’t.’ Pointing at the clipping about rioting reservists: and keeping Tasha’s letter folded so that his deceptively casual gaze wouldn’t pick up the Cyrillic script. Radzianko had picked up the slip of newsprint though.
‘What calumny is this?’
Michael gave him a paraphrased Russian version. Radziank
o, dumping himself at the other end of the couch, grimaced. ‘Destroy it, don’t you think?’
‘When I’ve shown it to the skipper. He’s asked to see any such items. I hope to be getting quite a lot, eventually – anything about ourselves and Port Arthur and so on. But excuse me…’
Tasha had written,
We have just returned from a visit to St Petersburg, which was made as a concession to my father; Mama thought it would be tactful to spend a week or two up there with him. Michael darling, before we left I had the letter you wrote from that Spanish port; didn’t have time to reply to it but was overjoyed at getting it, kissed it so often that it almost fell apart. I like to imagine that I can smell you, taste you, on your letters – your skin, your kisses. Oh yes, it’s just as bad as it ever was! And having returned yesterday from Petersburg, I have the letter from Morocco which tells me that you were then on board the Ryazan so I can no longer write to you directly but only through Jane in England. Darling, I do so hope you’re well and not too sad and lonely and that you’ll manage to get along with Z. It’s really an extraordinary situation, isn’t it? I’m dying to hear what he says to you and what you say to him about me and his dealings with my father – who I must tell you questioned me more than once about my feelings for you, emphasizing that I had no option but to accept Z and therefore must suppress and reject such other inclinations, which would amount to no more than howling at the moon. Hello, lovely moon! I had to be cagey of course; although I admitted that I love you and only you. He knows it, so I would be stupid not to admit it. He knows what happened that night too – despite your attempt to ‘brazen it out’, as he chose to phrase it. He challenged me with ‘When Nikolai Timofey’ich returns, having played his part in securing victory over those damn monkeys—’ and I interrupted with ‘Who can say with certainty they won’t defeat us?’ Because I may as well tell you, people are saying that the war out there is already more than half lost. Port Arthur won’t hold out and your ships, having no base, will be forced to turn back. And for you and me, what could be better? I don’t want you to risk being killed out there, my darling! You won’t be, God wouldn’t be so cruel, it’s only a nightmare one has to put out of mind whenever, in the small hours of the morning, it creeps in and one wakes in terror. I replace it, smother it – let me tell you this too – with thoughts of you in the most totally physical sense – the feel of you, closeness of you, what it does to me – and your hands, my darling lover – not mine, yours! About my father, though – he was furious at what I’d said, shouted at me, ‘Zakharov will return in a blaze of glory and you’ll marry him whether or not your pipsqueak Englishman also survives! You’ll simply do as you’re told, my girl!’
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