Floating Madhouse

by Floating Madhouse

  Rojhestvensky took the squadron to sea on April 22nd, but as soon as de Jonquières in the Descartes was out of sight he turned north and entered another commodious bay, Van Phong. Unfortunately a little steamer which called there only once a month did so that same day, so the secret was out and the administrateur from Nahtrang arrived on May 2nd, having trekked overland to deliver notice to quit. Meanwhile Easter had been celebrated, on the 30th – services in all ships, eggs and cakes and a splendid evening meal at which Narumov and Sollogub were present on board Ryazan as Michael’s guests.

  Michael’s diary read:

  May 3: Sailed from Van Phong. De Jonquières present in cruiser Guichen – bigger than the Descartes. Warned that he’d be cruising down-coast to ensure departure was final and permanent.

  May 4: Re-entered Kamranh. Anchored in previous berth. Semaphore from Orel ‘Welcome back’. Comment by Radzianko, ‘No sharks here, either.’ Smirking, but no one taking notice. Sole purpose of the remark being to remind us all what an intrepid fellow he is. The tug Rus with Selyeznov in command is being sent with flagship’s assistant navigator (Nikolai Sollogub?) to investigate alternative bays (a) large enough to accommodate the squadron, (b) having no telegraph facility, (c) in which ships at anchor not visible from seaward. As they certainly are here. Defensive measures are as before – searchlights illuminating the entrance, destroyers patrolling outside (despite typhoon warning) and armed pinnaces/cutters patrolling inside. Reasonable: the whole world knows we’re here, Japs might well try sneak attack.

  May 6: Selyeznov returned, allegedly recommending Port Dayotte as suitable in all respects except not fully surveyed or charted.

  May 8: News by telegraph via Saigon that Nyebogatov passed Singapore 0400/5th. Rion, Zemchug, Dniepr and Izumrud despatched to meet him.

  Burmin argued in the wardroom that evening that it was a waste of coal. ‘Why meet him? Find his way here, can’t he?’

  ‘You have a point.’ Zakharov was dining with them. There was a French red wine, a Burgundy, which even out of jam-jars wasn’t bad. The trouble with reds, of course, was that in shipboard conditions they never got the rest they needed. ‘But if it’s going to take him a day or two to get here, and this Frenchman kicks us out again before that – might need the wireless link.’

  ‘It’s humiliating.’ Burmin again. ‘Harried from pillar to damn post!’

  ‘Petersburg’s doing, not ours. The admiral’s carrying out his orders as best he can, that’s all. If you want to fulminate at anyone, Pyotr Fedor’ich, revile Klado – and those members of the Naval Staff who’ve listened to him.’

  ‘They all must have, surely.’

  ‘I dare say. Toadying to—’ He’d checked, shaken his head. ‘Never mind.’

  Meaning, Michael realized, toadying to the Tsar – who, according to Sollogub, was one of Klado’s admirers.

  ‘When Nyebogatov does get here –’ this was Murayev – ‘d’you anticipate we’ll sail immediately, sir?’

  A shrug. ‘Can’t see what would keep us here. Except he’ll need to coal his ships and perhaps make repairs.’ Zakharov drained his glass. ‘I’m for my bunk. No – no brandy. Talking too much as it is. Goodnight, Pyotr Fedor’ich. Mikhail Ivan’ich…’ On their feet, moving together towards the door, Michael said quietly, ‘Prince Ivan must be one of those who’ve backed Klado.’

  ‘Don’t I know it. Don’t I know it.’ Voice up again: ‘Goodnight, gentlemen…’

  Radzianko was saying to Murayev: ‘So we’ll be off quite soon. At last – getting on with it!’

  ‘As you say – at last.’ Engineer Lieutenant Arkoleyev put down his jar. ‘Long enough bloody contemplating it, let’s get it over with!’

  ‘All bets placed.’ Paymaster Lyalin – ignoring the engineer’s mime of the cutting of his own throat. Shrugging his thin shoulders: thin-voiced too. ‘Rien ne va plus – huh?’

  ‘Reminds me.’ Burmin was trimming a cigar. ‘Who’s for baccarat?’

  * * *

  Michael, sleeping on deck – the flagdeck, a longer haul for Shikhin with his mattress, and under a blanket because even this close to the equator, twelve degrees north of it, the nights were still cool – was woken in the small hours by what he took to be the explosion of a signal rocket: which would have meant a ‘for exercise’ night alarm, such as the admiral had been fond of initiating, in earlier stages. One rocket meaning ‘for exercise’, a practice, two meaning the real thing, an attack on the ships in harbour. But what in the moment of waking seemed like that second crack of the alarm was in fact the start of a whole fusillade of rifle-fire. Shouts as well as shots were carrying across the slightly choppy water of the anchorage, and the outfall from searchlights was blinding, while nearer the bay’s entrance – astern, beyond the other cruisers, but close enough, in this location one was helping to shield the battleships from say torpedo-boat attack – a quick-firing gun had opened up. Four-pounder maybe: but only three, four rounds, then finished. Whatever it was was much closer at hand – and not easy to get a view, or even move, flagdeck and bridge filling rapidly with others blundering around straight out of sleep and shouting questions, as uninformed as he was. Zakharov too, bursting out of his cabin – in pyjamas, whereas Michael was in a singlet and once-white drill trousers – and Burmin leaping from his mattress in the forefront of the bridge, a quite startling apparition in a long nightshirt and a nightcap with a tassle on it.

  Michael had some sort of view of what had to be the scene of action now, from the starboard rail of the flag-deck; the Orel’s port side brightly though indirectly lit by searchlight beams reflected off the water, one could see men moving on her promenade deck: it had nothing to do with her though – something in the water between here and there – small boat? Didn’t seem to be any attack in progress, anyway. Hard to make out in all that dazzle – here, and from the barrage of light across the entrance. There was a boat of some kind, though – stopped now but must have come from – well, seaward. Ryazan and Orel and all the others were lying with their sterns towards the entrance: the way the ebbing tide had swung them. That boat – weighted over by a body humped over its gunwale on this side, closer to its bow than stern, and one oar cocked blade-up, the rower having collapsed across the loom of it. One could see much more clearly now the searchlight beams had shifted. The boat slowly turning – effect of wind on its up-slanting stern – as well as being carried seaward on the tide. And now – leaning out and looking to his left where a signalman was pointing, shouting in some language that wasn’t Russian – one of the guard-boats, steam pinnace, in sight fine on Ryazan’s bow. Having crossed it from port to starboard about half a cable’s length ahead? Under helm, and at about full speed, half a dozen men on its forepart crouching with rifles half up as if ready to fire again. You could visualize it now: as they’d cleared Ryazan’s bow they’d have spotted the boat coming apparently from seaward, the bay’s entrance; might have hailed it, might not – depending on what they’d thought it was – before opening fire. At sea-level there’d have been some dazzle-effect, in otherwise total darkness, from that searchlight barrier – low down there, could have been quite blinding. There was another boat in sight now though – steam-cutter - maybe Ryazan’s own, from her boom which was on the port side aft, not visible from here. It had rounded the stern and would get there before the other did. Would have been called away by the officer of the watch: duty boat on stand-by. Michael’s glasses were in the chartroom, hanging with Radzianko’s. Turning to go quickly for them, he came face to face with Burmin – the broad, heavily whiskered face under that silly-looking nightcap – protection of bald head from mosquitoes, maybe, although mosquitoes hadn’t been much in evidence in this place. Burmin glaring, wide-eyed: rasping, ‘God almighty, you don’t think—’

  Telepathy. One’s mind instantly jumping to the same – not conclusion, possibility. Resisting it just as instantly: that fat lump would be in there, snoring – on the couch he’d slept on in enviable comfort ever si
nce Dakar. Please God, he would… Wrenching at the door and shoving it open with a shoulder – it had always stuck a bit. Insisting or pleading – the words in one’s brain, maybe on one’s lips – he must be…

  Was not, though. As maybe for the last two or three seconds one had known he wouldn’t be. Burmin was there for a moment; then cursing, blundering back out, roaring, ‘Radzianko? Anyone seen Lieutenant Radzianko?’

  20

  Ryazan’s steam cutter had got to the skiff well ahead of the Borodino’s pinnace – from which the shots had been fired, killing Radzianko stone dead and splintering the washstrake and gunwale at the boat’s stem. The cutter’s crew had recognized the dead man and brought him back – in the skiff still, under tow – while the pinnace lay off until called alongside, for its coxswain to come on board and give his version of the events of the previous ten or fifteen minutes. Radzianko’s body had been carried into the quartermaster’s lobby and there inspected by Surgeon Lieutenant Baranov, who’d formally pronounced him dead – from a bullet in the back of his skull – while Padre Myakishev crouched beside him imploring the Lord to have mercy on his soul.

  Zakharov conducted an inquiry there and then, in the ship’s office. Ryazan’s steam cutter meanwhile taking over the guardboat duty. It was now two-forty, on the morning of May 9th. What was established first was that the skiff was Ryazan’s, had been secured at the boom from where Radzianko must have taken it without attracting the notice either of the officer of the watch (Michman Vortzin) and his gangway staff or of the sentry on the foc’sl, a seaman by name of Umnov – who admittedly had been some distance away, Ryazan’s length being four hundred and thirty-six feet. The sixteen-foot skiff was one of the boats that had been in sporadic use scraping the ship’s waterline; it was a sailing skiff but had no mast shipped or any other gear – even rudder – other than a pair of oars and two shovels. Radzianko, in shirt and trousers, barefoot, must have crept out along the flat-topped boom, climbed down the dangling white-painted wooden-runged rope ladder, cast off and allowed the tide to take the boat clear of the ship’s stern before he took up oars and started rowing. Whether he’d got to the Orel or not – to her boom, which was aft on her starboard side, would have meant pulling across the strong tide and then turning up into it after rounding her stern, or whether he’d only got out to some point between the two ships where he’d been combatting the tide, or trying to, when the guardboat crossing Ryazan’s bow had come in sight of him – mistaking the skiff for a torpedo-boat or surfaced submarine coming in from outside – with that curtain of light behind it, to the pinnace’s crew it would have been no more than a dark something powering in, having to pass through the cruiser anchorage to reach the battleships, which would have been any incursor’s first choice of target…

  ‘Were you able to see which way it was moving – left to right, or right to left?’

  The guardboat’s coxswain, a Petty Officer Mrakvintsev from the Borodino, shook his close-shaven head. ‘Bashing straight in, your honour. Stern to the searchlights at the entrance. None of us doubted that’s where it come from.’

  ‘Don’t you think it would have been spotted in that lighted entrance?’

  ‘Could’ve been a submarine, your honour, surfaced when it was inside like.’

  ‘Yes. It could. But as we now know, wasn’t. The question is whether he’d come from this ship or from the Orel.’

  ‘Does it matter, sir?’

  Michael, quietly: Zakharov glancing at him – in surprise at first, then getting the point. He’d asked Michael to be present as one who’d spent a lot of time with Radzianko, especially in the bridge and chartroom.

  ‘Perhaps not. Indeed. Since there was no alarm given from – any other ship. And no complaint laid now – so presumably no sort of incident on board. No – I dare say it may not.’

  There was a degree of urgency in any case. First, a signal from Suvarov asking what the shooting and searchlight display had been about, and second, some unintelligible signal had been intercepted at midnight addressed to the Nikolai I from the Vladimir Monomakh, both of them belonging to Nyebogatov’s contingent. The Nikolai was in fact Nyebogatov’s flagship, and the Monomakh an armoured cruiser which had started life under sail. The message had been unreadable because of poor reception by the Slaby-Arco W/T gear, but still suggested they couldn’t be all that far distant – although nothing had been heard from the four ships who’d been sent out to meet them.

  Zakharov was going to have to report on this Radzianko affair to Rojhestvensky in any case; and since it looked as if they’d be weighing anchor not long after first light, the sooner the inquiry was concluded the better.

  ‘So what we have is this.’ Zakharov was making a pencil sketch of it on a signal-pad. ‘Ryazan here. Orel here on her quarter. Radzianko must have taken the skiff from the boom here – for whatever reason, which is not established – found the ebb carrying him away as soon as he cast off, and it was more than he could cope with. He was not in very good condition – would you say?’

  Baranov concurred. ‘Overweight, sir. I believe you told him to eat less or take more exercise – he mentioned it when I made a similar observation. Which was when he started his morning dips, as he called them, in shark-infested waters.’

  ‘In any case, he wasn’t up to it. He was stemming the tide, very likely pulling as hard as he could, when you – Mrakvintsev – crossed our bows and spotted what you thought was an enemy infiltrating from seaward and at speed – which in the tideway I concede it would have looked like – and you opened fire. In accordance with your orders, and incidentally with impressive accuracy.’

  ‘Couple of them lads, Sprokin and Kollyayev, is real marksmen, your honour.’

  Radzianko’s good luck, Michael thought. Far better dead than wounded – than unharmed, even. Radzianko in one of the Suvarov’s punishment cells would have been neither a pretty sight nor a happy man. Zakharov, who’d been sitting on the paymaster’s desk, was on his feet, pocketing the pencil sketch.

  ‘All right. Deeply regrettable as it is, the circumstances are clear enough. Despite the tragic outcome, Mrakvintsev, I’ll recommend that your prompt and effective action should be recognized. If it had been an enemy, as you had reason to believe, you’d have scuppered him.’

  ‘Very much obliged, your honour. But I’m very, very sorry—’

  ‘He should not have been where he was. A somewhat eccentric character, of course. But that’s all there is to it.’ A nod. ‘Your pinnace is lying-off, isn’t it, so – carry on, please. Pyotr Fedor’ich, wait a minute. You too, Mikhail Ivan’ich. Padre…’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘You had something to tell us.’

  ‘To tell you, sir. A matter very personal to the deceased.'

  ‘These two officers can hear it. Both have concerned themselves with him, to some extent. As I have – and if I’m to write to his father – as I must—’

  ‘That’s very much the point, captain.’ Sad brown eyes wandered from face to face: then glanced at the door, and Burmin moved to push it shut. Myakishev thanked him with an inclination of the head, told them, ‘Viktor Vasil’ich confided to me some weeks ago that he had become estranged from his family. Some misdemeanour which had been attributed to him – unjustly, I do believe.’ A sniff. Dabbing at his nose and eyes with a dirty-looking cloth from his sleeve. ‘His father had forbidden him the house and was taking steps to disinherit him. This was when he volunteered – indeed, made determined efforts to join the squadron. He managed to get an introduction to Captain Clapier de Colongue, who at first regretted there was no vacancy for a navigator, then—’

  ‘Passed him on to me when my own choice of navigator got himself crippled by a horse. Padre, this explains a great deal. Thank you.’

  ‘Burial—’

  ‘Probably at sea. I’ll let you know. Today even, or tomorrow. But in the circumstances as you describe them I shall not write to his family. Since we’re virtually certain to be going into b
attle very soon now.’ A glance at Burmin, who nodded. Zakharov looked at Michael. ‘However it turns out, we’re not likely to get off scot-free. Could be dozens of fathers and mothers to write to. That is, for someone to write to. Uh?’

  * * *

  Narumov came on board before it was fully light. There’d been a collision the evening before between two of the destroyers, the Bezuprechny and the Grozhny, both of which had put into Port Dayotte, and another destroyer currently outside on defensive patrol was going to take him there to assess the degree of damage and organize repairs. Ryazan was handy for him as a stopover while waiting for this other one to come in, and he and Michael shared an early breakfast in the otherwise empty wardroom. Zakharov had already gone over to the flagship: and Narumov was eager to know about the shooting in the early hours. It might in fact have been what he’d come for, he could just as easily have waited on board Suvarov – and Michael told him it had been nothing, a trigger-happy guardboat shooting at – ‘God knows, Pavel Vasil’ich. The moon, perhaps.’

  ‘The moon set early last night. Midnight or not long after.’

  ‘Nonsense. You’re fabricating. There was cloud-cover for an hour or two, but—’

  ‘There was no moon on the night those others were engaged in funny business with one of the young ladies from the Orel, either – when we were off Gabon.’

  ‘You think that’s in some way relevant?’

  A snort. Reaching for the bowl of sour cream. ‘If it’s not, where’s your friend Radzianko?’

  ‘Why? D’you want to see him?’

  ‘Cagey swine. They say, don’t they, when an Englishman’s taking pains to look sincere, watch your back?’

  ‘Who says that?’

  ‘Why, everyone! Throughout history!’