Floating Madhouse

by Floating Madhouse

  ‘Have you been overworking, Pavel?’

  ‘Certainly I have. I work twice as hard as anyone else in Suvarov, I can tell you!’ He shrugged. ‘Except perhaps for the admiral – at certain times, when he hardly eats or sleeps – and our captain. He’s magnificent – you know?’

  ‘Ignatzius. In what way? I like him, certainly – jolly sort of fellow, but—’

  ‘No “but” about it. He lives life to the full and he believes implicitly in Almighty God and all the saints. How is this all to end? he asks. For me personally – or for any or all of us – what, a shell, torpedo, poison gases, wounds, suffocation, drowning? We’ll do our duty, that’s all, the rest is in His hands, he says. And laughs – you know? While on one thing he’s deadly serious, insists absolutely – when he’s telling his second-in-command and senior lieutenants who’ll succeed to the command when he himself is killed, he says, “If this ship’s going to sink, so be it, let her damn well sink but before she does just see to it the admiral’s moved elsewhere. Without him, we’d be lost, he’s the one who’ll get us through all this – our mainspring, huh? So you lads look after him, cherish him, eh?” And he means it – doesn’t even crack a smile!’

  ‘I do remember he laughed a lot.’

  ‘He’s a man who loves life and through his faith does not fear death. That’s his secret.’

  ‘Do you fear death, Pavel?’

  ‘I don’t have time to think about it. I suppose if I did have, I would… What about you, though – who don’t need to be here at all? Why are you? An Englishman, God’s sake!’

  ‘I am here, that’s all. Was here, and – stayed on. Tell me – how’s Flagmansky?’

  ‘Well, that’s another thing – he’s very much the captain’s dog, now. Follows him everywhere – even stays with him on the bridge! Infuriates the admiral when he parks his great turds up there – they have to keep a shovel handy, follow him around. Skipper just about splits his sides whenever it happens – when the admiral’s anywhere near he has to stuff his handkerchief into his mouth to stifle it. I hear these things from Nikolai Sergei’ich, I might say.’

  ‘Sollogub.’

  ‘Sollogub, indeed. Our good friend the count. Spends most of his waking life on the bridge – keeps his ear to the wind too. Have you heard yet, by the way, that Admiral Felkerzam has had a stroke, they aren’t sure he’ll recover?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry. Not that I’ve ever met him.’

  ‘Keep this to yourself, Mikhail Ivan’ich. If he dies, Zenovy Petrovich has decreed that his flag in the Oslyabya is not to be struck. His spirit will sail on. Nikolai Sergei’ich has a suspicion that it may be because the next senior in succession would be Nyebogatov – whom as a matter of principle our Zenovy detests, of course.’

  ‘Command would pass to a dead man, then?’

  A shrug. ‘Could be in worse hands, couldn’t it?’

  Narumov wasn’t on board for long; the torpedo-boat Bodry which had been detailed to take him to Port Dayotte came in from sea at about six, lay between Ryazan and Orel while he was transferred to her by whaler, then backed out, turned and headed for the entrance at about twenty-five knots, fortunately well enough over to starboard to avoid collision with the Guichen which, under an enormous French ensign and with Rear-Admiral de Jonquières on board, came forging in at the same time, pitching over the rollers created in the entrance by the speeding destroyer’s bow-wave. The Frenchman was anchored close to Suvarov by six-thirty, and within a few minutes Suvarov diplomatically – or pusillanimously, some might have said – hoisted the signal to weigh anchor. Cables were already being shortened-in when Ryazan’s steam cutter left the flagship and chuffed under the Guichen’s stern on its way back to drop Zakharov at his own gangway, the boat then being swung aboard on the main derrick, which under Burmin’s direction had been trained out ready and waiting for it. The whaler was simultaneously being hoisted, other boats including the damaged skiff already inboard in their respective davits. The cable’s rhythmic clanking ceased as Zakharov reached the quarterdeck and Burmin saluted him, taking his cue from that cessation of sound: ‘Shortened-in, sir, cable’s up and down.’

  ‘Very well. Weigh anchor.’

  He went straight up to the bridge. From that wooden face of his you couldn’t tell how it had gone between him and the admiral. Burmin went on up after him, having sent a messenger running for’ard with that order to Vetrov. The capstan began turning again, cable links crashing as regularly as drumbeats over the rim of the hawse. Michael was on the bridge, ready to perform any of Radzianko’s functions if he should be called upon to do so. To be going on with, he had the chart of this stretch of coast ready on the bridge chart-table, with all essential adjuncts. Meeting Nyebogatov was obviously to be the primary objective, but then what? Back to Kamranh, or to one of the other bays, while the new arrivals fuelled?

  Zakharov, arriving in the bridge, looked round for Michael – beckoned to him; Burmin arriving at the same time, moving to the forefront, megaphone in hand, to glare down over the glass screen at the cable party on the foc’sl. Zakharov telling Michael quietly, ‘The admiral offered me a replacement for Radzianko from one of the three navigating officers he has on his staff. He said he’d be delighted to get rid of one. I told him I already had one. Was I right?’

  ‘I’m honoured, sir.’

  ‘Good. I was taking a bit of a chance, but –’ a nod – ‘yes, good.’

  ‘Want me to take her out, sir?’

  ‘No, I’ll do it. But – thank you. I hope you won’t regret it.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t, sir.’

  ‘Anchor’s aweigh!’

  Burmin looked back, checking that his skipper had heard that. And now the next report in natural sequence: ‘Clear anchor!’

  ‘Slow ahead port. Port five.’

  Telegraphs clanging, quartermaster reporting via the voicepipe, ‘Five of port wheel on, sir!’ Zakharov telling Burmin, ‘Burial at sea this forenoon. On our own – we’ll be leaving the squadron while we do it. In the circumstances as he chooses to see them, the admiral does not favour gun salutes or half-masting ensigns – which we’ll do of course, also turn out the guard and band. Pass the word to Myakishev, will you – and to the bosun – and Murayev and Warrant Officer Lodchikov.’

  For the guard and band, presumably: and for Bosun Feklenko to put the sailmaker to work – if he hadn’t already – sewing Radzianko’s body up in canvas with a weight of iron in it to make sure it sank. Sharks might get him after all, Michael thought – if they were attracted and hungry enough to bite through canvas on the sea-bed. Which they wouldn’t if they didn’t get a good whiff of blood. Might depend on where you dropped him, into what depth of water. But while this wasn’t anything like the Mocambique Channel or Gabon, there’d surely be a few around. He asked Zakharov, ‘All right if I go and square things off in the chartroom, sir?’

  A nod. ‘If I want you I’ll yell for you.’

  Since it was his job now, he’d have it organized his way. Charts from here to Vladivostok to be ready to hand, others that were only cluttering the place up to be replaced in their folios. Check through the East Coast of China folio in case any were missing – if so, they might be replaced from one of the transports, or Suvarov, or – wherever. There were various routes to Vladivostok anyway: Rojhestvensky might choose to keep clear of the Korea Strait, pass instead through either the Tsugaru – between Nippon and Yezo – or through La Perouse between Yezo and Sagalien. Michael hadn’t studied the charts, had only heard Zakharov and Radzianko discussing the alternatives. He did know, of course, that the Korea Strait was the shortest, most direct route, also the one most likely – even virtually certain – to be blocked by Togo’s fleet. Or mined. Or both… On his way to the chartroom, he saw the chief yeoman whip his telescope up to his eye, bawling after a few seconds, ‘Signal from Flag to us, sir – our pendants – Proceed in accordance with previous orders.’ He broke off, shouting to his team on the flagdeck, ‘Answeri
ng pendant close-up!’ Zakharov had stooped to the pipe again: ‘Midships the wheel.’ Straightening then, telling the young seaman at the telegraphs, ‘Half ahead together.’

  * * *

  You could forget Tsugara. Too narrow by far, especially for this armada. And checking in the sailing directions, a swift and dangerous tidal stream. Meaning it would be liable to reverse its direction at the drop of a hat, so captains and navigators would need to be very much on their toes. You’d also by then have steamed right round Japan – around Kiushiu and Honda, by the grace of God undetected – and would have had to stop and coal somewhere; which might pose its own problems. Much the same applied to La Perouse, a fairly tricky passage – or it would be at any rate for Second Squadron-type ship-handlers – between Capes Krilon and Soya – after getting through the Kuriles, incidentally, with a particularly hazardous pinnacle of rock smack in the middle and steep-to so you’d get no warning from soundings: and this in an area notorious for thick fogs clamping down unexpectedly ‘especially in Spring’.

  Korea Strait, therefore, or Tsushima Strait – the difference between which was only a matter of whether you passed east or west of Tsushima Island. Unless Rojhestvensky was right out of his mind, this – either/or – would be his choice. Despite its being where Togo would expect him: despite also the proximity of Japanese naval bases. Sasebo being virtually on the Tsushima Strait, and Nagasaki only a few miles further south. Kure and Kobé on the so-called ‘inland sea’ would be construction and refitting bases mainly, he wouldn’t have any of his fighting squadrons cooped up in there now.

  But on the other side – the Korean side – Masampo, and Fusan. And only slightly further north, on the Japanese coast, Matsuru.

  Maybe one was a damn fool to be here? Not – until now – seeing wood for trees, or vice versa? Ladies in Wiltshire and Yalta having a clearer overall view of the odds against?

  What he’d come into the chartroom for, anyway – five minutes was all it took. Making sure everything was where he wanted it – that if Zakharov called for a certain chart for instance, he’d be able to produce it instantly. And dividers, parallel rule, sharpened pencils all handy in the rack. Sextant clean and dry, star-globe in its box, chronometer and deckwatch making sense and synchronized, navigational log up to date – at least, up to sunset yesterday. Poor, sad bastard: and that was a point which had sprung to mind earlier – what Myakishev had said about his being alienated from his family: remembering that he’d said he was writing to the father of the young man – Nelidov – who’d dropped dead while coaling at Dakar. A shot at wedging his fat knees under that table?

  * * *

  The Second Squadron’s smoke was a spreading stain in the sky to the southeast when Ryazan hove-to for the committal of her former navigator to the deep. Lieutenant Vetrov had been left on the bridge as officer of the watch; down aft here were Myakishev in his robes, officers and men in their Number One white uniforms – officers wearing swords – an honour guard of a dozen men with rifles, and the six-man band with its highly polished instruments. Zakharov had told his officers in the wardroom, ‘I don’t want gossip passing around the squadron. Some of you may think you know what was in Viktor Vasil’ich’s mind, but all we know for certain is he unwisely cast off in the skiff with no idea of the tide’s strength and found himself in trouble. He did not visit any other ship; whether it was in his mind to do so – as I say, we don’t know, therefore have no reason to assume it. My own belief is that he was acting on my own as well as Dr Baranov’s suggestion that he should take more exercise; and since he knew we’d be sailing at first light or thereabouts, with probably no further chance of shore leave – well, his judgement was certainly at fault, he may have had more brandy than he should have.’ A shrug. ‘End of story.’ Burmin had asked him while the ship’s company were assembling, ‘Is that what you told the admiral, sir?’

  ‘What else could I have told him?’

  ‘But he wasn’t swallowing it?’

  ‘He has much larger problems facing him. There’s the immediate one.’ Pointing southeast, where to the right – south – of the squadron’s smoke there was another, smaller stain on the horizon.

  ‘Nyebogatov…’

  ‘As you say. But this business he’s left to me. Ryazan business, not squadron business.’

  Burmin called the ship’s company to attention and told them what they were here for. Then – at ease and off caps; and Zakharov to Myakishev: ‘Carry on, Padre.’ The canvas-wrapped body was on a plank right aft with four michmen standing by it. Myakishev intoned the customary prayers and delivered a brief homily on the virtues of our dear brother here departed. A psalm then, and another prayer, a certain amount of chanting and a sprinkling of holy water as the guard of honour was called first to attention and then to ‘Port – arms!’ Murayev pausing for a moment, seeing the michmen getting a hold on the plank, raising its inboard end. Zakharov nodded to his gunnery lieutenant, who ordered ‘Fire!’ Ripple of blank-cartridge shots, and the band of six seamen-musicians struck up Kol Slaven while the plank was angled slowly upwards until the canvas-wrapped bundle began its slide. Over the ship’s port quarter – not the stern, where it might have fouled one of Ryazan’s twin screws and been sliced up when the engines were put ahead. Splash. Tears glistened on Myakishev’s pale, whiskered cheeks: there were other damp eyes too, the individual mattering less than the fact he’d been a shipmate; Michael, remembering that he hadn’t always been kind to Radzianko, and reflecting that death was sad enough even when it came to a happy man – as that one most certainly had not been. Later, when Murayev asked him whether he thought Viktor Vasil’ich had been some kind of sex maniac, he told him no, he was pretty sure – had thought of it on some previous occasion in fact – that his motivation had been ninety per cent bravado.

  * * *

  ‘Stop both engines.’ Closing up from astern to where the Second Squadron’s battleships were already lying stopped – in line astern of their flagship, with the other cruisers on both quarters and the auxiliaries tucked in between them. While half a mile or so ahead a trail of black smoke drifted eastward behind Nyebogatov’s approaching ‘self-sinkers’. Michael had conned Ryazan up into her customary tail-end station. No Orel, he’d noticed: she and the transports must have been left in the bay – ten or twelve miles astern, the coast a greyish smear edging the blue heave of ocean and indented by the bays of Kamranh, Van Phong, Vung-Ro and Port Dayotte – where Narumov would by this time be sorting out the damage to those destroyers and where Zakharov had said he thought the admiral would send Nyebogatov to coal. There was too much of a swell out here, for sure, and in any case they’d be bound to want a few days for maintenance and repairs.

  The Dniepr had met Nyebogatov and led him in, had come on ahead of him now to park herself between the Ural and the Kuban. Like their sisters Rion and Terek, having a capability of nineteen knots the former passenger liners were of some use as scouts, although being armed only with pop-guns that was about the limit of it. From a distance, of course – for instance when passing Durban or Singapore – being roughly the size of battleships they’d look impressive, to the untrained eye.

  Now for Nyebogatov’s contribution. You could already hear cheering from ships’ companies massed on the battleships’ upper decks. Understandable, at that – Russians greeting Russians on the far side of the world – effectively defying the world… The first cheers were for the flagship, the battleship Nikolai I with the rear-admiral’s flag fluttering at her foremast-head. Michael, focusing his glasses on her, was surprised to hear Burmin telling him, ‘Imperator Nikolai Pervhy. Displacement’s about ten thousand. Launched in the late eighties. Two twelve-inch in the for’ard turret, and twelve six-inch. That’s since they’ve re-gunned her – which must have been done in the devil of a hurry!’

  ‘The twin twelve-inch, I suppose.’

  ‘Exactly. And the old ducks paddling astern of her are what we call flat-irons. Don’t ask me which is which, but the
three of them are the Admiral Graf Apraksin, and the Admirals – untitled, poor creatures – Ushakov and Seniavin. They’re rated as coast service ships – shallow draught, about seventeen feet is all. Flat bottoms, hence “flat-irons”. And you’ll see in a minute how short they are – not much more than half our length. Main armament of nine-inch guns in twin turrets fore and aft. No – wait – the Apraksin has ten-inch, but only three, a twin turret for’ard and a single aft. Yes, that’s it, and that’s her leading the other two – see those ten-inch turrets, uh?’

  ‘Yes.’ With his glasses on them still. ‘Yes, I can.’ Could also see the old cruiser Vladimir Monomakh bringing up the rear. Short, stubby, twin-funnelled. Not unlike the Donskoi, but shorter. Both of them had been sailing-ships, in their youth. The volume of cheering was tremendous. Ships’ sirens too: and flag-signals fluttering up to yard-arms. The usual sort of thing, of course – welcome, congratulation: despite Rojhestvensky having done his best over a period of several months to avoid their getting anywhere near him. Travkov had a signalman in the spotting-top who’d report over either voicepipe or telephone if any signal from Suvarov should call for a response from Ryazan, because otherwise with such a mass of ships between them you wouldn’t see it – unless it was repeated to her from one of the cruisers out there on the beam, and you couldn’t count on that: not with this lot, you couldn’t. Lowering his glasses to check the ship’s head and whether she still had steerage-way on her, he was thinking that even without having been addressed, Burmin had spoken more words to him in the last few minutes than he probably had in the whole of the six months they’d known each other.

  Signifying acceptance? That in his view one did now belong?

  21

  Four days, Nyebogatov had needed, to coal, water and store his ships and carry out necessary maintenance and repairs in preparation for the long haul to Vladivostok. May 14th now, 0630; calm and warm, would be hot when the sun had burnt the sea-mist off in an hour or so. Michael was on the bridge, as were Zakharov and others, watching the ‘flat-irons’ filing out of Port Dayotte behind their flagship; the rest of the squadron waiting for them here three miles out – more or less where they’d been all the time, except for once creeping into Van Phong to coal during a temporary absence at Natrangh of Rear-Admiral de Jonquières.