People were leaving, carriages scrunching up and some of their owners being helped out to them, Michael went out on the steps to see a group of them off – was complimented on his Russian – which needed all the practice it could get – and on his way back inside told the hobbling Prince Stepan, ‘I’m for bed. Whacked. Daren’t take another sip.’
‘I did warn you about the punch…’
He couldn’t have locked the door even if he’d wanted to. There wasn’t a key. When he’d got himself ready for bed he left one candle burning – there was no electricity on this upper floor – lay down in his dressing-gown and wondered if she’d come. Or have fallen asleep by this time: or changed her mind. Or be unable to make a move because of her mother’s proximity and sharp ears.
But would her mother give a damn now?
Creaky old house, gradually falling quiet. Michael hardly breathing and not stirring, listening intently. Hearing over and over that thrilling whisper – promise – Don’t lock your—
Its hinges squeaked. First sound he’d heard. He was on his feet as it squeaked shut. Telling her softly – because she was fumbling for it – ‘There’s no key.’ She was in his arms then: her gown open, slipping away over those incredibly lovely shoulders and his palms following it, caressing them, continuing over and down to the warm, astonishingly soft hollow of her back, the sculptured swell of hips. Up from there to cup her breasts: ‘Tasha, you beautiful, beautiful—’
‘This is how we’ll beat them!’
That and the next few hours had been the glory of it: had been and still was, always would be: astonishingly, mind-stunningly wonderful. While the sequel hadn’t at that stage been – imaginable. Starting with her whisper half-waking him, her silhouette discernible between him and dawn’s glimmer in the small, half-open window with its rotten frame. Her whisper: ‘Better go now, Mikhail darling, lover…’
‘Uh?’
Still so dazed that for a moment he’d thought she was telling him he’d better go. Go where? Then catching on as she slid across him: catching her. ‘Tasha—’
‘No. Getting light, my darling!’
He realized she was right. Recalling Anna Feodorovna’s Must be very careful Which this already didn’t quite measure up to: but as far as he was concerned – well, there was nothing he wouldn’t do to steal her. Be hard up, incur the displeasure of Their Lordships of the bloody Admiralty – as well as Igor’s and all the other Volodnyakovs’… ‘I’ll come with you – as far as your door and—’
‘I’ll be quieter on my own—’
‘I can be going to the lavatory.’ Scooping up her gown, holding it for her while she slipped her arms in. Holding her again then. ‘Tasha, you sweet, lovely—’
‘Come on.’ With the door slightly open though, turning to kiss him again: his hands on the outside of the flimsy gown now, and even from that contact almost irresistibly inclined to pull her back inside, shut the door again—
‘Christ!’
Like the sudden rush – escape – of some large rat – outside, along the passage. Shocked, stock-still in each other’s arms: hearing it reach the stairs and slither – patter – down. Human, bare-footed?
No sound now.
‘What on earth—’
Her fingers on his mouth. Stable-door treatment, in fact. At least, as far as one might guess, the horse had bolted: some horse, to some purpose. Tasha’s whisper: ‘Old Dmitry – sneaks around, tells my father whatever – oh, Christ almighty…’
‘Why’d he spy on us?’
‘On me, I suppose. He’ll go straight to him – at least, as soon as he wakes. Oh, Mikhail—’
‘I’m on my way to the lavatory, came out of my room for that purpose. You aren’t here, weren’t here, never left your room. He can’t know you were here – unless he has ears like—’
‘Probably followed me up here. Oh, God!’
‘Come on now. It’ll be all right – you’ll see…’
* * *
A bugle-call sent the hands to action stations before dawn. Some guns and turrets were manned all night but this was a general and customary stand-to, dawn like dusk being a favourite time for surprise attacks. Michael was in the bridge with Zakharov and others, Burmin on his usual roving commission springing surprises on the unwary if he found any, Galikovsky at the torpedo-control position in the conning tower – access to which was by way of a narrow flight of iron steps curving down from the side of the forebridge – and Murayev in the spotting-top, alternatively the conning tower or visiting the turrets. Michael with his Heath binoculars trained on the lumbering herd ahead while it did its unimpressive best to transform itself from a random mass into a fleet in cruising formation. The onset of daylight might help, he supposed; but there’d been a good moon last night – only three days short of a full one – so darkness was hardly an excuse.
He’d taken his morning stars; Egorov was in the chartroom working them out for him. He was a pleasant lad, grimly silent with anxiety for his father and seemingly glad to be kept busy.
‘It’s a mess again.’
Zakharov, beside him. Adding, ‘The breakdowns won’t have helped.’
There’d been two during the night: the transport Tambov first and then the battleship Oryol – the latter while Michael had been asleep. A steering-engine failure, Milyukov who’d had that watch had told him. The squadron had started off in reasonably good style yesterday, making nine knots, but if stoppages and slowing-downs continued at that rate you’d be doing well to cover one hundred and fifty miles a day. Two hundred would have been slow enough – with two and a half thousand miles to go, two thousand to Tsushima and another five or six hundred then to Vladivostok.
Nyebogatov’s captains and watchkeepers had had no practice at working with Rojhestvensky’s squadron – the only practice they’d get was what they were getting now. Perhaps more worrying, though – as Narumov had told them when he’d dined on board in Van Phong – was that Rojhestvensky had had Nyebogatov on board the Suvarov for no more than thirty minutes on the evening of the 9th – when the ‘self-sinkers’ had first arrived – and in that half-hour not a word had been said about tactics or battle-plans or even the route to be taken to Vladivostok. The towering but now apparently gaunt, sick-looking vice-admiral had met the short and tubby rear-admiral at the head of the flagship’s gangway, and they’d embraced, then paced the deck together exchanging only small-talk, and although during his few days in Port Dayotte Nyebogatov had been expecting to be called to some sort of conference, nothing of the kind had happened.
It was already quite light: the sky in the east flushed with pink and gold and the sun’s first rays gilding the hospital-ships’ white hulls, the sea around them blue-black and glittering, swirl and suds of broken water reflecting the pink flush overhead. To port the land, if one could have seen it, was still the bulge of French Indo-China, while to starboard at a range of about five hundred miles were the Philippines. Steering northeast as they were – aiming to pass around Formosa, to the east of it – by this time tomorrow the nearest land would be Luzon, at the top end of the Philippines. They’d pass roughly a hundred miles off Negra Point: nothing like close enough to upset the Americans, even though whatever ships they had based there would surely be on the lookout for them.
Burmin came back up into the bridge. Zakharov checked the time, and nodded. ‘You can send the hands to breakfast.’
‘Aye, sir!’ Turning, yelling: ‘Bugler!’
Zakharov told Michael, ‘I completed the letter we were discussing. Very much as you advised. Not taking it as far as you proposed, but – a level-headed approach, I think.’
‘Good.’
‘Is she likely to communicate it to her father?’
‘I don’t know. Truly, no idea.’
‘I feel better for having written it, in any case. Should have months ago. I’d rather she didn’t show it to him, but if she did – well, nothing in it he could reasonably object to.’
‘If you cons
ider him a reasonable man.’
‘You don’t?’
‘We’ve spoken about him before, haven’t we. You expressed reservations, and I agreed with you. He and I are not the best of friends.’
‘Which leaves at least one question unanswered.’ A shrug. ‘Anyway, I’m obliged to you for the advice you gave me.’
* * *
The unanswered question, of course, would be the one he’d asked on Michael’s first night on board, in Tangier: ‘Only to satisfy my curiosity, Mikhail Ivan’ich – why did Prince Igor want me to bring you along with us?’
The answer to which he’d somehow fudged. Could hardly have told him ‘Because he knew I’d slept with his daughter and this was easier for him – in fact he might have thought it was cleverer – than having my throat cut or putting her in a nunnery – or both.’
Igor hadn’t sent for him that morning; doubtless would have, but Michael had anticipated any such summons by asking for a private interview. It had taken place in mid-forenoon in the park behind the house: there was an orangery with a lot of its glass broken, a lake, an orchard and a birch avenue. A lot of space, but everything in it noticeably run-down. The avenue led to a chapel that was actually in ruins.
Igor had told him, ‘We have plans for this estate. My great-nephew Stepan is overflowing with ideas. Mostly it’s to do with the latest kinds of agricultural machinery, not only for the working of our own land but for hiring out to neighbours. It calls for heavy investment, of course, but I am advised would lead to substantial profits. Before I die I should like to see the place not only commercially successful but looking as beautiful as it did when I was a boy… You wanted to speak to me?’
‘About Tasha, sir.’
‘Well?’
He knew, all right. Eyes like a snake’s, in his Roman Emperor-type face.
‘I’m told that Captain Zakharov has already left. But I’m not taking advantage of that, to raise this behind his back. If he was here I’d be more than ready to tell him what’s on my mind.’
‘If I’m guessing correctly it concerns the betrothal – on which as far as I’m aware you had no comment to make last night.’
‘I’ve had a night to sleep on it since then.’
‘Sleep on—’
He’d checked himself: probably in some vulgarity. Checked physical movement too; facing each other, the snake’s eyes vicious. ‘Well, what?’
‘I’d like to ask you for your daughter’s hand in marriage, sir.’
‘Although she’s formally betrothed to Captain Zakharov?’
‘She was given no choice in the matter, sir. She detests the thought of marrying him.’
‘Wants to marry you?’
‘I’ve loved her for a long time. I was only waiting for her to be older before I approached you on the subject. While she was so young – right up to the time I had to take up this last appointment – it would have been – premature, if not improper—’
‘Concerned with what’s “proper” or “improper”, are you?’
‘I don’t—’
‘In Russia – even in England, I believe – it’s generally accepted that a father is entitled to protect his daughter’s honour with a horse-whip!’
‘I’m at least as concerned for your daughter’s honour as you are yourself. I’m asking for her hand. If you think her honour or her happiness is better protected by selling her to a man she’s never met—’
‘She is formally betrothed to him, Mikhail Ivan’ich. That is a fact and can’t be changed. As far as you are concerned – and I’d advise you to watch your tongue – I’ve an idea which is a lot more than you deserve and which I feel sure will appeal to you. I’ve sent a telegram on the subject and should have a reply within hours. I’ll tell you this, meanwhile – the only reason your hide may be left intact and your naval career un-ruined is that I’m averse to the creation of a scandal that would besmirch my daughter’s reputation and with it the honour of my family.’
He’d turned away. ‘When I have an answer to the telegram I’ll send for you.’
* * *
Egorov had pencilled a neat intersection of the three stars’ bearings on the chart; he stood back, making room for Michael to take a look.
‘Mikhail Ivan’ich?’
‘Huh?’
‘Looks good. Must’ve got all the figures right, for once!’
Still staring: remembering Tasha’s incredulity when he’d told her what had been said. ‘You asked to marry me – when he already knew we’d—’
‘I’m going to marry you! But I had to get in first, make the point there was nothing casual or—’
‘What can he mean about a telegram?’
‘God only knows!’
Dragging himself out of it: but with her expression of alarm hanging on in memory, only very slowly fading… Right back to earth then – to Egorov, Gavril Ivan’ich, who was looking at him curiously. Couldn’t blame him, either. A shake of the head as he leant over the chart: ‘Sorry. Mind wandering. Yes, does look like a good one. Well done. Want my job?’
A smile: ‘Glad to understudy you, Mikhail Ivan’ich.’
‘Which you’re doing very well. Take evening stars yourself tonight, will you?’
22
At daybreak on the 18th in a flat calm the squadron stopped to coal from the Tambov and the Mercury. Nyebogatov’s ships, having had little or no practice at open-sea coaling using boats, were slow at it, but fortunately didn’t need much coal and the evolution was completed by three in the afternoon. Mail from all the ships had been put on board the Mercury, she and the Tambov now riding light, finished with, destined for Saigon. The destroyer which the latter had been towing was to be taken in tow by the Livonia, who made such a hash of it that it was an hour and a half before the squadron could get under way.
Michael had written to Tasha:
May 17: We are at sea now on our way to Vladivostok, and mail is being sent ashore, probably for the last time, in an emptied transport which is going into Saigon. In the same mail there must be a letter to you from Z, which you’ll have received before this reaches you since he’s writing directly to the Yalta address. I could do the same, but I still fear interception by agents of your father; although I suppose it’s just as likely that they’d intercept letters from England. In fact I will send this directly to you: Z has some notion that I write to you, and/or hear from you – although I have not admitted it – and what the hell, I can’t see that at this stage it would matter if he did know. I am still, as far as he knows, a ‘big brother’ to you.
Anyway – I gave him your address in Yalta, and advised him to write. He’s been worrying for months now about the scant attention he paid you at Injhavino, and how to get to know you and have you know him etc. I advised him to write and explain his feelings as best he can; also to ask whether on his return to Russia you would receive him and discuss it all. I suggested that after you’d got to know each other to some extent he should be prepared to accept your decision as regards ending or continuing the betrothal; but I think he may have dug his heels in on that issue. Having made his deal with your father he’s loath to go back on it: he’s buying Volodnyakov support, and knows of course that if he made enemies of your father and Ivan – which he surely would if he went back on the agreement – he could kiss his career goodbye, they could break him as easily as make him.
That’s the situation as far as Z and my advice to him are concerned. I’ve explained it in this much detail because you might otherwise be puzzled, getting his letter and perhaps some reference in it to his having discussed it with me.
Tasha my darling, I do hope you’re all right, and not as fed up with me as you seemed to be in at any rate one of your comparatively recent letters. I received two when we were on the coast of Indo-China. I know you’ll be thinking I’m a pig-headed swine for not having taken your advice and disembarked at one of our ports of call, and perhaps I am, but there’s more than one angle on it, including the fact – a
s I mentioned before – that my superiors in London will be expecting me to see the business through. Irresolution is not a quality they favour – and now with ‘Jackie’ Fisher at the top this will apply even more strongly. Conversely, if I do see it through and produce a paper on it that might contribute to decisions on future strategy, my career prospects can only be enhanced. I happen to know this, was actually told they would be; and I have a secret dream of which I’ll tell you now – in absolute confidence, don’t please ever mention it to anyone at all, because in the cold light of day it may seem over-ambitious – it’s of having you at my side eventually as Lady Henderson.
Obviously that’s looking ahead quite a few years. And simply having you at my side in any case is all I truly crave. I love you so much, my darling, so entirely, that if I were to die I would do so far less unhappily for having had the huge fulfilment, sheer joy of knowing and loving you and – amazingly – being loved by you. To live without you would now be inconceivable. No matter what happens, please remember this: I swear to you it’s the truth and nothing but the truth.
Now all you need do is wait for my telegram. I love you, darling Tasha, and I always will.
Less than an hour after getting under way, the Livonia’s towing hawser parted. There was another stop therefore, while the tug Svir took over the towing of that destroyer. On again – the squadron slowly shaping itself into something resembling the ordered cruising formation, but still basically a rabble. Then at eight p.m. a steamer was spotted coming up from astern, and Ryazan was sent to investigate. It was, after all, on course for Japan, war materials were being shipped to them from all over the world and Russian war vessels were fully entitled to stop, search and seize or destroy such cargoes.
Floating Madhouse Page 33