‘A gambler might. Counting on conditions being right for one coaling – and, as you say, on Togo’s certainty that’s where he wouldn’t be.’
‘He’d be a madman. Because he wouldn’t achieve surprise in any case. An interval of eight to ten days, say – and no sign of us – where else might we have gone?’ Abrupt shake of the head. ‘We’re in for a scrap, and Zenovy Petrovich knows it.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Opening his cigarette case. ‘Smoke?’
‘Thank you.’
‘One point, Nikolai Timofeyevich. No – two.’ Stooping to the match. ‘Thanks. The first is I can’t really serve as your navigator when we’re in action. On the bridge as your right hand, so to speak – and me an ally of your enemies?’
‘Originally you were going to assist Baranov.’
‘That’s the second thing. My purpose in being here, as you know, is to report on battle tactics and so forth – and if I’m below decks, shuffling stretchers around—’
‘You’d see nothing. You need to be up here. Yes, all right.’
‘I’ll explain to Baranov.’
‘And will you answer one hypothetical question – while we have the time and opportunity?’
‘Of course.’
‘If I should be killed in this battle, Mikhail Ivan’ich, and you survive it—’
‘Very hypothetical.’
‘The question is, what would you say about me to Tasha?’
‘Oh.’ He took a drag at his cigarette. ‘I’d tell her she was well out of it. That you were a terrible bad hat, with girls in every town in Russia.’
‘Seriously, please.’
‘You want me to pay you compliments?’
‘To tell me the truth.’
‘Well – that would be paying compliments.’
‘That’s my answer, then. Thank you. Despite the arrangement concluded with her father, I get a clean bill of health, so to speak. I’m glad. But now let’s imagine it the other way about. If you were killed – which could happen; a ten-inch chemodan is no respecter of individuals or nationalities, you know.’
‘Isn’t a chemodan a suitcase – piece of luggage—’
‘It’s a slang word for a type of enormous shell they use. We heard of them from survivors of Round Island. From that fellow Selyeznov, for one. Shells about four feet long, they turn in the air like a stick you throw for a dog, and – a huge explosion, apparently. Anyway – want to know what I would say to Tasha?’
‘I can see you want to tell me.’
‘I’d tell her that you were in love with her.’
‘In love…’ In the circumstances it wasn’t difficult to show surprise. ‘That I—’
‘Would it surprise her?’
‘My dear Nikolai—'
‘Does she return your affection, is what I’m asking. This is not in any way accusatory, Mikhail Ivan’ich. I’m only telling you something that’s been obvious to me for some time. At any mention of her, I see it. Your reaction to me, in respect of her, was at first hostile, but more latterly has become merely guarded. But there’s also a look, and a tone of voice. I’m quite certain you are in love with her.’
‘Well.’ Pressing out the cigarette. ‘If you’re certain – not much point in my protesting – commenting, even.’
‘Not even on whether she returns the affection?’
‘In the sense that you’re putting it – no. I do have a warm regard for her – which you might choose to call love—’
‘Is it reciprocated?’
‘– but since she was a child, you see. Yes, I’d say there is a mutual affection. Which I value very highly. Putting it in proportion though, when I saw her this last time at Injhavino it was the first time since she was fifteen!’
‘Beautiful even then, I imagine.’
‘Oh.’ A shrug. ‘Yes – she was – a very pretty child. She’s her mother’s daughter, after all – and Anna Feodorovna—’
‘Is an exceptionally good-looking woman. But tell me this—’
‘I’ll tell you this. The first time I set eyes on Tasha—’
‘You have that look again. And the way you pronounce her name—’
‘– the first time, she was a babe in arms!’
‘At Injhavino, was that?’
‘Yes. My mother and I had been on a visit to her family estate – to celebrate her father’s seventy-fifth birthday – after which we spent a few days at Injhavino. I was – oh, eleven—’
‘What I was about to ask you, Mikhail—’
‘I’m not sure I like your questions.’
‘Well – that tells me something—’
‘To be extremely fond of someone is not necessarily to be in love with them, Nikolai.’
‘Not necessarily – no. But I’ll still ask you this. Returning to the hypothetical: if I were killed tomorrow and you survived—’
‘I’d tell her you weren’t a bad fellow at all, except for your habit of asking embarrassingly personal questions.’
‘Would you marry her?’
Staring at him. Reaching for another cigarette – but Zakharov got in first with his. Michael asking himself, why not admit it – steering clear, of course, of the least hint of kiss-and-tell? He gestured, helplessly: ‘I suppose that is – conceivable, but—’
‘But?’
‘For one thing, if I did find myself in that position and state of mind – she’d have to – be of the same mind. Unlike your own approach, Nikolai—’
‘Yes, get that in!’
‘Part and parcel of the answer, that’s all. Part one, yes, I could envisage much crueller fates; part two, how she might feel about it I’ve absolutely no idea. And that’s the subject finally disposed of, uh?’ He touched the chart. ‘I hadn’t realized until now that Tsushima is actually two islands. Or that shima means “island”. So for “Tsushima”, if one was being pedantic, read Shimo Shima and Kami Shima. Did you know that?’
‘As it happens, yes. Caught on to it when discussing alternative routes and so forth with the late lamented Viktor Vasil’ich Radzianko. Here,’ striking another of his matches. ‘My apologies for interrogating you on so personal a subject, Mikhail Ivan’ich.’
23
He was in the bridge long before dawn. The wind had come up a bit, Ryazan slamming through a three-foot head-sea, kicking up spray that lashed back salting her black sides, but the fog seemed impervious to it. Two-thirty now: Konyev had the watch with Denisov as his assistant, the signal yeoman of the watch was Putilin, bosun’s mate Drachin. The bridge messenger, Sokolov, asked Michael if his honour would like a jar of tea, and he thanked him, said yes, he would.
He did belong. It was amazing, really, but he did. Born, what was more, of having fallen in love with a schoolgirl a few years ago. Prince Igor might claim responsibility but that was where this had begun.
‘Tea, your honour.’
‘Thank you, my friend.’ He took it to the bridge chart-table, let the canvas hood down, pushed his head and shoulders inside and switched on the light; taking care, with the ship’s lurching movement, not to slop tea over the chart – which was the same as the one in the chartroom. He checked the log reading – distance run since midnight when the ship’s position had last been updated – and marked it on as 0230.
Eighty-five miles to go, to the Tsushima Strait. At nine knots, just under ten hours. ETA at the southern end of Shimo Shima a little after noon, therefore. Or maybe noon or as near as dammit, the current according to a note in the sailing directions being stronger northbound than it was when southerly, in the alternating tides. He switched the light off and backed out, took his tea with him to the starboard fore-corner of the bridge.
‘Up to schedule, aren’t we?’
Konyev: a large young man with a full beard and slitted eyes. About twenty-five, and engaged to a girl who wrote to him on heavily scented paper. He was from Moscow but had served in the Black Sea under Zakharov.
Michael said yes, barring breakdowns they�
��d be entering the Tsushima Strait at about midday.
‘Needn’t interfere with our celebratory breakfast anyway.’
‘Ah – no, I suppose…’
Today, May 27th – by the old calendar May 14th – was the ninth anniversary of the coronation of the Tsar and Tsarina. Also, of course, of the dreadful stampede by his loyal subjects on the Khodyinka Field: but that one did not celebrate.
Or mention.
He finished his tea, put the jar down on the step on the other side where bridge messengers had a plug for their electric kettle, returned to his position in that fore-corner and unslung his binoculars.
Should have tried to sleep on, maybe. Might not be any rest at all from here. Denisov was asking Konyev, ‘Champagne for breakfast, huh?’
‘That’s the tradition. But don’t count on it.’
‘No…’
‘Just keep your eyes peeled.’
The more pairs of eyes the better. There were two lookouts in bays like iron nesting-boxes on each side of the bridge, and another two in the spotting-top – up there on the foremast, a black smudge against the fog-laden overhead, halfway to the foreyard. Michael added his own contribution now, having wiped his binoculars’ front lenses clean and temporarily dry.
In Togo’s boots – or slippers – wouldn’t one lie in ambush either in or above the straits?
With one’s main force, surely, well to the north of them. Maybe a cruiser squadron or two further south; as likely as not a few scouts on the prowl down here. If one was guessing right, that was what one should be looking out for now – primarily in order to know when/if the squadron was spotted. Although it was likely that when that happened the telegraphists would know in any case – the airwaves quivering with excitement and reports to Togo.
For Ryazan meanwhile, stuck here as rearguard to about thirty-nine other ships, the only useful lookout was from the beams to right astern, for enemies either cutting it fine across the squadron’s stern, or overhauling.
Only the hospital-ships were in sight. Thirty degrees on either bow, Konyev adjusting revs slightly from time to time to maintain his distance-astern of two cables or four hundred yards. With their light-coloured paintwork though, you’d see them at three times that distance. Training right now, slowly, years of practice keeping the glasses steady against the ship’s jolting pitch and roll. Reminding himself that warpaint on Japanese ships was grey: in peacetime their hulls were black and upperworks grey, but in war all grey.
As well to have in mind what you were looking for. Reactions tended to be faster.
Lights were winking ahead – red and white Tabulevich – as he swung back to begin another sweep. A shout from P.O. Putilin then: ‘Signal to us from Flag, your honour!’
Konyev to the messenger: ‘Shake the captain.’
‘From Flag, sir –’ Putilin reading it aloud word by word as it was passed on to them by the rearmost of the starboard column – mental effort telling Michael that that would be the Nakhimov – ‘Investigate vessel on reciprocal course on beam to port approx fifteen cables – end of message!’
‘Starboard fifteen.’ Zakharov had heard it as he came bounding from his cabin. Ordering three hundred and eighty revs then – for twenty knots – and Denisov jumping to a telephone. ‘All quarters alert.’ Zakharov, over the open line to the turrets: ‘Lieutenant Murayev to the conning-tower.’ Since the guns were already manned and turret and barbette crews had now been alerted there was no need to go to action stations: nothing might come of this, ‘vessel’ could mean anything, and attack by torpedo-craft was hardly to be expected. Ryazan heeling under port rudder, vibration matching the increased revs, wind on the beam as she swung away. Zakharov’s voice again: ‘Midships.’ Easing the fifteen degrees of rudder off her. Michael on his way meanwhile to the chartroom to snatch up a blank plotting-diagram – an item like a chart but with nothing on it except the compass roses – and bring it to the table on the bridge. Back-dating the time of turning by one minute and noting the log-reading; their course had been north forty east, was now northwest. He laid off the squadron’s continuing northeasterly progress at nine knots: a mile every six and a half minutes would be close enough, with Ryazan diverging at say an average of fifteen knots working up to twenty if this jaunt lasted long enough. At some point Zakharov would want a course on which to rejoin the squadron, and this plot would provide it.
‘Ship red one-zero, sir!’
A lookout’s hail, high like a seabird’s screech. Konyev’s bellow then as he got on to it too: ‘Moving right to left, high speed. Cruiser, I think—’
‘Starboard ten.’
‘Starboard ten, sir…’
Bringing her further round to port, to put the enemy to starboard and stay with him on a converging track. ‘Steer southwest. Yeoman – make to Flag, Enemy cruiser steering south at high speed – distance, Konyev?’
Konyev told him, ‘Mile, mile and a quarter.’
‘Distance about ten cables. Shall I pursue?’
‘Midships!’
‘Midships, sir—’
‘Steer south eighty west.’
Ryazan was probably making her twenty knots by now. Both hospital-ships already lost to sight. That signal was flickering from the foreyard and if the Jap was on his toes he’d see it: might not, though, and the real question was whether he’d spotted the squadron – the battle squadron itself or the Zemchug out to port of it – or was sweeping south in search of them and hadn’t. If he was on a scouting foray he might well be one of a group of others, as like as not in line abreast.
‘From Flag, sir – Negative, resume station!’
Made sense, too. Zakharov’s real question had been, Do you want action here now, or to continue trying to get through and on to the Vladivostok side of him? Him meaning Togo. Michael ducked back in to his plotting diagram, brought it up to date: time, distance run at this speed and to all intents and purposes circling slightly south of west, squadron continuing on north forty degrees east at nine knots…
‘Pilot?’
‘Sir?’
‘A course to rejoin?’
‘North forty-seven east at fifteen knots would do it, sir.’
‘The devil it would.’ A snort of amusement. ‘Port fifteen.’ Reduction in revs, then: down to three hundred and twenty. Murayev’s voice: ‘Shame to have to let the bugger go, sir.’ Murayev must have come up when Michael had been in the chartroom or busy under that hood. Zakharov calling down the tube, ‘Steer north forty-seven east.’ He answered Murayev, as Ryazan butted her stem through north, smashing the waves into flying white sheets and streams again, ‘Unless he hadn’t spotted any of us. Don’t want to tell ’em we’re here, do we? Might as well relax your gunners.’
‘Aye, sir…’
‘Mikhail Ivan’ich – I thought you’d resigned the office of navigator?’
‘Happened to be here, sir…’
There was still no excitement on the air-waves, only the same exchange of incomprehensible but routine-sounding messages. Suggesting that that cruiser’s watchkeepers had not been on their toes. Ryazan was back in station astern of the hospital-ships by 0300, and Michael retired to the chartroom to put his feet up and smoke a pipe, Egorov joining him there with jars of tea for them both; Michael explained the plot to him, the relative velocities involved, and left it to him to clean the diagram off so it could be used again. At 0400 the watch changed, Pepelyayev taking over from Konyev and Dukhonin from Denisov. Michael had in fact nodded off to sleep a few minutes before the bugle-call sounded for dawn action stations at 0430: he jerked awake, complaining to Egorov who was still there, ‘Hear that bloody row in Nagasaki!’ He guessed that Zakharov might have told Egorov to be ready to take over as acting navigator when he himself threw his hand in: he had the feeling that he was waiting for it, for his big moment. And why not? But there was also a feeling that this was the longest, slowest coming of dawn in history. Light was growing, spreading through the enshrouding mist, but only very g
radually. Of which one should be glad, maybe – if one could have believed in it lasting. On the bridge again, leaning against the side of the chart-table and sucking an empty pipe while the crew were settling down at their action stations, reports being passed via voicepipes and telephones; he realized that this wasn’t just the dampness of fog: while he’d been inside a fine drizzle had set in. Further reduction in visibility… Burmin paused beside him, commenting, ‘If this could last we might get away with it…’
‘Signal from Flag, sir!’
Travkov, chief yeoman. His caboose was on the starboard side of the bridge, opposite this navigational position; a signalman had read the ripple of Tabulevich from the spotting-top and passed it down to him by voicepipe. ‘Flag has enemy in sight starboard, sir!’
‘Port fifteen.’
Moving her out to starboard: crossing the wake of the Orel, to be in a position to put himself between her and whatever – wherever—
‘Captain, sir.’ Travkov had moved quickly into the forebridge. ‘Spotted it from aloft, your honour – auxiliary cruiser, Morozov reckoned. Come an’ gone though – fog lifted an’ he put his helm over smartish like!’
‘Come and gone’. Meaning the Jap had had the surprise of his life and nipped back into the murk. A scout, who’d blundered into what he was looking for. In which case—
‘What’s W/T doing now, chief yeoman?’ Wooden face dipping to the wheelhouse voicepipe again: ‘Midships and meet her.’ Putting on opposite rudder to check the swing to starboard. Since the Jap had made off so smartly, and knowing that Rojhestvensky wouldn’t want to disperse his forces chasing individual specimens into the wild blue yonder: at this stage, most certainly would not. Burmin – materializing from nowhere – growled, ‘By midday we’ll be at it hammer and tongs, you’ll see,’ and vanished down the steps into the conning-tower – probably to use one of the telephones. Travkov, meanwhile, had got his report from the wireless-room: ‘Jap W/T’s going mad, sir!’
‘I believe you, chief.’ It was just about light now, lances of watery-silvery sunrise penetrating the haze of mist and drizzle; the wetness glistening like polish on that face devoid of all expression as it turned glancing back at the chief yeoman. A mutter to Burmin then as the second-in-command came back up on to the bridge: ‘They’re telling Togo where we are.’
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