Floating Madhouse

by Floating Madhouse

  ‘Reply to your signal, sir!’

  Egorov. It struck Michael at about the same moment that the gunfire had ceased. There was only weather noise now, and Ryazan’s own, a lot of it from the action damage aft; and now Zakharov’s shout of ‘Saying what?’

  ‘To Ryazan from Donskoi: I do not know the whereabouts of Enqvist. He ran away. Regret you are too late but thank you for trying. End of message, sir.’

  End of Dmitry Donskoi.

  ‘Damnation…’

  Burmin’s growl: ‘If we’d had his call a bit sooner—’

  ‘We’re looking for two enemy light cruisers now. Tell the lookouts.’

  ‘Aye, sir…’

  ‘She might still be afloat.’

  Murayev. No one argued with him but it seemed unlikely. That old Donskoi had been through a lot of trouble, Michael reflected. Innumerable breakdowns, problems in station-keeping, the incident with the girl from the Orel, and a spot of mutiny at Nossi-Bé. Vintage early eighties, converted from sail to steam near the end of the century: and by the sound of it, died fighting like a lion.

  While Admiral Enqvist with the fast modern cruisers Oleg, Aurora and Zemchug had run away?

  Zakharov had cut Ryazan’s speed to fifteen knots.

  ‘Mikhail Ivan’ich, it’s the Sibir those cruisers will be after now. Give me a course she might have taken for Shanghai.’

  ‘Offhand, sir – west-southwest. But I’ll check.’

  From the chart, he heard him putting on starboard rudder. And for the time being southwest would be as good a course as any. At daylight there’d be plenty of land-features to fix on, one would adjust again then. Might with luck have picked up the Sibir before that, in any case: if she – and Ryazan – were allowed a clear run out through the strait, if those two cruisers weren’t about to make a meal of her… He switched the light off and withdrew his head and shoulders from under the hood.

  ‘West-southwest’ll do until daylight, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Steadying on that course: wind and sea on the starboard side now. ‘It’s the way she would have run, I suppose.’

  ‘What about Enqvist?’ Burmin, pivoting slowly, sweeping across the bow. She was rolling quite hard now as well as pitching. ‘Where’d he skedaddle to?’

  ‘They must have got separated somehow. He had the two hospital-ships to look after too, didn’t he? And, oh, Anadyr, and—’

  ‘He could have been miles away before those cruisers caught the Donskoi—’

  ‘Who stood by the Sibir – or held them off while she – why, yes, if Enqvist started running soon enough, and—’ Burmin caught his breath. ‘Ship forty on the bow!’

  ‘Christ, yes!’

  A lookout had shouted too. And Michael was on it, and Zakharov…

  ‘Sibir. Beyond doubt. All-round search for anything else, please. Chief yeoman!’ Ducking to the pipe: ‘Port ten. Egorov – revs for twelve knots. Chief yeoman – by light to the Sibir – she’s there, see her?’

  ‘On her, sir.’

  ‘Identify ourselves, then make I will escort you to territorial waters off Shanghai.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Captain, sir.’

  Michael, moving up beside him. ‘If you’d delay that a moment—’

  ‘Hold on, chief yeoman. Yes – what?’

  ‘Why Shanghai, sir? Why not Vladivostok?’

  ‘Vladivostok?’

  ‘Six hundred miles on a direct course, but detouring around the battle area, say eight. Wide detour, well east of Okino Shima to start with. Sibir’s holds are full of field-guns and ammunition, Vladivostok’ll be the prize now and after their losses at Mukden your army’ll be desperate for a cargo like this one. Worth some risk, Nikolai Timofey’ich – don’t you think?’

  Face like a block of wood with a couple of chips of glass in it. He’d seen it like this before – about as expressive as it ever got. A grunt then: and looking back to Travkov: ‘Chief yeoman…’

  * * *

  Dawn of the 28th came up in a fiery glow which within half an hour slid up behind a horizontal edging of black cloud. No mist or drizzle though, wind and sea about the same and visibility unfortunately not bad. The Sibir had said she could make fourteen knots (and yes, had coal for eight hundred miles) but they’d averaged better than fourteen over the past eight hours, more like fourteen and a half. In discussion with Zakharov over the chart last night, they’d settled on making this drastically eastward leg, passing between islands called Mino Shima and Taka Shima – Mino would be abeam to port (but not in sight) in about an hour, Taka similarly out of visibility range to starboard two hours later. Then on longitude one hundred and thirty-two east they’d alter to north by east, which would (a) make the whole transit less than seven hundred miles, (b) skirt widely around the area of yesterday’s action – which no doubt would be resumed this morning – and (c) once past the approaches to Matsuru, take them well clear of any Japanese fleet bases.

  The approaches to Matsuru were potentially dangerous now and would be all day, if any damaged enemies were making for it from the scene of action, for instance. Lookouts were being changed hourly, to keep fresh eyes and alert brains on the job, both at this level and aloft. Zakharov and Michael had been on the bridge all night, as well as officers of the watch who were changing over every two hours. Guns’ crews were sleeping at their weapons, and Burmin had organized a system of action messing, with men from each station collecting rations including tea for their own parts-of-ship from the galley.

  Daylight was established now, the pink flush all gone, replaced by a steely brightness under the dark cap of cloud. Zakharov was sipping at a glass of tea: it might have been the first time in about six hours that he’d had binoculars away from his eyes for more than seconds. All of that time he’d been on his high stool near the binnacle, but he was leaning in the port fore-corner now with his eyes on the Sibir plugging along a cable’s length on the quarter.

  ‘If we get through to sunset, Mikhail Ivan’ich…’

  ‘Then we’ll make it. We’ll make it anyway.’ Michael reached sideways to touch wood, the polished side panels of the binnacle. He added, ‘ETA Vladivostok dawn day after tomorrow.’

  * * *

  In late forenoon they passed, at a distance, a small southbound steamer; she was Japanese, and Ryazan hoisted the Rising Sun, Sibir then following suit. Fortunately her skipper wasn’t disposed to exchange identities or news, soon faded far enough astern for Zakharov to tell Signal Yeoman Putilin, ‘Have ’em pull that foul thing down now.’

  ‘Hoist our own colours, sir?’

  ‘No. Just keep that one handy.’ To Michael then: ‘How long before we alter?’

  ‘Another hour. Unless you’d like to cut the corner?’

  Shake of the head. ‘Stick to what we planned.’

  At noon, soup with bread and cheese was brought up for the bridge staff, and Zakharov and Michael had the same. The soup came up in two buckets, with bowls and a metal ladle. Shikhin, Michael’s servant, was one of the ration party who brought it up. Galikovsky, who was taking over the watch, had already had his meal, and Milyukov would get his in the wardroom; you could bet it wouldn’t be cabbage soup down there, not even with the refinement of lumps of cheese in it, and they’d both looked askance at Michael’s and the skipper’s rations. Zakharov had in fact asked Michael whether he wouldn’t rather have his down below, and Michael had surprised him by opting to remain. His main reason for it, privately, was that he had something he was anxious to discuss with Zakharov, and this might have been a good time for it; but it wasn’t for Galikovsky’s ears – not even for those of the V.A. Galikovsky, whose torpedo had sunk a Jap cruiser – and murmuring in corners didn’t have much appeal. So he left it: in any case there was plenty of time. Having finished his soup he went into the chartroom to get his pipe, then checked the log-reading and told Zakharov, ‘Better come round, sir – or we’ll be getting a bit close to Oki Shima.’

  ‘All right. Yeoman – by
semaphore to Sibir, Altering to north five east.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’

  Five degrees east of due north because there were other islands to be passed on the long haul north – Take Shima, for instance, about a hundred and twenty miles north from here – and this with slight adjustments later would take them clear. Burmin came up when Galikovsky was steadying her on the new course; he glanced at the compass, and nodded. ‘Course for Vladivostok, eh? My God, when we steam into Zolotoi harbour, skipper, delivering this lot here –’ a nod towards the Sibir, who’d just put her helm over – ‘why, they’ll be ringing the church bells; you’ll be the hero of the hour!’

  Zakharov pointed at Michael. ‘He should be. I’d have escorted her to internment in Shanghai.’

  ‘No, sir.’ He was quick on it. ‘Nothing to do with me at all. I’m English: we’re allies of the Japanese. I’ve been acting purely as an observer, nothing else at all—’

  Burmin chuckling, pointing at him: ‘The monkeys’ uncle – eh?’

  ‘Seriously – you may have thought of Shanghai – since it was mentioned in the Donskoi’s signal – but then you had second thoughts. Please – leave me out of it.’

  ‘Hero of the hour’s our skipper then – as I said. Like it or lump it, Nikolai Timofey’ich! Steaming through into Zolotoi, all the ships’ sirens screaming – why, glory to God—’

  ‘Very amusing, Pyotr Fedor’ich. In any case, we have to get there first, let me remind you.’

  He’d turned away, seemed truly not to like it, but Michael raised the subject again that evening when they were on their own in the chartroom for a few minutes, refreshing themselves against another night of it and a rising wind with a tot of Zakharov’s vodka.

  ‘Just one won’t hurt us.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t.’ They’d each had a few hours’ sleep during the day, while Burmin plus officers of the watch had held the fort, and there’d been no alarms. Nothing intelligible had come over the air-waves either, only streams of Japanese – Togo doubtless reporting to Tokyo, and Tokyo telling the world – a world in which Tasha would no doubt be holding her sweet breath. Michael began, watching Zakharov pour about two inches of vodka into each tumbler, ‘On the subject of your being the hero of the hour, Nikolai—’

  ‘Oh, come off it. Here…’

  ‘Thanks, but – bear with me… You played a big part in getting Rojhestvensky out of Suvarov. Whatever may come of that. But also you finished off that cruiser and sank a torpedo-boat. Then you went to the aid of the Donskoi – too late, but it wasn’t your fault – and, most importantly, you’ll have brought this absolutely vital cargo through to the army defending Vladivostok. No exaggeration in any of that, it’s plain fact. Has it struck you what it adds up to?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘That you don’t need any Volodnyakov influence now. D’you think the Tsar won’t hear of it? Or that any of those politicos in Petersburg can stop you now? Isn’t it what you really want – to get to the top on your own merits?’

  ‘So what are you—’

  ‘You don’t need the Volodnyakovs, so you don’t need Tasha. I do.’

  ‘Ah. I was right.’

  ‘Of course – and what’s more—’

  ‘No, let’s cut the cackle. How might we handle this?’

  ‘No question of back-tracking on your deal, there’ll be no deal. She’ll be gone. You’ll simply accept it as a fait accompli.’

  ‘You’ll take her to England?’

  ‘Yes – but the less you know – in detail anyway—’

  ‘Agreed. As a matter of fact it’s a weight off my mind. And I dare say you’re right, his Majesty might see this as some – accomplishment—’

  ‘Of course he will. And with colossal failure everywhere else he looks… You’ll be an admiral in two shakes.’

  ‘Well – let’s not go mad. But I’ll drink to that. Tomorrow we’ll drink to that. This one’s to you, Mikhail Ivan’ich!’

  ‘Think we might make it to absent friends?’

  ‘Oh.’ Motionless, except for a necessary and natural balancing against his ship’s motion. ‘Suvarovs, you’re thinking of.’

  ‘Quite a few of them, as it happens.’

  A nod. ‘To the bottom, then. Absent friends.’

  * * *

  One might, he thought, back in a corner of the bridge with his glasses up, have drunk more usefully to a safe arrival in Vladivostok.

  But they would get there. In fact, with the weather easing, would probably have to reduce speed by a knot or two tomorrow evening so as to arrive in daylight – Tuesday’s first light – rather than in the dark hours and be mistaken for Japanese. Although if one was in very good time one might use the Slaby-Arco from about thirty miles offshore. Give them time to roll the red carpets out.

  Play it by ear. Then while Zakharov was enjoying the applause, and as likely as not receiving a telegram from the Tsar, nip ashore to the telegraph office and send the message one had drafted in one’s mind at least a hundred times; and count on Nikolai Timofey’ich’s new fame and influence to get one an immediate reservation on the Trans-Siberian to Moscow, thence to Paris.

  Cable Jane as well. Arriving home in about ten days probably not alone. Will wire again from Paris. That would do it. Leave the rest to her discretion. There’d be hurdles to negotiate on the home front, her help would be invaluable and she’d be a great support to Tasha. Training right with his glasses, sweeping slowly and carefully down the starboard side, thinking Tasha darling, you’ve got news coming. You may at this stage be biting your nails and losing sleep, but – oh, my love, I hope you’ll think it’s good news, howl with joy and rush to tell Mamasha, both of you start packing like two wild things…

  Vetrov, who had the watch, had just increased to revs for fifteen knots. Wind and sea still easing, Michael realized, and the Sibir out to do her best, treading on their heels. He went to the chart to make a note of the increase in speed, time and position by D.R. And while he was at it, checking the time by his own watch – Anna Feodorovna’s gift – against the ship’s chronometer. Correct – absolutely to the minute – despite having been banged around a bit. And thinking then, as he measured the distance still to be covered – his mind for a moment off Tasha, or at any rate half off her – please, no prowling armoured cruisers in the next – oh, say sixteen, eighteen hours?

  Factual Note

  The Floating Madhouse is a novel, not a history, but – for the record…

  Rojhestvensky, with Clapier de Colongue and Semenov (on whom the character Selyeznov is based) and two other members of his staff, was transferred that same night from the Buiny to another destroyer, the Byedovy, which was undamaged and had enough coal to reach Vladivostok. The admiral was, however, very severely wounded – amongst other injuries he had a cracked skull and a splinter of it embedded in his brain – and since the little TBD’s violent motion would have killed him, Clapier de Colongue decided to surrender the ship, so that his admiral could be taken to a hospital in Japan. Where in fact – in the naval hospital in Sasebo – he was well cared for and eventually returned to Russia.

  Most of the second and third squadrons who had not been sunk were surrendering in any case that morning. Admiral Nyebogatov did most of it – to the surprise of the Japanese, who at that time did not have the word ‘surrender’ in their dictionaries. Two of those who hoisted white flags, the Vladimir Monomakh and Sissoy Veliky, hadn’t fired a shot. In contrast, before she sank, the old Dmitry Donskoi had severely mauled four Japanese light cruisers and sunk two torpedo-boats – while Admiral Enqvist, who’d deserted her, ran with the Oleg, Aurora and Zemchug for the Philippines, was met and escorted into internment by ships of the U.S. Navy, which at first he mistook for Japanese and got the wind up all over again. He then reported by telegraph to the Tsar that the conduct in battle of all ranks had been ‘beyond all praise’, and the Tsar was graciously pleased to take his word for it.

  By way of contrast, one might q
uote here a Japanese account of the last moments of the Suvarov.

  In the dusk, when our cruisers were driving the enemy northwards, they came upon the Suvarov alone, at some distance from the fight, listing heavily and enveloped in flames and smoke. The division of torpedo-boats which was with our cruisers was at once sent to attack her. Although much burned and still on fire – having been subjected to so many attacks, shot at by all the fleet – although she had only one serviceable gun she still opened fire, showing her determination to defend herself to the last moment of her existence. At length – at about seven p.m. – after our torpedo-boats had twice more attacked her, she went to the bottom.

  Taking with her, amongst nearly a thousand others, Michman Werner von Kursel, who single-handed – the rest of its crew having been killed – had kept that last gun firing. Earlier (while cracking jokes and handing out cigars) he had played a leading part in the difficult business of getting the admiral through the blazing ship and over to the Buiny, but had then refused to transfer to the destroyer with him and those others.

  Also by Alexander Fullerton…

  The Nicholas Everard Naval Thrillers

  Dramatic, action-packed, searing adventure of warfare at sea: introducing sub-lieutenant Nicholas Everard…

  Find out more…

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2000 by Little, Brown and Company

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by

  Canelo Digital Publishing Limited

  57 Shepherds Lane

  Beaconsfield, Bucks HP9 2DU

  United Kingdom

  Copyright © Alexander Fullerton, 2000

  The moral right of Alexander Fullerton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.