‘Four thousand five hundred miles, sir!’
Radzianko to Zakharov – proudly, as if it were his achievement. April 14th, 1130; Ryazan had just anchored, in Kamranh Bay on the Cochin China Coast. Zakharov’s wooden face and hard eyes on Radzianko for a moment: ‘Is that the distance since weighing at Nossi-Bé?’
‘Just so, sir.’ Slightly ingratiating smile: but it was simply the way he did smile – was how it seemed to Michael, anyway. Seemed to most people, probably. If not ingratiating, self-satisfied. Some quality that irritated: irritation against which one had to guard. Self-conscious might be nearer the mark. Adding now, ‘Must be a record, wouldn’t you say, for a fleet of this size and composition?’
Zakharov had turned away though, was talking to Chief Yeoman Travkov; Radzianko promptly transferring his gaze to Michael. ‘Wouldn’t you say?’
In fact it was tragic that they were here at all. Although it had been their official destination, as ordered by St Petersburg in the despatches received off Singapore six days ago, and that particular item conveyed to the rest of them by general signal after Rojhestvensky had had time to digest his various instructions, most of which he would as usual keep to himself. When he’d sprung his surprise on the 12th, stopping to coal in the open sea only sixty miles short of this Kamranh place, it had been evident that he’d decided once again to defy his lords and masters – from that point, after coaling, striking off directly for Vladivostok, surprising not only the Naval General Staff but also Togo. The intention had been fairly obvious: why coal slowly and arduously at sea when you could do it far more quickly and easily a day or two later in harbour – if you’d intended going there?
Or waiting for Nyebogatov either. The admiral’s resolve was in fact made all the plainer when in the course of coaling he’d initiated a succession of flag signals starting with Are boilers and machinery in good order for a long passage? and followed by the crucial Report exact tonnages of coal on board.
In Ryazan’s wardroom, Murayev had commented, after downing a third jam-jar of kvass – he’d been humping sacks of coal around – ‘Making direct for Vladivostok, aren’t we?’
Galikovsky had nodded cheerfully. ‘Does look like it.’
Arkoleyev then, scratching his ginger head: ‘Best chance we’ve got – grab it, is what I say. Eh, Padre?’
Myakishev looked startled: like a boy at the back of the classroom who hadn’t been attending. Spaniel’s eyes rolling upward to the deckhead: ‘Into thy hands, oh Lord…’
‘Catch Togo at his prayers, that’s the thing. By the time he’s off his knees – wham, we’re showing him forty clean pairs of heels!’
‘Hardly clean…’
Burmin had come in then – arriving down from the bridge. He’d listened for a moment, then shaken his head.
‘Forget it. We’re going to Kamranh. The Alexander’s short by three hundred tons. Four hundred less than she’s been claiming in her morning reports lately.’
When he was giving bad news, or discussing anything of which he disapproved, Burmin had a flat, take-it-or-leave-it way of speaking. He’d added, slamming the words down like dominoes, ‘That’s taking into account this top-up. But to embark another three hundred tons now, at sea – the devil, two or three days lying stopped here on Togo’s doorstep?’ He jerked a chair back, dumped himself on it. ‘Simply not possible!’
How impossible was demonstrated early that afternoon when wireless signals were picked up that didn’t conform to any English or Russian code and were coming from a ship or ships that were approaching. An operator could tell that much at once because of the Doppler effect – frequency rising during approach, falling when range was opening. This – or these – was clearly coming towards. Coaling had ceased, boats hosed-out and hoisted, and the squadron got under way, on course for this bay, ships hosing-down en route.
Michael wrote in his diary that evening:
Must be a terrible blow to Rojhestvensky. That might well have been his great chance and brought success – got us past Togo and into Vladivostok. Maybe a scrap on the way, maybe not. Chance lost through one small clerical error at some earlier stage resulting in its repetition in the Alexander’s morning reports – routine 0800 signals of fuel and fresh water remaining, number of hands sick and in cells, magazine temperatures and so on. Must have been wrong in all her reports since the last coaling at least, as any sudden discrepancy would have been noticed. For Rojhestvensky, who must be only too painfully aware of having only 4 sound battleships (more or less sound) in his squadron, there could be no question of leaving one behind: it must be bitterly disappointing.
The hospital-ship is no longer with us, has been sent into Saigon to replenish stores and will rejoin later.
April 13: Stopped at 0700 off the Pandaran Light. Destroyers sent into Kamranh to search for mines, and picket-boats to mark out the anchorage with buoys.
April 14: 1100, entered Kamranh and anchored. Distance run from Nossi-Bé 4,560 miles, from Kronstadt 16,628. 4 colliers arrived from Saigon – summoned presumably by W/T so wireless silence thereby broken and our presence here known to the world including St P and Togo. Cruisers Zemchug and Izumrud stationed at entrance to this bay with searchlights beamed across it throughout the dark hours, destroyers patrolling outside and picket-boats inside. Battleships have rigged anti-torpedo nets.
The colliers had brought mail, which was collected and sorted in the flagship and then delivered around the fleet in steam pinnaces from several of the battleships. Michael had a letter from his mother and one from Jane enclosing news-cuttings collected by William and a letter from Tasha – as always, to be kept to the last and read in private. Mama’s, first: expressing concern for his safety, a review of the past weeks’ weather, news of George and of his and Jane’s children (Johnny, Andrew and Thomas) and of Michael’s sister Emma’s children (Harriet and Percy) and chat about various friends and neighbours. Death of a second cousin: and more about the danger he was in, his silliness in ignoring her earlier advice not to go to sea with that extraordinary Rojhestvensky person. What Igor could have been thinking of, to have issued such an invitation… Jane’s now:
As you will see from the enclosures, William has been doing his best despite being on Christmas holidays now – hunting like mad, also shooting rather well, so Mary tells us – so his days must be quite full. The surrender of Port Arthur is very bad news for you, I imagine – obviously, must be. We scan The Times daily for news of your squadron and Rogersvosky, who by all accounts has been making great (surprising?) progress – but to what end, eventually? Prophets and pundits here are to a man utterly depressing on that score. Why don’t you jump ship somewhere, Michael? Is that the right expression? Very seriously, though – and I may say George and your mother agree with me, I’ve told them I’m writing to you and they both say please get ashore at the first opportunity, even if you have to swim home! Seriously, Michael dear –- we are so worried for you. Can it be that you’re the only living person who doesn’t realize how fraught with danger the whole thing is? Well, perhaps you are ashore somewhere by now, or in some ship coming home – we pray to God that you may be – but if not, I implore you
News cuttings:
Tsar (spelt for some reason ‘Czar’) Offers Liberalizing Reforms but Warns that Strikes and Riots Must Stop (December 26th).
Fall of Port Arthur. Japanese Conditions Accepted. Forts and Ships Blown Up (The Times, January 3rd).
Bloody Sunday: Tsar’s Troops Kill 500 (January 22nd). Grand Duke Killed by Bomb Dropped in his Lap (February 17th).
200,000 Russians Routed at Mukden (March 10th).
That was the latest. The bulk of the enclosures were about Port Arthur. There was an excellent map from the Daily Telegraph and a mass of detail, mostly quoting Japanese military sources. The ‘Bloody Sunday’ item included a photograph – troops in foreground and the crowd in background, scattering; it must have been taken from an upstairs window in the Winter Palace. The Grand Duke was – had been – Sergei, an uncle of the Tsar’s, and the assassination had taken place in Moscow as his carriage was passing through the Kremlin gates. The bomb, filled with nails, had torn the Grand Duke into ‘unrecognisable pieces of flesh’ and parts of the carriage were found two hundred yards away. The Tsar, when told of it in his Winter Palace in St Petersburg, went white and bowed his head in silence for some moments; exclaimed finally ‘But how can that be? Everything is so quiet – the strikes are ceasing, the excitement is subsiding. Whatever do they want?’
Tasha had written from Yalta on March 5th – Michael read it in the heads:
Michael, my precious love – I’ve received your letter in which you insist you have to ‘see it through’ and while there’s nothing I can do other than accept that this is what you will do I must admit that what you are inflicting on me is the worst imaginable ordeal. I love you, my darling, you are everything to me, and in taking this decision you seem to spurn that devotion. The news is so bad from everywhere; the loss of Port Arthur for instance, then that horrible business in St Petersburg in front of the Winter Palace, more recently the murder of Grand Duke Sergei – and the continuing students’ and peasants’ riots everywhere. While what the newspapers say is the bloodiest battle ever is being fought at Mukden – to the south of Vladivostok which is where you are going – or so you tell me! Such a catalogue of woes, and it’s so frightening! Mama says it was ever so – in respect of your decision not to leave the squadron, this is – as you admit you could do quite easily – she says men’s minds are invariably set on winning honour and glory in the cannon’s mouth, and that this blinds them to the hideous consequences of defeat – which their women have then to endure alone in far more sustained and bitter suffering, while the men have gone happily to blazes – ‘so many little dancing flames snuffed out and knowing no more about it’. Mama is of course still afflicted by the tragedy of losing the man she loved; she perhaps over-emphasizes a little, but please, darling Mikhail, save me from that fate. Think again, change your mind? It would be no dishonour – it’s neither your war nor your navy! Today is Sunday and we’ve just returned from mass; I don’t have to tell you the subject of my prayers, whether in church or here at home. Oh, my love, I suspect you won’t yield to any of my entreaties, so what I’m really praying for is a miracle – that a day will come when I do receive your telegram – I’ll fly.
‘This paragraph here, for instance.’ Showing it to Zakharov, with all the other cuttings, although there was nothing much in any of them that was really news; it was only that Zakharov had said he’d like to see whatever Jane sent him. Michael had translated some bits – samples – and Zakharov had had to tell him he’d had virtually all of it before this, from his own family’s letters. This was on the evening of the arrival of the mail.
‘What’s that one about, then?’
It was one of the cuttings about the surrender of Port Arthur and its aftermath. Michael read from The Times of January 14th: ‘“Our Correspondent with General Nogi. There are no signs of privation in Port Arthur. There was food sufficient for two months, and the surrender is inexplicable. It is attributed to want of ammunition, loss of the warships, the death of the real defender of the fortress – General Kondrachenko, who was killed on December 18th – the severity of the Japanese artillery fire, and the difficulty of maintaining order among the workmen in the fortress. The Japanese casualties—”’
Zakharov stopped him. ‘Rations for two months. And, knowing we were on our way. I take the point about the real defender. Meaning that Stossel was not. Another of the same, Mikhail Ivan’ich?’
‘Well – thank you…’
‘The same’ being vodka, one hundred per cent proof. Again, under the calm and candid gaze of Irina in her silver frame. ‘But there’s this little report too – for what it’s worth. The Times again, but quoting the New York Evening Sun as saying: “But for the connivance of French colonial administrations and contributory negligence or worse by the French government, Rojhestvensky would not be in any position to offer battle to the Japanese. Our own naval authorities are inclined to the belief however that Admiral Togo will relieve US naval commanders on the spot of all responsibility”.’
‘For the protection of the Philippine Islands’ territorial waters, I suppose they mean.’ Zakharov shrugged. ‘In which we’re hardly likely to intrude in any case. They’re backing Togo anyway.’
‘That’s how I read it.’
‘But who isn’t. We’re entirely on our own, aren’t we? Look, help yourself, Mikhail. Here – mine too, if you would. The French have done very nicely out of us, of course. Everything we’ve eaten or drunk, just about – including all the squadron’s wardrooms’ brandy and champagne. While also seeming to toe your English line by forbidding us their harbours. Clever swine – eh?’
‘And the Germans – how many millions of roubles’ worth of rotten coal?’
‘Indeed. And the damn students all over Russia demanding an end to the war. We are on our own. You got a few letters as well with these cuttings, did you?’
A nod: busy with the vodka. ‘As you did yourself, I see.’ On the desk, a scattering of them. He passed Zakharov his refilled tumbler. In the wardroom so many glasses had been broken – in rough weather, but in boisterous, glass-smashing toasts as well – that they were drinking mainly out of jam-jars and caviar-pots. ‘Your health, Nikolai Timofey’ich.’
‘And yours. Did you hear from Natasha Igorovna, by any chance?’
‘What? When?’
‘I withdraw the question. One should not embarrass one’s guests. You don’t want to be put in the position of having to tell me how much she abhors the prospect of becoming my wife. But I would like to write to her. She and her mother were going to Yalta, I remember Prince Igor told me – while he couldn’t afford to spend any longer away from Petersburg, was wishing he’d made everyone else go there instead of to Injhavino – for which, of course, the reason was that Injhavino is what in his mind and Prince Ivan’s the whole business was about. But now with the riots there’ve been in that part of the country, I doubt he’d have countenanced their return to Injhavino – the women’s, I mean. I could write to her in care of him, I suppose—’
‘I know the address of Anna Feodorovna’s house in Yalta. I spent a holiday there once.’
‘Might be better. Yes… Something about Prince Igor deters me. Despite his generosity, the power of his influence—’
‘I thought he was counting on your generosity.’
‘Ah. That’s the other side of the coin, isn’t it? But she is in Yalta – is she?’
Face not wood, but granite. Eyes like chips of glass. Michael nodded. ‘Where they were going, certainly. If you addressed a letter there it would find her, anyway. But I was reflecting on what you didn’t quite say about her father. Personally I wouldn’t trust him further than I could spit.’
‘But I, you see, am already in his debt – for this command and my promotion.’
‘We’ve had a conversation before very much like this one, haven’t we? Outside Angra Pequena, one evening.’
A nod: ‘But you’re in his debt too. We touched on that as well – to the extent that you were prepared to go into it, which wasn’t very far. But I’ve given thought to it since, and my conclusion is that being aware of your closeness to his daughter and disapproval of our betrothal, he might have wanted to be rid of your influence on her during my own absence. How does that strike you as a theory?’
‘It’s – possible. He’s wily enough to have known I wouldn’t turn such an offer down. Although I’d have been returning right away to my own naval service, wouldn’t have been – hanging around, exactly…’
A long stare. He’d relaxed a bit, though. Granite reverting to wood, eyes less harsh. A small jerk of the head: ‘Actually – in the short term anyway – the least of our worries – eh?’
‘I suppose…’
‘But I’d like to – as it were – make myself known to her. And not through her father. That’s all. After all, the situation facing us here and now – well…’
‘Not good, is it?’
‘Not good at all. Although, as I remember we were saying before, luck can change. And Zenovy Petrovich—’
‘I was going to ask – is he not receiving visitors?’
‘Apparently not. I had a personal message from the chief of staff, together with some official stuff. The admiral is holed up, licking his wounds. That was a savage blow to him, the Alexander business. We’d have been well on our way now.’
‘Two thousand six hundred miles.’
‘To Vladivostok?’
‘The shortest route – through the Korea Strait.’
‘And if we’d taken Togo by surprise – as we might have done, seeing he must know we’ve been ordered to wait here – well, imagine it! Sudden appearance of Rojhestvensky’s squadron off Vladivostok!’
‘And the war not lost. Through the initiative of one man – Zenovic Petrovich Rojhestvensky. Is it too late for him to make that move now, d’you think?’
‘A bit late, yes. By this time Togo will have deployed his fleet as far as possible to ensure we don’t slip past him. He knows he’s got to stop us. If we did make Vladivostok, everything could change dramatically in our favour. Offensive operations, putting him on the defensive; and they’re not a great or rich nation, you know, as we are; our resources are infinitely greater. Now – come on, one more. Tell me, though – when you were last up here and I introduced you to –’ a nod towards the portrait, as he reached over with his empty glass – ‘Irina there – I had the impression you were shocked?’
‘Surprised.’
‘So. Another question. As big brother to Natasha—’
‘Tasha.’ Clink of the neck of the bottle on his host’s glass. ‘All her close friends – which should include her fiancé—’
‘The point is it doesn’t. I’d like to make friends with her. While there’s time – so we’d have known each other just a little… My question to you – big brother – would you expect me, at the age of forty-four – in fact rising forty-five – to have had no previous romantic involvements?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Here.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s your vodka. No – certainly not, you wouldn’t be fit to know!’
‘That’s true, I wouldn’t. Of course, a bride should be a virgin…’
On the 15th the Orel rejoined, after her visit to Saigon. The squadron had begun coaling early that morning, and there was speculation as to whether Rojhestvensky might make his move when it was concluded. Nothing had been seen or heard of him since they’d anchored, but Selyeznov had told Zakharov of a terse exchange of signals with St Petersburg, opening with Rojhestvensky reporting Have arrived Kamranh Bay, awaiting orders, the Naval Staff then replying Remain until arrival of Third Squadron and please keep informed of movements – which when you thought about it amounted to a rebuke – to which the admiral had riposted I will not telegraph again before the battle. If I am beaten, Togo will inform you. If I beat him, I will let you know.
Which seemed to leave it open: he might make an early move. But also on the 15th, a French cruiser, the Descartes, arrived with a Rear-Admiral de Jonquières on board, and Rojhestvensky interrupted what seemed to have been a brief hibernation in order to receive him. The visit was entirely amicable, apparently; the French were delighted to have their Russian friends here and would gladly supply them with whatever they might need. The Descartes left after only a few hours, returning to her base at Nhatrang Bay, twenty miles north of Kamranh.
Ryazan’s collier berthed on her at dawn on the 16th and coaling was completed by nightfall, the collier moving from her to the Orel, who was again her nearest neighbour. On the same day a steamer, the Eridan, arrived from Saigon with a cargo of fresh provisions, mainly cabbage, enabling the ships’ companies to return to their standard diet of cabbage soup. There were quite a few supply ships coming in.
Michael’s diary entries at this stage included:
April 18: Battleships and Aurora to sea, to swing compasses and cover departure of empty colliers to Saigon where they are to embark Cardiff coal. They are escorted by Kuban, Terek and Ural. To protect them from Jap cruisers who are rumoured to be cruising in the vicinity, keeping watch on us or looking out for Nyebogatov. Nothing more than rumour though. In any case the Japanese know where we are and will most likely be informed by the local telegraph station (run by an Annamese) when we do make any substantial move.
April 19: Scraping ship’s waterline from boats – whaler, gig and skiff, using all kinds of implements including coal shovels. Some but not all other ships doing the same, having seen or heard of us doing it. There’s a fresh breeze but inside here it’s flat.
April 20: Battleships and others including the 3 auxiliaries who went to Saigon are back and coaling. They left the colliers at Saigon and saw nothing of the enemy.
April 21: Return of de Jonquières, announcing sadly that French govt demand immediate departure of Russian ships from French territorial waters. Rojhestvensky has 24 hours in which to remove himself. Comment by Zakharov: ‘If Kuropatkin had given General Oyama a hiding at Mukden, rather than the other way about, the frogs’d be singing a very different tune!’
Working-parties at it all night shifting stores out of transports Tambov and Mercury and other steamers who’ve brought provisions recently from Saigon.
April 22: 24 hours’ notice expired 1300. All ironclads weighed and left harbour. Auxiliaries and Orel left in their berths – by agreement with de Jonquières presumably.
There has been a meeting of flag and commanding officers on board Suvarov and copies of various Orders of the Day were lent to me by Zakharov on his return. They detail at some length Rojhestvensky’s plans for action offshore and inshore in the event of our being attacked here at Kamranh either by surface vessels or submarines. The orders are not very clear: in fact are pretty well certain to lead to a high degree of confusion if any attempt is made to put them into effect. There’s a lot about inshore defence: picket-boats (steam pinnaces and cutters) being armed with torpedoes – ‘in order to attack in the entrance of the bay, not revealing their presence until the last moment’. What last moment? And how become invisible?
NB Statement by Rojhestvensky at the meeting, as quoted by Zakharov from his own notes: ‘My orders are to wait for Nyebogatov. I shall wait. I will endeavour to maintain telegraphic communication with St Petersburg through Saigon. I shall wait until we have just enough coal left to take us to Vladivostok. If Nyebogatov has not arrived by then, we go on without him. Forward! Always forward!’
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 since 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?’