Battle ensigns quivering in the wind, ships’ companies all at action stations: if the guns weren’t loaded yet they soon would be. In these minutes before two o’clock in the afternoon the Japanese were steering south twenty-three west and the Russians north twenty-three east; opposite courses which if all concerned held on to them would have them passing each other at a range of about – oh, eight thousand yards, but at any rate well inside big-gun range of each other, making whatever they could of it and ending with the Russians on the right side – north – of Togo and on course for Vladivostok.
Rojhestvensky’s hope, no doubt. Unlikely to be Togo’s choice.
In fact there it was, the Mikasa had put her helm over: and a howl from the spotting-top was delivering the same news. Not strictly necessary, since from this bridge level one had a clear enough view of them, on a line of sight well ahead of the leader of the pack, the Suvarov; and the Mikasa was undoubtedly under helm – turning inwards, towards, and on the bow of the Russian battle line. In the longer run though, reversing course, in so doing closing the range and intending then to steam more or less parallel to the Russians. The Mikasa’s range from the Suvarov at this moment being about seven thousand yards, six thousand five hundred perhaps; the striking thing about it being that in making an ‘in succession’ turn – each of the twelve Japanese turning successively on the same spot – well, it was either a colossal blunder by Togo or a demonstration of his utter contempt for the Russian gunners, who if they were up to snuff would only have to keep dropping shells into that one patch of water to have them raining down on ship after ship as each reached that point and turned in the swirling wake of its next-ahead. The Mikasa at this moment bow-on, about halfway round: high time in fact that the Russian gunners – or rather the admiral, captains, gunnery officers—
Had opened fire. The Suvarov had loosed-off with her 12-inch and the others who’d have been waiting for that lead were joining in. A growing thunder: and the sea around the Japanese turning-point spouting whitened pillars. Shells falling, by the look of it from here, surprisingly close. Possibly even hitting: on the Mikasa then for sure, a flash and a streak of flame up the side of her bridge superstructure as she bore round.
Maybe Nyebogatov had brought gunners with him who knew their jobs?
The second Japanese was turning now. Range after turning maybe less than six thousand yards. And the Mikasa even before steadying on her new course was shooting back. Had certainly been hit that once, in the opening squall of surprisingly accurate shellfire. Number two was in it now – coming out of the turn on what was definitely a converging course and with all her guns firing – while number three was hit in the moment she began to turn, the flash of a shell bursting on her port side but any result lost to sight seconds later, in the turn. Egorov shouted through some cheering, ‘That’s the Fuji was hit!’ Splashes were lifting all around her: at least, how it looked. You could only know for certain whether fall-of-shot was short or over when it fell in line, on your own line of sight: which was why in directing a shoot you went for line before bothering too much about range: if you got it right, so much the better, but otherwise line first, then range. The Fuji in any case was ploughing on out through the splashes, hadn’t been hit again: which meant that Nyebogatov’s gunners, after that false promise at the start, were no better than Rojhestvensky’s. Catching at that moment in his glasses a soaring, rapidly expanding speck that was the end-over-end path of a chemodan (or ‘suitcase’) lobbing towards Suvarov, who was already smothered in dark smoke that wasn’t of her own making, with – inside it – the flashes of exploding shells, and was now, as the chemodan vanished down into it, totally obliterated in a huge gush of the same dark (actually greenish-black) filth mushrooming to funnel-height before blowing clear. The chemodans weren’t fuzed, burst on impact even with the sea’s surface, Selyeznov had told him in one instalment of the continuing saga of Round Island; whereas fuzed shell didn’t of course, it simply splashed in.
Back to the thought that had been in his head a moment ago: that he was watching the opening stages of a massacre. Having assured Tasha twice, Nothing pre-ordained…
Unless Rojhestvensky hauled round to port, led his ships across the Japanese line’s tail end, as it were crossing the bottom of Togo’s ‘T’ at close enough range for even his gunners to really hammer it, regain the initiative, draw Japanese blood?
Suvarov was in a very bad way, though. He – Rojhestvensky – might even be dead, or out of action. It was the Russian line that was being hammered, the sea around them boiling with near-misses, and Suvarov and Oslyabya both on fire. The range had closed significantly, in a very short space of time: that was only the fourth of the enemy coming out of its turn now. Michael – of a sudden, disbelieving a new phenomenon which he’d thought he’d just seen through his glasses – yelled to Travkov, ‘Lend me your telescope, chief yeoman.’ Because the magnification would be greater: and what he’d just spotted – dreamt he had—
‘Only for a moment…’ Couldn’t give him his binoculars in temporary exchange – being on their strap around his neck and his hands busy focusing the telescope…
It was him. Even the name sprang to mind – from that briefing in the Admiralty by Captain White… Glancing sideways at Egorov for a moment: ‘Jap that just turned – fourth in line – Asahi?’
Egorov consulting his scrawled list: ‘Asahi – yes. Three-funnelled battleship, sister-ship of the Shikishima. Yes, she’s—’
Asahi. In which was serving Captain W.C. Pakenham, Royal Navy, their Lordships’ chief observer and liaison officer with the Japanese. Very tall and spruce and always (White had said) immaculately turned out: ‘A character with a capital C by any standards, Henderson!’ It couldn’t be anyone but him – on the Asahi’s quarterdeck, in a deck-chair. It had to be: Asahi being the ship in which he’d served throughout this Russian war. In any case, what Japanese would sit and watch a major fleet action from a deck-chair on a battleship’s otherwise bare and empty quarterdeck?
‘Thanks.’ Returning the telescope to Travkov. Still hardly believing… Pakenham and Togo held each other in great respect, White had told him. Oh, and he wore a monocle. That had not been visible, but one had seen that he was as tall – or long – as a praying mantis. Seen, or had the impression, imagined, deduced… No deductive powers being needed to see that the poor Suvarov had been hit again, or that the Oslyabya was still catching it hot and strong – as were all the rest of them. Togo’s men could shoot. While here the Ryazan was untouched, unscratched, merely spectating: not that that would last for very long, he guessed. In any case she had a function here, watching out ahead and to starboard for cruisers and/or destroyers working their way up on this blind side of the action – where admittedly if they went in close enough they’d be running the gauntlet of their own battleships’ fall of shot – so you could take it that they would not, would be more likely to move in well astern of the main action as it shifted northward and northeastward; but Zakharov and his bridge staff would also be looking out for developments on the quarter, southeastward, where at some considerable distance now the Oleg, Aurora, Donskoi and others would still be nursing the transports and hospital-ships – who you could bet wouldn’t be left alone for ever and to whose assistance Ryazan might well be called upon to divert. There were, after all, cruiser squadrons on the loose, in or around this strait, and when the battleships and flat-irons had been disposed of – which could happen even before the light went…
Michael turned back to where this battle, which they’d come eighteen thousand miles to fight, was clearly being thrown away, undoubtedly at huge expense of Russian lives. The Japanese might be suffering too; it wasn’t easy to tell whether many of the flashes sparking from the enemy ships were the flashes of their own guns firing or of Russian shells hitting. Russian shells being filled with Pyroxylene, which was smokeless, gunners thus deprived of the morale-strengthening effect of seeing their shells burst when/if they did score hits. That was the last of the Japanese turning now. They weren’t by any means all battleships, several were armoured cruisers, but none had guns that were less than 8-inch and they were all modern ships capable of twenty knots or more: and none of them were showing any signs of having suffered serious damage. W.C. Pakenham no doubt still at ease in his deck-chair, monocle in place and high wing collar freshly starched: jotting down an occasional note with surely nothing other than a gold propelling pencil?
Suvarov back there was a smoking junk-heap: and still taking punishment. Also – astoundingly – still shooting back, with her 12-pounders, or a few of them. Shooting at what, though? Her main armament had all been smashed – turrets breached, gun-barrels sticking out at all angles… Oh, God – explosion just then, under her fore-turret. The enemy perhaps using armour-piercing shells now instead of high-explosive. Or that might have resulted from internal fires. Oslyabya was also still afloat – just – and still burning internally, leaking smoke and intermittently jets of flame from her many wounds. A big, high-sided ship, she was low in the sea, listing heavily to port and down by the bow; you could imagine the inferno inside her, and the rising flood. And the Alexander had hauled out of the line. The line in fact – as far as it still existed – two flat-irons – only two ? – and the Navarin, Sissoy, Nikolai – was bending, developing a curve to starboard, Togo as it were shouldering them round, away from any northward course, above all away from Vladivostok, forcing them round to starboard, and the range down to – oh, hard to see, but two thousand yards? Suvarov was quite on her own and still taking hits; Oslyabya practically on her side; the Alexander with both funnels and most of her bridge shot away, also holed for’ard and down by the bow; Borodino with flames licking from shell-holes extending from stem to stern, and the Oryol also on fire; effectively there was no Russian line of battle.
Tsushima, he thought. This was the picture that name would conjure – in one’s memory and in the history books. For ‘battle’, read ‘rout’, read ‘annihilation’. ‘And what did you do while it was going on, Grandfather?’ ‘Oh, I watched it, my dear. Safely out of range, mind you…’
‘Mikhail Ivan’ich!’
A hand on his arm. In the same moment he felt the change in the ship’s motion: revs increasing and helm over, heeling as she altered course as well as picked up speed. This was Egorov shouting across the wind and general racket, ‘Captain says better move into the conning-tower!’
‘All right.’ He had his glasses up again though: it looked as if the battle lines were separating, the Japanese altering away to port. And closer at hand the Oslyabya was going, dipping that side right under, rolling belly-up and bow-down, men like ants tumbling down the steep, black-painted weed-smothered iron slope of her: bow-down and stern lifting then, she’d begun to slide. Had gone. Taking her dead admiral with her – as well as a few hundred others.
Zakharov had steadied Ryazan on course for the burning Suvarov. Or anyway for the smoke covering that area. Making about twenty knots now, with – if that was where he was taking her – about four thousand yards to go. Six minutes, therefore. A destroyer – Russian – was moving in to pick up Oslyabya survivors: not that there’d be many. Egorov was shouting something about a wireless message from another destroyer – the Buiny, ‘buiny’ meaning ‘furious’ – who’d been asked to try to get in alongside the flagship’s remains and take off the admiral.
‘Take off—’
‘Some geezer semaphored to ’em, your honour.’ Travkov, coming up against a stanchion on the chart-table’s other side as the ship rolled, catching him off-balance. ‘His Excellency’s hurt bad and the staff want him off, so—’
You’d hardly believe anyone could be alive in that burning wreck. Except one or two guns somewhere near her stern had still been firing a short while ago: which meant there had to be attackers too, a target for them to have been shooting at, whoever/whatever was still making a target of her. So much smoke though – and not only hers… The idea of getting the admiral out of his floating bonfire of a flagship meanwhile rang a bell: Narumov describing V.V. Ignatzius’s insistence on his admiral being saved: He’s our mainspring, without him we’d be lost…
The Buiny wouldn’t get in on Suvarov’s lee side. Even from here you could see that the flames and smoke were blowing out horizontally a good hundred yards down-wind. You’d be burnt to a frazzle, as well as choked and blinded. She’d have to do it from windward – dangerous enough even without whatever sporadic bombardment was still in progress; and to give her a chance of getting away with it, Ryazan would have to put herself – hold herself – where she’d provide some degree of shelter from shot and shell as well as weather, the wind tending to smash the little torpedo-boat against that hulk.
‘Conning-tower, Mikhail Ivan’ich!’
‘But you’re staying up here?’
‘For the moment only. Until I can see into the damn smoke. Destroyers in there somewhere—’
‘You mean Buiny—’
‘I mean enemy. Suvarov’s been holding ’em off this far, but—’
‘Guns on her stern?’
‘Gun, singular – one three-inch in her lower stern battery. Which they’re still trying to knock out, obviously to get in then with torpedoes.’
‘I’d take that gun’s crew off and give ’em medals!’
‘Hear, hear.’ Ducking to the voicepipe: ‘Steer five degrees to starboard.’ Glancing at Burmin then, who was shouting into a telephone – to Murayev in the conning-tower – ‘No, no target yet. I’ll warn you, when—’
‘Want me to do that?’
Point being that the view from inside the conning-tower was so limited, although it was where Murayev had to be to control the guns, and Galikovsky his torpedoes. Once targets were picked it was all right, but as it was – smoke creating virtual darkness and with only a slit to look through in that 5-inch armour, no idea yet what your enemy was or where – and the second-in-command having about fifty other things to do…
‘All right.’ Thrusting the telephone at him. ‘Torpedo-boat destroyers we’re looking for – right?’
He’d nodded. And been thrown one hard glance from Zakharov. He was on the step then with his glasses up, the telephone held with them, in one hand. Gunfire still more or less continuous but most of it from four or five miles away, in this vicinity definitely sporadic. Here – ahead – Suvarov’s smouldering hulk glowed through her own and others’ smoke: Ryazan entering it like a train rushing into a tunnel.
‘Here’s Buiny.’ Emerging from the smoke with them, a cable’s length to port: Zakharov must have seen her before, known where she was: hence that recent small alteration to starboard, maybe. Gun-flash on the bow: Jap destroyer. Turning away but had been very quick off the mark, the splash of that shell lifting only just short of the Buiny’s foc’sl. Michael told Murayev, ‘Thirty degrees on the bow to starboard – second one just beyond it – no, that’s a light cruiser!’
‘Right!’
Light cruiser wreathed in its own smoke, on fire aft and listing but with some guns – probably four-sevens – still manned: maybe by reduced crews, hence the slowness…
Ryazan slowing, interposing herself between the Buiny and their enemies. Zakharov was putting on starboard helm now, port rudder, to leave as narrow a gap as possible between this ship and the flagship’s wallowing, burning hulk, while still allowing Buiny room for manoeuvre. Ear-slamming impact of Ryazan’s for’ard 6-inch: more of it as she swung and brought her starboard broadside to bear. A spurt of flame then and a different but equally deafening explosion seemingly just abaft the bridge: 12-pounder shell – or a four-seven – bursting on either the foremost funnel or a ventilator, metal fragments whirring overhead. But it was a case of tit for tat, the destroyer had been hit and hit hard, cheers just audible through the continuing barrage. As she was lying now, five of Ryazan’s twelve 6-inch were in action, and the Black Sea influence – guns’ crews who knew what they were doing – was making itself felt. She’d been hit again though – starboard side aft. Michael trying to get rid of the telephone he’d found himself stuck with, Egorov obligingly taking it from him: he’d moved to the other side to watch the Buiny making her dangerous approach, when a torpedo from Ryazan blew the cruiser’s bow off. There was cheering over the gunfire and general racket: that was one enemy done for, leaving only the destroyer to be dealt with. And Buiny was in there now, lifting and falling on this lively sea, her skipper working his screws and helm to manoeuvre her in closer without getting skewered on the bent and twisted barrels of smashed guns projecting at all angles from their ports. Coming up against any of them his ship’s thin plating wouldn’t have stood a chance.
The focus of the whole endeavour was an embrasure standing open in Suvarov’s shell-scarred, ripped and punctured side, near her bow, with men moving in silhouette inside it waiting for them, no doubt the admiral amongst them – presumably not on his feet. How they hoped to make the transfer… Well, at the top of the three hundred and fifty ton destroyer’s upward swoop, obviously – slinging him over somehow. Difficult enough even with a normal, man-sized body, but that huge one…
The rate of fire from Ryazan’s guns had risen again, but less 6-inch now than 12-pounders blasting away: a new target presumably, maybe that destroyer chancing its arm again – or another one. One of its torpedoes was all you’d need – for a one-way ticket to Kingdom Come, a transfer which hundreds or even a few thousand had already made in the course of this now darkening afternoon. Not darkening, quite, but the light definitely fading: and a sudden blossoming of rosy light out there! He was in time to see the source of it – the destroyer or a destroyer, steel plating opening like the petals of a flower and from the brilliance inside a shower of burning debris—
‘Scrambling-net’s in place port side, sir!’
Burmin, hauling himself off the ladder into the bridge, reporting it to Zakharov – who after all had not transferred himself to the conning-tower. A scrambling-net was a large area of rope netting whose upper edge could be lashed to ship’s-side stanchions so that it covered the side down to the waterline – for use by survivors, swimmers, in this case Suvorov’s – if there were any. Buiny was now clear of her side, they must somehow have got the admiral on board and she was coming out of it stern-first, backing out around Ryazan’s stern.
Waiting now for men who’d jump – and have only to flounder about thirty yards to find sailors climbing down on the net to help them.
No one yet. Plenty of gunports standing open: and that embrasure as it had been, but untenanted. All such points untenanted.
‘Give ’em five minutes.’ Zakharov, shouting across the bridge to Burmin. ‘Before the big boys come back and finish us.’
Gunfire was all distant, none close by at all. And still no jumpers. Where they might come from anyway: there were none in sight anywhere. Maybe the men who’d brought the admiral down to that level through the internal furnace had gone over into the Buiny with him. Would have – dragging him over with them. Watching, waiting. Michael was thinking of Narumov and of Sollogub, or V.V. Ignatzius, maybe with Flagmansky in his arms.
No such luck.
Dark, now. On course south forty east at twenty-two knots, looking for the Dmitry Donskoi, who’d wirelessed in code
Under attack by two light cruisers, holding them while Sibir runs for it on course Shanghai. My position midway Wakamiya Shima and Okino Shima. Have sustained considerable damage and heavy casualties, support would be welcome.
Gunfire at that time had been like distant thunder from – they’d thought – the south, which was the way they’d been steering anyway, at more moderate speed, looking for the transports and Enqvist’s cruisers – amongst whom had been the Donskoi. On the basis of the position she’d given, however, they’d altered course to southeast and increased to their maximum four hundred and forty revs. At the same time Zakharov had wirelessed Joining you from northwesterly direction. Where is Enqvist? Paymaster Lyalin and Michman Rimsky had coded it up and the signal would have gone out just minutes ago.
Michael, wearing Radzianko’s oilskins, was in the front of the bridge with Zakharov, Burmin and Murayev, other bridge staff behind them. Wind and sea were on the quarter, there’d been some flurries of drizzle and there was a lot of movement on the ship – a lot of sea, ship and weather noise as well. Depending on the accuracy of the position given by Donskoi, one might see her at any time – especially if she was in action and had suffered damage, quite probably including fires: and Ryazan having had only fourteen miles to cover, at a rate of slightly more than a mile every three minutes. Although another factor was that a position given as midway between one island and another didn’t sound like needle-point accuracy, could have been a fairly wild and hurried approximation.
The battle astern had fizzled out at sundown. All they’d heard between then and the sound of action which had been reverberating more recently from this southerly direction had been – heard from below decks – what Engineer Arkoleyev had reckoned were torpedoes exploding a long way astern: one had guessed at coup de grâce by Japanese destroyers.
The Alexander, Oryol and Borodino would have been likely recipients of those, he guessed. Even Suvarov herself, if she hadn’t gone down before that.
‘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?