He’d written a letter to Tasha – in Russian – and enclosed it with one in English to Jane; telling Tasha that she was in his mind night and day, and a lot more that was much more intimate, emotions and images that had interrupted his sleep night after night, set his brain and body on fire even to think about, let alone put down on paper; but also prosaically informing both of them that the squadron was at sea and on its way. Which it was again now, after spending two days at anchor off Langeland, the mass of ships then filing up through the Belts and into the Kattegat. Sea calm, rain still about but with fine spells in between, barometer happily a bit higher than it had been.
On arrival off Langeland the whole squadron had coaled, from colliers of the Hamburg-Amerika Line who’d been waiting for them. Sollogub, who as assistant navigator heard a lot of what was going on or being planned, had said he thought this would be the shape of it all the way round the world, rendezvous after rendezvous with German colliers under no doubt highly lucrative contract to St Petersburg and in constant wireless contact with this flagship.
If the wireless worked. That was German too, and there were doubts about it, apparently.
After coaling, a day and a half had been spent trying to set up a minesweeping operation. Selyeznov had persuaded Rojhestvensky to give him his head on this, since danger from mines was so obvious, and he, Selyeznov, had apparently organized sweeping off Port Arthur with great success. In the Great Belt, however, it hadn’t worked. For one thing the ships allocated to it were of such disparate size and power; the large ice-breaker Yermak and the small tug Roland were required to drag between them a considerable length of chain cable with small grapnels trailing from it on lighter chains. Each of the major vessels in the squadron had been told to have their engineers work all night forging grapnels, but only a few had filled their quota, and the fleet repair ship Kamchatka which should have supplied fifty had made none at all. Asked by semaphore from Selyeznov Why not? the reply had been Because no written order was received. Eventually Selyeznov, fuming, had embarked in the tug to take command of the sweep, which of course was intended to precede the squadron all the way through the danger area, but he ended up being towed into the Great Belt stern-first, signalling in panic to the Yermak Stop your engines. What are you doing? At about the same time the chain cable snapped, while the looming mass of the squadron under a pall of black funnel-smoke was closing up remorselessly astern. Rojhestvensky then saved the day by signalling The passage is to be considered as having been swept, and the Second Pacific Squadron ploughed on by, ancient battleships dwarfing the two small craft and collision after collision being narrowly avoided, tug and ice-breaker pitching and rolling helplessly in the great ships’ spreading wakes and bow-waves.
‘Zenovy Petrovich was spitting blood,’ Sollogub had remarked later, joining Michael in the after bridge. ‘And I’d guess your friend Selyeznov might have been in tears.’
Michael had had his own binoculars up there with him – a pair of Messrs Heath’s Prism Binocular Glasses which had been an extravagant present years ago from brother George – and although with the restricted view forward from this after bridge he hadn’t been able to see it all, he’d had a fair notion of what had been going on. Even in the Royal Navy one had on occasion been privileged to witness snarl-ups, and seeing some of it, one could guess at underlying causes; although a disadvantage from which Michael suffered was that he couldn’t read Russian semaphore, let alone Tabulevich.
What he had been able to do while in that anchorage was sort out some ship detail, especially in regard to the cruisers and to the still absent Ryazan. The Oleg was apparently Ryazan’s only sister-ship, and theoretically belonged in this squadron but had been left behind in Reval or Kronstadt for the repair or replacement of machinery that was thought to have been sabotaged. She was expected to overtake and rejoin at some later stage. The Aurora on the other hand was a sister to the Diana – the ship Selyeznov had left in a wrecked condition in Saigon – while the other two ‘first-class’ cruisers, Zemchug and Izumrud, were of only half that displacement, definitely light-cruisers and accordingly more lightly armed – with 4.7-inch instead of the others’ 6-inch – and slower.
Most of this information came from Captain Ignatzius who, to Michael’s surprise, in contrast to the ancient RN tradition of captains messing in solitary grandeur, had all his meals in the wardroom and was a most relaxed and companionable messmate: from Michael’s point of view in fact he had been helping to break the social ice. Suvarov’s executive officer or second-in-command, for instance – Captain Second Rank Makedomsky – was a contrastingly morose individual with whom it was virtually impossible to have any sort of conversation. Whereas even on the evening after the minesweeping debacle, when there were also serious worries about the squadron’s wireless communications, Ignatzius wasn’t letting anything get him down. He’d been making fun of Selyeznov and his slapstick performance in the tug, and from this the chat had turned to the Oryol’s breakdown: her steering had failed, she’d had to drop astern and anchor in the middle of the Great Belt, and the admiral had found he couldn’t communicate with her by wireless and had had to contrive a way of doing so through the tug Roland, which having been left astern of the main body, with Selyeznov still on board, had gone to stand by the Oryol. Wireless messages were then sent via the tug, which passed them to and from the Oryol by semaphore. Ignatzius had found this screamingly funny too – that the much-vaunted Second Squadron should have been sent on its way with ships unable to communicate with each other, let alone with the outside world.
‘Some German system, they were saying?’
Sollogub had nodded. ‘Bogdanov and Leontiev have been grousing about it day and night.’
Bogdanov was the torpedo lieutenant, also the ship’s wireless expert. The two jobs went together, apparently. Leontiev was the flag torpedo lieutenant – and wireless expert – on Rojhestvensky’s staff. Michael asked them, ‘Why couldn’t you have had Marconi?’
‘Much too simple. The Marconi system works!’ Ignatzius threw a crust of bread for Flagmansky to chase. Two other dogs seemed to have been adopted by the wardroom now, one a smaller edition of Flagmansky, dachshund-shaped, and the other a smooth fox-terrier puppy. Sollogub told Michael, ‘This German gear is called Slaby-Arco. Untried, experimental and, according to Bogdanov, bloody useless. Just happens the technical committee in Petersburg plumped for it – for the entire squadron. It’s the Central Administration who issue the contract – and of course one asks oneself who’s paying out how much to whom!’
‘But couldn’t the admiral—’
‘He’d have had no say in it at all. We’re talking about the Central Administration for heaven’s sake!’
‘But to be steaming halfway round the world, and unable to communicate—’
‘They may yet get the hang of it.’ Ignatzius crossed his thick fingers. ‘We have German technicians with us, squarehead bastards must be capable of something.’
The next anchorage – to coal again, also to wait for the Oryol to catch up – was south-southwest of the Skaw. In fact the squadron sailed again without fully completing the coaling, in order to forestall the Japanese, who it was assumed would be expecting Rojhestvensky to take his squadron around the top of Scotland and coal at the Faroe Islands. There’d been reports of strange vessels and suspicious movements on the southwest coast of Norway and off northeast Britain. What the Japanese would not be expecting, therefore, would be for the squadron to take the ‘obvious’ route, the shorter way – moving out sooner than expected into the ‘German Ocean’ and there turning sharp left to make a dash – at least, the Second Pacific Squadron’s equivalent of a dash – southward through the English Channel. This was October 21st, Michael noted – Trafalgar Day. The Oryol had arrived on the 20th; it was her steering engine that had given trouble – and according to Narumov was likely to give a lot more. In the same breath the constructor had mentioned that the destroyer Prosorlivy was being sent back to Libau with condenser trouble.
‘One thing after another, isn’t it?’
‘Or teething troubles – getting the worst of it over right at the start?’
‘The general view – which I believe I share, despite your English complacency – is that the worst is likely to hit us on this next stage. That damned English Channel – if they’re going to hit us anywhere…’
‘East China Sea or Yellow Sea is where they’ll hit us. Why would they bother to flog all the way over here?’
He added to himself mentally, When all they need do is sit and wait for us…
It didn’t really bear thinking about. The state this squadron might be in by that time – and Togo’s fleet in mint condition – fighting-fit, highly trained, experienced in battle and high in morale, and for maintenance purposes close to their own ports and dockyards!
At three in the afternoon the destroyers, fleet auxiliaries and transports including the Anadyr, Sibir, Irtysh, repair-ship Kamchatka, and the Yermak – which had been into Fredrikshavn to land mail, land also the binocular-sight artisans, who’d return to Kronstadt by rail – weighed anchor and set course to round the Skaw. Then the first division of cruisers: Oleg, Aurora and the little Svetlana, and the old Dmitry Donskoi which had been built to carry sails – and might have got along better, Ignatzius had remarked, if she’d still had some. Behind them, the second division: Zemchug and Izumrud, and the Almaz – which looked more like a yacht than a cruiser. The cruisers were under the command of a Rear-Admiral Enqvist, of whom up to this time Michael hadn’t heard. He had a straggly white beard like an Old Testament prophet, Sollugub said. ‘Weighing and proceeding’ was a slow process: at about seven p.m, the second division of battleships got under way, to be followed an hour and a half later by these four – Suvarov, Alexander III, Borodino, Oryol – accompanied for some reason by the transports Anadyr and Sibir.
At dinner in the wardroom there was talk of omens, of which during the day there’d apparently been a number, all of them scary. Michael observed to the chaplain, Rasschakovsky, who’d been advising them all to place their trust in Almighty God, that by morning they’d have rounded the Skaw and be safely out in the open sea.
‘So they’ll strike at us before dawn. First light’s the time to watch out for.’ This advice came from Guryenko, the paymaster – who knew rather less about fighting tactics, Lieutenant Danchik was heard to murmur, than Flagmansky did. A michman by name of Shishkin added, ‘But it could come at any hour. Any moment. Turn in wearing a lifebelt, Padre, if I were you.’ They believed it, weren’t just teasing him. Michael had expected that once they were out of the narrows and through the Kattegat – up here rounding the Skaw in fact – they’d have pulled themselves together, but not a bit of it.
Trafalgar night, he remembered. The ninety-ninth anniversary. Should have ordered some decent wine and toasted the Immortal Memory. Too late now, anyway. He said goodnight and went to his cabin, where Narumov, who’d eaten early, was once again writing to his wife.
‘I write every day if I have the time. A series of notes, thoughts, observations, more than letters of an ordinary kind. Keeping it up to date; when I hear there’s a mail about to be landed all I need do is add a line of farewell, and off it goes. Still a clear sky up there, is there?’
‘Moonlit, clear and calm.’
‘Would moonlight be more in our favour, or the enemy’s?’
‘Depends on the direction from which an attack was being made. The attacker would want to have us in silhouette with the moon behind us – while we’d do better to have him in that position.’
‘So he – the attacker – since he’s the one who chooses his line of approach, would be invisible to us, at least until the attack developed – and if it was torpedo-fire, as one imagines it would be—’
‘It’s all imagination, my dear chap. Don’t go frightening your poor wife with that nonsense!’
Next evening while Michael was smartening himself up for dinner, Narumov insisted on reading out aloud some further extracts from his long-running letter.
‘This I wrote yesterday at eight p.m. I would like your opinion of the literary style: as you’ll have realized, my education has been largely technical, vocational. Listen: “Panic has us by the throat. Disturbances in the sea are watched fearfully. The weather is good – it is warm and there is moonlight – but our nerves are stretched taut. The guns are loaded, the turrets’ crews are standing about on deck. Half of them will sleep at their guns fully dressed, the other half – and their officers – will keep watch. It is strange, to be so far from the theatre of war and yet so conscious of the dangers surrounding us.”’
‘Well, that’s the truth!’
‘But the style?’
‘Oh, you put it down very well, I think. But your poor wife—’
‘The fact she’ll have received the letter –’ flipping the pages – ‘with these later additions, incidentally—’
‘Should reassure her that those fears were all imaginary.’
‘Well, hear this. I offer it as proof that I’m telling her nothing but the truth. I wrote this during the forenoon. Listen, just this once more?’
‘If you like.’ He’d fixed his bow tie. With his better uniform suit on it was as far as he could go towards changing for dinner; he’d saved packing-space – to his sister-in-law’s consternation although it had made the job easier for her – by not bringing Mess Undress uniform with him.
Narumov cleared his throat, and began: ‘“What a night it has been – racked with constant anxiety. Earlier on in the evening there was nervous tension, then barely concealed panic when news was received that four suspicious craft showing no lights had been spotted from the leading ships. Vigilance was redoubled – but thank God the night passed uneventfully. At present we are in fog. Nothing is visible all round and the sirens are shrieking. I went to bed fully dressed last night and awoke quite freezing. The rats – of which there are hundreds in this ship – can be heard moving about all night. We are now in the German Ocean, which they say will be rough. At present it is calm under the fog. We will be calling in at Brest, in France, and although it is said there will be no communication with the shore I very much hope it will be possible to land mail.”’
Head up again: ‘None of that would frighten her, would it?’
‘I’d guess she’s beyond being frightened, by this time. But are you coming along to the wardroom? Oh, the style’s excellent, by the way.’
The fog had lifted at about midday, a wind coming up to clear it, and there’d been relief as the blare of ‘sirens’ – fog-horns – died away. The noise had been tremendous, Suvarov and her sisters like monsters trying to roar each other down. Afternoon and early evening passed without incident, but with very few of the squadron’s forty-odd ships in sight, despite good visibility. One could see only the battleships and the Anadyr; even the four Suvarov class quite widely separated now, and no one bothering about it, and the second division – Oslyabya and company – discernible but a very long way astern. Discernible in fact mainly by the smoke they were making. The cruisers were all miles ahead – according to Sollogub when he joined Michael in the wardroom – while the transports with the auxiliaries escorting them were somewhere in between. Nobody seemed to have heard anything of the Ryazan; perhaps she was down there with other cruisers. The repair-ship Kamchatka though had reported a breakdown during the dark hours and hadn’t been heard of since; Enqvist, the cruiser admiral, who should have had her under his wing, had told Rojhestvensky that he had no idea at all where she might be. Narumov commented, when he joined Michael and some others in the wardroom, arriving neck-and-neck with Sollogub coming from the forebridge – the count’s stint having finished at eight p.m. – that in his opinion it mightn’t be a bad thing if the Kamchatka did get lost. He’d spent time on board her, of course, in connection with various repairs – the Buistry’s, for instance.
Michael had ordered a round of vodka, signalled now to the steward to bring glasses for Sollogub and Narumov too. Asking Sollogub, ‘All the same up top?’
‘Wind’s come up a little, sea’s getting a bit bumpy. Well, you can feel it, can’t you? Apart from that, guns and searchlights manned, lookouts’ eyes on stalks.’ He took his vodka. ‘Best not to drink too many of these, in case we suddenly find ourselves fending off the entire Royal Navy. How far’s Portsmouth from here?’
‘It’s you who’s just come from the chart. But a long, long way.’ Michael smiled. ‘No need to be frightened.’ He picked up his glass: ‘To the bottom!’
‘The bottom!’
Heads back, vodka sluicing down, grimaces for a moment and watering eyes. Michael thinking that the battleships’ present position would be roughly halfway down the length of Denmark, but in aiming for the Strait of Dover their course would be fairly well out – before long in fact would be skirting the Dogger Bank.
Michman von Kursel stumbled into the wardroom, looked around in his dumb-ox way, then spotted Sollogub and came lurching over. He was a Courlander, apparently – came from somewhere near Libau – and although he spoke Russian fluently his home language was German. Murmuring in Sollogub’s ear now: Sollogub looking surprised, jerking his head round to stare up at him: ‘This some leg-pull?’
‘No, sir, not at all. Captain Sidorenko wants you back up there.’ He told them all, then: ‘The Kamchatka is under attack by torpedo-boats.’
‘Where?’
‘Don’t know. Nobody does. That’s half the problem.’
‘Christ Almighty!’
There was a rush for the door – almost as if he’d said this ship was under attack. Sollogub suprised Michael with, ‘Want to come up?’
‘To the forebridge?’
‘Well, chartroom. After all – this close to British waters—’
Narumov cut in with a hand on Michael’s arm. ‘Nothing in it, eh? Not possible anywhere in European waters, did you say?’
In the chartroom, Sollogub’s superior – the senior navigator, Captain Second Rank Sidorenko – stout, with sparse grey hair and a contrastingly black moustache – stared at Michael in surprise. They’d met a couple of times in the wardroom. Sollogub explained, ‘Lieutenant Genderson is here at my request – being himself a navigator, and seeing as we’re on the edge of British waters – well, if one had questions—’
‘Take a look at these.’
Signals, scrawled in blacklead pencil. Sidorenko handed them over one at a time and watched their faces as they read them. The first one was to the Suvarov from Kamchatka: I am being pursued by torpedo-boats.
Next, to Kamchatka from Suvarov: How many? From which side?
Kamchatka had replied: From all directions.
Michael thinking, I don’t believe this…
A messenger came in, put another signal form in front of Sidorenko, who turned it so the others could read it too. To Kamchatka from Suvarov: How many torpedo-boats? Give details.
Michael said – since both Russians were staring at him, seemingly wanting his reactions – ‘I’d guess the Kamchatka’s skipper’s had a few too many. He’ll tell us next he’s being chased by pink elephants.’ Actually he didn’t think Rojhestvensky’s questions were all that pertinent, either. Sidorenko murmured, fingering his moustache, ‘He’d have to be raving mad as well as drunk – if it isn’t really happening!’
Michael checked the dead-reckoning position on the chart. It was about where he’d expected, but being so spread out the squadron would of course be covering a very large area of sea. The cruisers for instance might be fifty or more miles ahead. He shook his head: ‘If there were Japanese torpedo-boats in these waters – which there can’t be – why would they be wasting their time on the Kamchatka? An old steamer of no distinction whatsoever – virtually unarmed, slow, and in any case with nothing to link her to this squadron.’
‘Very much what’s been puzzling me.’ Sidorenko nodded. ‘Why indeed? On the other hand, why would he say he’s under attack by torpedo-boats?’
The messenger came back in and handed him two more signals.
Kamchatka to Suvarov: About eight torpedo-boats. And Suvarov to Kamchatka: What distance are they from you?
Sollogub muttered, ‘What a useless question.’ He took out his cigarette-case, offered it to his chief, who declined, and to Michael, who took one. Sidorenko explaining to Sollogub, ‘I sent for you because once a panic starts the admiral seems to want me at his side – for some reason—’
‘But the Flag navigating officer—’
‘Exactly. Where does he get to? Anyway, that being the case, I need to have you in here.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘You two can’t have dined yet, I suppose.’
‘I doubt anyone has. Imagine it – Flagmansky’s dream of heaven: wardroom table spread with dishes and nobody there to beat him off. Him or his Flag lieutenants.’ Sollogub laughed. ‘Don’t worry, they’ll be keeping it hot for us. Oh, here we go again…’
The signals received and transmitted during the next twenty minutes were: first, the repair-ship’s reply to the What distance question, which was About a cable’s length. A cable’s length being only two hundred yards, it was a case of a silly question getting a silly answer.
And then – from Suvarov: Have they fired torpedoes?
From Kamchatka: We haven’t seen any.
From Suvarov: What course are you steering?
From Kamchatka: South seventy east. Please give position of squadron.
A peculiar course to be steering, Michael thought. Unless she was in the approaches to the Firth of Forth, say. More likely perhaps somewhere off Jutland and they’d meant south seventy west. But neither of the others had commented; and Rojhestvensky wasn’t giving away his position, replying instead with, Are torpedo-boats still chasing you? Evade the danger. Change your course. Indicate your position and we will send further instructions.
From Kamchatka then: Fear messages will be intercepted.
Sidorenko thumped the chart-table: ‘You’re right, this is a farce! I’m sorry to have dragged you up here. Please, go on down and have your meal.’
Sollogub said, shrugging, ‘If Flagmansky’s left us any…’
It was about ten-thirty when he went to turn in. Narumov was already asleep and snoring. Michael had decided that the solution to the Kamchatka mystery might be that her skipper had been given a mistaken, panicky report by a lookout, sent off the first signal in a rush of panic of his own, then realized it was a false alarm but felt stuck with it, tried to bluff his way through. His judgement might also have been clouded by drink, of course.
That probably was the answer. Rather more alarming therefore was Rojhestvensky having taken it seriously and for so long continued with that gibberish. Michman von Kursel, who’d returned to the wardroom while Michael and Sollogub had been eating, had told them there’d been further exchanges and that some of the senior officers including Selyeznov had thought it might be a Japanese torpedo-boat flotilla commander impersonating the Kamchatka in the hope of being given the battleships’ position. Sollogub had exclaimed, ‘Isn’t it remarkable what stark terror can do to the human brain?’
Michael turned in quietly, taking care not to disturb Narumov, pulled a blanket over himself and encouraged his thoughts to drift to Tasha. Who by this time would be in Yalta: and with whom he could have been, if he’d rejected Prince Igor’s invitation. Not in Yalta – in those circumstances he’d have had to have got her quickly out of Russia: maybe via Paris. But he could not have kept from the Admiralty that he’d had the invitation and declined it: Prince Igor had made sure of that, told him he intended writing to them – as he had done, in the event addressing his letter to Admiral Sir John Fisher whom as it happened both Prince Ivan and Rojhestvensky had had the honour of meeting, when the latter had been naval attache in London some years earlier, and who it was no secret was about to be appointed First Sea Lord. In his letter Prince Igor had explained that he’d issued the invitation only out of his considerable regard for Lieutenant Henderson and his late father, and very much hoped the young man would be granted an appropriate extension to his leave. Igor had of course foreseen that Naval Intelligence, to whom his letter would be passed, would be very keen to have their own observer in the Russian squadron – as they had already with the Japanese – and that if Michael had turned down the opportunity he’d have been sabotaging his own prospects even of eventual promotion, let alone hopes of the ‘accelerated’ variety.
If he had refused the invitation, at Injhavino that crisis morning, he’d have had to have eloped with Tasha immediately, there and then: and it would have been in Prince Igor’s power to have them stopped – physically stopped and detained at the frontier, if not sooner. Ignominious return home for Tasha then, and perhaps a rushed, early marriage to Zakharov; plus – you could bet on it – a followup communication to Jackie Fisher referring to Lieutenant Henderson’s disreputable conduct in attempting to make off with the Princess Natasha Igorovna Volodnyakova, who’d only recently left school and in any case had been ‘promised’ to a certain distinguished officer in the Imperial Russian Navy.
Michael knew that if he’d run off with her he’d never have got beyond Senior Lieutenant. Hard up, and with a failed marriage almost inevitably to follow. In fact, not necessarily all that hard up, since his mother had become rich in her own right, following the deaths of her parents and subsequent sale of the Sevasyeyev estate, to which she’d been sole heiress. But if he wasn’t standing on his own feet it would still amount to failure, which was what Anna Feodorovna hadn’t understood.
He’d sworn to Tasha he’d come back to her. Sworn it in the dark and in daylight (in Paris) too, and repeated it on the platform at the Gare du Nord. All right, so in this shambles of a squadron he could end up being drowned. Could, but would not. Please God, would not. Whatever happened, there’d be some survivors, and – again, please God – he’d be one of them.
While Zakharov might not be?
Alternatively, if they both survived – well, he’d have to get to her and get her away before Prince Igor knew he was back in Russia. Or telegraph, have Anna Feodorovna take her to Wiltshire where he’d join them when he could. As far as their Lordships were concerned he’d have done this job, might hope they’d turn blind eyes or at least non-censorious ones on his private life. The dream-picture though was of Tasha beside him in a troika racing to the frontier. Tasha in close-up, lovely in her furs, the three horses’ pounding hooves, and somewhere ahead the sanctuary where he’d divest her of those furs and every damn thing else.
Drifting off. Behind his closed eyelids, Tasha’s body emerging from fur and silk. Tasha’s scent, her touch…
Crash of gunfire. He felt it as well as heard it: even in half-sleep still. Bugle-call, then. Action stations? And the guns again – starboard for’ard 6-inch, he thought. The light was on, and Narumov was shouting from close range, ‘Genderson! Genderson, wake up!’