by Tim Chant
He returned Juneau’s earnest stare and realised that he was tempted. He owed Britain and the Royal Navy nothing, and as Juneau said there was a long and proud tradition of former officers serving other navies, often in disgrace. Naval tradition vaunted Lord Cochrane rather than holding him up as a villain.
But Britain and Russia had been enemies in the past and tensions were high enough that they had almost gone to war because of the very actions of this squadron. And, with a few exceptions, he didn’t think he’d find going up against his old comrades palatable.
“And if I politely decline, Juneau, will Tommy and I be put ashore here?” It occurred to him that he must now be trusted by them, if he was being offered a rank, respect and station.
“Ah. Officially the orders stand, but I am sure we can find a way to circumvent them without getting into too much trouble. It would be considerably easier to put Tomas’ka at liberty if you wore the Tsar’s uniform, of course.”
Juneau’s gaze was deliberately artless, as he laid a devil’s bargain in front of his ‘guest’. The only trouble with that offer, of course, was that it would be tantamount to abandoning the boy more than ten thousand miles from home. With the best will in the world, he would get himself into trouble before he got back.
“How about this, Mr Juneau,” Baxter said, carefully and formally. “Your wife has, I assume, told you what I told her?”
“The pertinent details, yes.”
“My offer is that I will remain aboard.” He said this with a slight smile, acknowledging he might actually have no choice in that. “I will continue to train your men in gunnery. As a … consulting gunner, shall we say?”
“And that would not conflict with any sense of duty you might have?”
“I very much doubt it. Think of it as self-preservation — if we do run into any enemy ships while I’m aboard, I don’t want to be killed because your lot can’t shoot back.” Juneau laughed at that, then his expression grew serious as Baxter lowered his voice. “I’ll also help you find this British agent you have aboard, if such a thing exists.”
“Surely that does offer some moral conflict for you?”
Baxter shook his head firmly. “Not in the slightest. Their plot involved me dying, and I take exception to that. I also do not think they have the best interests of either of our countries at heart.”
Juneau took a moment, regarding Baxter thoughtfully, then nodded. “And in return?”
“I imagine we will be passing Singapore, or some other colony. It would not be a great effort to put us ashore.”
“I imagine it would also be a good opportunity to put my wife ashore as well.” Juneau smiled a thin smile, and there was a sad knowing in it. Baxter was taken slightly aback by the expression. Did he know what had happened between his wife and Baxter, or was it more of an understanding that the Russians were sailing towards almost certain destruction?
The moment passed as one of the officers — Koenig, who Baxter had more or less supplanted earlier that day — rose to offer a toast to the gunnery of the Russian navy, which would surely sweep all before it. Juneau caught Baxter’s eyes with a knowing expression, and nodded very slightly.
“Blithering idiots, all of them!”
Baxter looked up at Juneau’s angry explosion, surprised to hear his normally mild-mannered friend vent like that. The count threw down the telegram he had been reading. “I have received word from a cousin,” he said bitterly. He didn’t expand further and Baxter didn’t ask — Juneau did not like to reference his family connections. “Apparently, our good Captain Nikolai Klado has finally convinced our illustrious leaders to assemble the scraps we left in the Baltic and dispatch anything that still floats as a third Pacific Squadron.”
Baxter put his head back and sighed. He knew he should be angry as well, but he still felt physically drained and exhausted after his illness. Plus, Juneau was angry enough for the both of them. “They are sending those men to their deaths,” he said simply. He didn’t mention that their own ship — and he realised he had come to think of the Yaroslavich as his ship — would have been one of those dregs if it wasn’t for her first officer’s influence.
“Everyone knows that except, it seems, Klado and our superiors.” The Russian sounded more bitter than Baxter had ever heard.
“When do they sail?”
Juneau’s laugh was harsh. “They are already on their way. Cousin Alexander only just thought to mention it to me while providing news of my family.”
That simple statement hid a depth of meaning. Russia, as far as anyone of them knew, was still gripped by unrest that bordered on bloody revolution — and Juneau’s family would be caught right in the middle of it. It was easy not to think of such matters, trapped as they were in this odd sweltering half-life.
“Everyone is well?” Ekaterina asked from the other side of the breakfast table, her voice mild.
Baxter hid a smile. Just the sound of her voice excited him. She glanced at him, sensing his attention, and gave him a slight smile of her own. Juneau had been aboard ship a lot in the last couple of weeks. When Baxter didn’t accompany him to provide his experience and expertise, he had spent many happy hours with Ekaterina.
Baxter didn’t know what to make of her or this odd arrangement they had found themselves in; he knew he should feel guilty about stolen nights with his friend’s wife, even if what Ekaterina had said was true. He was just — happier? — more content, perhaps? — than he had been for a very long time, and he clung to it with every ounce of his returning strength.
Juneau took a deep breath and a hold on his emotions. “All is well, and stability seems to be returning, just as it is here.” His eyes were clouded — they all knew that stability in the Motherland would have been achieved more severely than it had been here.
“Rozhestvensky will not be happy,” Baxter said thoughtfully, pushing away his plate. Pavel collected it, approval at the amount eaten evident. Maxim looked up from where he sprawled, panting, in the coolest part of the room, and then rested his head with a forlorn expression as he realised there would be no scraps right now.
“He has always been dead set against having a squadron of self-sinkers — he barely tolerates the Yaroslavich and others of her age. I have heard he has tried to resign at least once — I fear he will do something rash to try to avoid dear Nebagatov’s reinforcements.”
Ekaterina’s expression had hardened as she thought. “This may offer us an opportunity,” she said, and Baxter marvelled again at how completely she could shift. At one moment a refined lady of leisure, talking of family matters; the next a hard-headed woman determined, it seemed, to protect that family by any means necessary. Including putting herself into harm’s way, pistol blazing.
Juneau cocked his head. He often deferred to his wife in these matters, and not just because she obviously knew more than a mere naval officer could. Baxter looked between the two of them. He knew Ekaterina, intimately, and yet in many ways she remained a mystery to him. He realised at that point that it might be vital for him to know more — for his own safety. To understand how that switch could happen and where this most unladylike expertise seemed to come from.
“How so?” Juneau asked when Ekaterina sank back in her chair, expression thoughtful.
“The admiral, it seems to me, will put to sea shortly,” she said at last. “The Tsar has given him no option but to press on and try to secure a victory before he can be further hampered. Our friend aboard will almost certainly want to report any new movements to his superiors, and there are only so many ways that can be achieved.”
“Only two, in fact!” Juneau said with a smile. “The local post office, or the telegraph office in Diego-Suarez.”
“Indeed.” Ekaterina’s responding smile was predatory. “The latter being expensive, and difficult to get permission to use. The post office is therefore more likely. Luckily, I happen to have struck up a … friendship with the postmaster’s wife.”
Baxter tried not to sta
re at her, his previous feelings evaporating in a chill of apprehension. When she spoke like this, he realised, she sounded not unlike Arbuthnott. She went on in that cold, bloodless manner. “Her husband, it seems, can be absentminded about his keys, so has developed a shocking habit of leaving a spare set with his wife. She, ah, shall we say prefers the company of ladies and has been starved of it, certainly within the class she thinks of herself. I just need some sort of excuse to get her to give me access to the post box before it is dispatched.”
Baxter realised Juneau was as uncomfortable as he was with that proposition, and at the apparent lack of concern on Ekaterina’s part. Then Baxter smiled. “The wife, she is French?”
Ekaterina nodded, with narrowed eyes. Baxter smiled, without much humour, aware of the reason why the idea had come to him.
“Well, the French do love a scandal. Tell her you’re concerned one of the Yaroslavich’s officers is carrying on an affair with your … sister, shall we say?” It occurred to him that he had no idea what family she had, beyond her husband. There were certainly no children. “If the fleet is about to leave, our friend will no doubt want to communicate this to his paramour…”
Juneau frowned at Baxter, as though surprised that he should come up with something so underhanded, then shrugged. “It has merit,” the Russian officer said, with a glance at Ekaterina.
“It could work.” She pulled at her lower lip, an uncharacteristic gesture. “I should like more surety.”
“I could watch the post office as well,” Tommy piped up from the doorway. He’d finished breakfast some time ago — he ate ever greater amounts and faster — and they’d all thought he’d been off about his day. He was light on his feet, that one.
“One of these days, young Tommy,” Baxter said with exaggerated patience, “your habit of turning up at just the right moment will get you into trouble…”
“Will get me into trouble, I ken.” The boy slid onto a chair. “Who’re we watching for?”
Ekaterina’s eyes sparkled with amusement, her serious expression disappearing. “Well, Baxter, your country starts training its young men for war when they’re barely older.”
“To prepare them for when we’re at war,” Baxter growled. He realised he would have to accept that Tommy would get himself involved, no matter what he said, so it was better to know what he was up to. “But then, I suppose we are at war.”
Ekaterina’s eyes were a deep shade of green as she regarded him and for once he had an inkling of what she was thinking. Then she nodded. “Very well — let us make plans swiftly. We do not know how long we will tarry here.”
CHAPTER 14
They had even less time than they’d expected. Vice-Admiral Rozhestvensky was indeed determined to be away before the obsolete and unsuitable ships of the 3rd Pacific Squadron could catch up to him, and he threw his newly recovered energy into making that happen.
The squadron had lingered almost two months trapped in Nosy Be – Nossibeisk, as the Russians had come to call it. It seemed Rozhestvensky, had had enough of his Tsar and his commanders prevaricating and changing his orders and the 2nd Pacific Squadron was thrown into preparations for departure. Boats hurried here and there between the ships. A number of deputations from the Hamburg-Amerika company were seen going aboard the flag, Rozhestvensky no doubt negotiating for continued fuelling.
Juneau’s time was spent in preparing his ship — and it was clear to all that it was his ship now, not Gorchakov’s — to sail. Which meant Baxter, Ekaterina and Tommy had the task of hunting the snake in their midst.
“Tommy doesn’t cease to amaze me,” Baxter said quietly as he escorted Ekaterina to the post office. They walked arm in arm, Ekaterina just close enough to his side to be decent.
“I don’t know why, Baxter. He has many of your qualities.” He actually found himself blushing at the unexpected compliment, and a small smile danced around her lips. “He has, however, not yet picked up any of your flaws.”
The smile took away any possible sting from the words. The object of their discussion was nowhere to be seen, but they knew he was about as he’d summoned them.
Unbeknownst to any of them, Tommy had somehow developed something of a gang during the weeks of forced inactivity. It was composed primarily of local children, with some less well-to-do colonial offspring, and they had been watching the post office, noting the comings and goings of Russian officers. Tommy was well enough known by the Yaroslavich’s officers that he had to keep a low profile, but he’d been able to confirm two (Yefimov and Koenig) going in to send letters or packages, with another two that had been seen by Tommy’s followers and tentatively identified. The office had been busy, to the point that it had run out of stamps at least once in the squadron’s stay – there was no way to guarantee if any of them were, in fact, British agents.
“In all seriousness, Baxter, you are a leader of men — though you may not realise it. And Tommy has already learned a lot from you.” She patted his arm. “Now, it is probably best that I go and see Madame Larousse by myself. We have a delicate matter to discuss. Why don’t you peruse some stalls? I don’t imagine I will be long.”
Ekaterina was a while with the postmaster’s wife; taking enough time in fact that Baxter was starting to feel more than a bit suspicious just hanging around the streets near the post office. It was one of a handful of brick-built buildings in the settlement that had leapt up around the harbour, up on the hill overlooking Passandava Bay.
It was quite a view from up there, overlooking the spread of warships – those familiar from the long weeks of the journey, others either of the formation that had come via the Suex Canal and had had a much easier journey of it, as well as a clutch of cruisers despatched from the Baltic after the bulk of the squadron was well on its way. He was so lost in the view that he didn’t notice Ekaterina until she had taken his arm. She smiled up at him, slightly quizzically. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“You were deep in thought.”
“Just enjoying the view,” he said cheerfully, deliberately shaking off the dark mood that had threatened to overwhelm him at the thought of all these ships and men sailing towards destruction.
She had a certain glow of excitement about her, slightly flushed cheeks and a gleam in her eyes. “Any luck?”
“Well, it took some tears and a lot of persuasion, but Elaine — Madame Larousse to you, Mr Baxter — was persuaded to part with the keys so I could check the accumulated post for letters to my, ah, sister. Immodest or not. Mr Koenig is a dutiful son who sent a fulsome letter to his parents, in case he should not see them again. Lieutenant Yefimov merely sent a letter to his tailor with new measurements.”
“Why the devil would someone send a message to their tailor from here, and it’s not like the man has grown at all!”
“Indeed. Particularly when his tailor is, apparently, in Durban.”
“Yefimov?” Juneau asked, astonishment clear in his eyes. “He has no love of the British.”
“He appears to have no love, husband,” Ekaterina corrected him. As usual, they were speaking English when they discussed such matters — their command of the language was better than Baxter’s command of Russian, and they were less likely to be overheard by someone who could follow the conversation.
“He certainly has no love for you,” Baxter pointed out.
Juneau looked slightly hurt by that. Though by no means a man who curried favour and affection from his subordinates, the Russian officer was also one who wanted to get along with everyone. “I had never…”
“Think about it, man,” Baxter interrupted, voice harsher than he’d meant. “He’s at least a decade older than you, and to give him his due, he’s a perfectly competent officer. And there he is, an ageing lieutenant, and you’re his superior. And while you’re certainly a better officer and seaman, the reason you got that post and he didn’t is because of an accident of birth.”
Baxter realised he had risen, and the Juneaus were both eyeing him with some
trepidation. He realised his blood was up, because suddenly he had seen himself in Yefimov, or at least what he could have ended up as. Perhaps being cashiered from the navy had saved him after all.
He forced himself to breathe out and sit back down. “He may not love the British, Juneau, and he may still love Russia — but like many he is perhaps unhappy with the current state of things.”
“Are you sure you’re not a revolutionary, Baxter?” Ekaterina said, her teasing tone breaking the tension that his fury had created.
He smiled. “I could very well have been, were I born in Russia.”
She gave him a fleeting smile. “Accidents of birth.”
There was a gentle knock at the door, and Pavel entered at Juneau’s invitation. “The last of the chests is ready to go aboard, Graf,” he said in his soft voice. He must have heard the raised voices, but gave no sign of it — ever the consummate servant. If anything, that made Baxter’s rage boil again.
“Thank you, Pavel,” Juneau said gently. “We will repair aboard immediately.”
The steward withdrew as quiet as he had entered.
“We must make arrangements to put Pavel ashore before we reach dangerous waters,” Juneau commented as an aside, then shook his head sadly and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. “We, of course, do not have any evidence that Yefimov has behaved in an ill way — not even the Guard Department would arrest a man on so little.”
Baxter caught the slight edge of Juneau’s tone and also the answering scowl from his wife. “Guard Department?” he asked.
Ekaterina looked slightly pained as Juneau opened his mouth, and he made a placating gesture. “Merely a branch of our police force,” he said, his voice very careful. “Specifically charged with countering revolutionary activity and protecting the Royal family.”
