The Straits of Tsushima: An action-packed historical military adventure (Marcus Baxter Naval Thrillers Book 1)

by Tim Chant

  He brought the pinnace alongside the lamed warship at Juneau’s signal. There was an odd, stunned silence aboard, as though the detonation had killed or incapacitated everyone. Then Juneau’s tired, drawn face appeared at the head of the ladder as he pulled himself up. He didn’t look angry or even particularly desperate, but that didn’t lighten Baxter’s mood. The knowledge that he had failed, that at the last the enemy had managed to sneak past a guard he and the others had maintained all night, gnawed at him.

  It must have shown on his face as he pulled himself wearily over the side and stood, clothes still damp from the drenching they’d all taken, staring about desolately. The crew lay or sat listlessly, the fight knocked out of them by that cruel blow at the end of a vicious night. Juneau, though, embraced him and kissed him on each cheek. “Well, my friend. You and the others kept us safe through the night, as you had been ordered. No one could have asked for more.”

  “What’s our status?” Baxter asked gruffly, trying not to let his gratitude for Juneau’s consoling words show. That wouldn’t do.

  Juneau led him to one side and lowered his voice. “We’re stopped, and taking on water,” he said. “The torpedo holed us not far from the stern and sheered one of the screw shafts cleanly, damaging the other.”

  Below the waterline. Once that would have been the safest place for anyone in a naval battle, just so long as the ship floated. The torpedo had changed all of that. “Losses?” Baxter asked in a sick voice.

  “Many, including Chief Engineer Kurylov. It must have been hell down there, trying to stem the damage and get hatches shut.” Juneau laid a hand on Baxter’s arm. “Ekaterina and Tommy are safe — they are still helping in the sickbay.”

  “Well, we’ve been without the screws before,” Baxter said, forcing himself to sound and feel confident. “We can…”

  Juneau’s glum expression stopped him in his tracks. “We can get a few sails up, but the masts and rigging were badly damaged during the fighting yesterday — shell splinters for the most part.”

  “Well, we can start splicing and mending now.”

  “We took on no spares,” Juneau said, his voice suddenly anguished. “We didn’t think…”

  Pavel was making his way across the deck towards them, a tray balanced in one hand with glasses of hot tea steaming on it. Where everything around them was grimy and torn, bloodstains and scorch-marks on the once-pristine decks, the captain’s steward was still neat and dapper. Baxter took the tea with a grateful nod and sipped at the scalding liquid. “I am afraid the wardroom, Graf, has been somewhat destroyed and the galley damaged,” Pavel reported to his commander in his very formal French. “We are doing what we can.”

  “The crew must be fed and given tea as well,” Juneau said, his voice slightly reproving.

  Pavel, always a slightly bent over old man, drew himself up as far as he could. “This is being seen to, your Serenity.” His French had become positively frosty.

  “I am sorry, dutiful old friend,” Juneau said with a wry smile. “I was angry because I had not thought of it myself.”

  Ekaterina at that moment appeared from the ship’s superstructure. Where Pavel had somehow managed to remain neat and tidy, she looked as exhausted and dirty as the rest of them. Dry blood stained the front of the simple smock she wore and her hair was tied back in an old scarf. When their eyes met across the deck, though, Baxter felt his heart skip a beat.

  She smiled at him and nodded a greeting. She emerged into the weak sunlight, helping Tommy pull a cart carrying an enormous, dented silver samovar that had once been in the wardroom. Her voice rang out, cool and clear. “Come, my friends,” gesturing at the nearest sailors. She was followed by the cooks, including the wardroom cook, bearing platters of cured meat and ship’s biscuit. While some men shuffled forward to receive their allotment — and there was no pushing to get to the front or to receive more than their fair share — others remained collapsed. Ekaterina started filling tin mugs from the samovar and taking them to those too exhausted to move.

  Baxter couldn’t help but smile. Whatever else happened this day, he knew she had cemented her legend. “She’s going to fight, when it comes time to leave,” he said.

  “She is, but you must not let her.” Juneau’s voice was hard, and when he glanced down at the smaller man he saw steel in his stare, and something else. Grief, possessiveness. Jealousy? “I have placed many burdens on you, and you have shouldered them without complaint. This is the most important one.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “Oh, I’m not giving up yet. We’ll try to get some sort of steerage way on her and plot a course for Vladivostok. We have come this far, and it would seem a shame to give up now. If luck is with us, you will not even have to pry my wife from my loving arms.”

  There was a glitter in Juneau’s eyes that confirmed for Baxter that he knew exactly what had passed between him and Ekaterina. Baxter felt a fresh stab of guilt, ridiculous as it was in this dire situation. It wasn’t an emotion he was used to, and he quickly sought to change the subject.

  “If luck does not hold, and we come upon the enemy?”

  “Oh, I doubt we will be coming upon anything — but if the enemy finds us, I shall discharge a few shells for the sake of honour and then signal my surrender. I am no fool, to die pointlessly for Tsar and the Motherland.”

  CHAPTER 24

  A tense silence hung over the open bridge as the Yaroslavich limped towards her final destination. By some miracle, a junior engineering officer had managed to effect enough of a repair to the one intact drive shaft to start the starboard screw turning. Baxter had no idea how, but the man deserved a medal for achieving it. At the same time, he and any other spare hand had been put to work trying to get at least a scrap of sail up on the pole masts. Now a few square yards of patched canvas flapped in the gentle breeze. It was hard to say whether they were adding anything, but Juneau had left them up.

  “We have no other option but to sail straight for Vladivostok,” Juneau had said after he’d sent his best, strongest men to the helm to keep the cruiser on course as she made a handful of knots towards safety. “And pray that we are either not seen or not considered worth a few shells.”

  With their own immediate danger past, every available pair of eyes were turned to scanning the sea. Alert not just for possible enemy attacks, but searching even more keenly for a friendly ship. Yesterday’s fog had been burned down and blown away to a few drifting banks by the bright sun and stiff breeze, a mixed blessing as it could no longer hide them. They’d been hearing gunnery again for a few minutes, but distantly.

  “I have them,” Koenig called down from the lookout nest halfway up the midships mast. “A little south-west of our current course.”

  Every head on the bridge, including those without glasses or a telescope, swivelled in the indicated direction. Even Ekaterina was there, holding a finely made pair of binoculars. Baxter squinted through his considerably plainer Imperial Russian Navy-issue set. What was left of the the rolling mix of fog and smoke still made it hard to make out what was going on, and then he managed to fix the image of a ship in the magnified view. Clearly a battleship, and even though he’d never seen her before there was something about her construction that told him she’d been built in a British shipyard — as most of the Japanese fleet had been.

  “That must be the main Japanese line,” Baxter said without lowering the field glasses. A few voices murmured agreement.

  As he watched, the ship’s main guns fired. She looked like a clever toy at this distance, spitting pyrotechnics for the amusement of children. Up close, though, she would be a thing of terrible power, and being on the receiving end of that fire would be both terrifying and devastating.

  The distant sparkle of muzzle flashes at least told them the general direction of their own ships. He looked beyond the line of enemy ships emerging from the fog and could just make out grey shapes that must be the remnants of the Russian battle line — he coul
dn’t get an exact count, but there were certainly a number of battleships there, huddled into a bay on the Korean coast. Not as many as they had started yesterday with. Waterspouts were rising all around them as the Japanese pounded them.

  “I’m going up to the crosstrees,” Baxter said, turning and almost bumping into a young officer — little more than a teenaged boy — who was standing by the head of the ladder, clutching a note and looking around despondently, trying to decide which senior officer wasn’t going to tear his head off for disturbing them.

  Baxter stuck his hand out. He had an odd feeling in his guts. “I’ll give it to him,” he said softly. After a moment’s hesitation the boy handed it over — no doubt a breach of regulations, but they were past such considerations now.

  Baxter desperately wanted to read what was scrawled there, but it wasn’t his place to do so. Instead, he touched Juneau on the shoulder and passed him the slip of paper.

  Juneau glanced at it, then looked again more intently. He took his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose, and just seemed to deflate. All of the fight went out of him in that moment. “It’s over,” he said tiredly, then raised his voice until everyone on the bridge could hear him. “From the radio room. Admiral Nebogatov has signalled the surrender of the units under his command.”

  There was a stunned silence amongst the assembled officers. After a moment, there came a susurration of whispered voices as those ratings who had a smattering of French relayed what had been said to their comrades. The news would spread like wildfire around the ship, as news always did.

  “But why are they still firing?” a plaintive voice asked. The code for surrender was not specific to Russia, and was indeed universal.

  “It will take a few minutes for a cease fire order to be sent round,” Juneau said. Baxter thought he sounded unsure, and his expression confirmed that.

  “Well, a good job the Japanese can’t shoot worth a damn!” someone else declared, trying to force a brash note into his voice and receiving only cold stares in response.

  The firing continued, the steady rumble of a bombardment rather than a petering out to nothing. It was too far away for any of them to see much. “The battle line has come to a complete stop,” Koenig called down from his perch. “I think … yes, I think they are hauling up white flags.”

  “The enemy continues to fire though.” Juneau’s voice was bitter.

  “Because they do not understand the concept of surrender,” Ekaterina commented, her voice clear and ringing — defiant even. It was hard to say whether she found that admirable or infuriating. She sounded so confident that none on the bridge disagreed.

  “A cruiser is running!” Koenig burst out, his voice rising in excitement. “The Izumrud, I think!”

  Silence fell again over the assembled officers and crew, though it was one Baxter found hard to read. On one hand, he could feel their desire to cheer at the final show of defiance. On the other, particularly amongst the older officers, there would be disapproval of running after striking the colours, a most dishonourable act. The Japanese fire, which had finally started to abate, picked up again. Baxter, sweeping the sea, finally found the Russian ship, the blue cross of St. Peter flying proudly from her mastheads. Waterspouts were rising all around her as she charged away from the otherwise passive Russian line. Swinging his glasses round, he picked up a pair of Japanese cruisers speeding up and changing course to pursue.

  It was a flash of defiance, and only that. The rest of the Russian line was hauling up Japanese flags now, desperately trying to convince the enemy that they had truly surrendered. Baxter lowered his glasses and turned away.

  This was a moment on which he would not and should not intrude, or even view. The humiliation of the proud Russian fleet was total, and he knew it would be a blow that would be felt as far away as St. Petersburg. It would not be felt as keenly as it was right now, on the bridge of this isolated Russian cruiser.

  He could almost feel the morale crumbling around him. All of their hopes and high claims had come to naught, and not just in defeat but in surrender — although he could not fault Nebogatov for not condemning his men to a senseless death. For a second, the cruiser hung on a knife edge.

  Then Juneau’s voice rung out across the bridge, pitched loud enough to be heard on the lower decks. He spoke in Russian, the language of the common bluejacket, but his words were for all of them. “So the battle line has surrendered! Well, that was their choice and I cannot judge them for it. But the fleet has not surrendered, do you hear me? Not while this cruiser floats and I draw breath! And we will not be the only ones, for sure — you all saw the Izumrud put mud in Togo’s eye!”

  Baxter felt the faintest flicker of a smile — that was one way of describing what the errant cruiser had done. He also felt a stir of hope, or if not that then defiance. They were still afloat, and under power after a fashion. And it seemed he was not the only one who felt it. Cheering started on the lower decks, where previously listless ratings stood staring up at their captain. It was weak at first, then more and more throats took up the wordless roar of pride and defiance. The officers were shouting, pounding each other on the back as they were all caught up in the moment. Even Ekaterina’s voice, rising above the predominantly bass rumble.

  Baxter didn’t join in. He was too much of a realist to let that ember of hope rise to flame within him, and he knew just how the odds were stacked against them. He raised his glasses to give himself something to do, a reason not to be joining in the cheering. What he saw made him bark a short, bitter laugh — he’d been more right than he could possibly have known.

  He turned. Juneau was surrounded by a knot of officers cheering themselves hoarse, the focal point for their re-found enthusiasm. Baxter was a little surprised at his normally diffident friend — while he had never heard a ‘death before dishonour’ speech, he reckoned Juneau had made a decent job of it.

  He caught his friend’s eyes, and pointed to the enemy warship closing on them from the east.

  “Well, it was nice while it lasted,” Juneau said tiredly, leaning against the bridge railing and lowering his head. He took his glasses off and rubbed his bloodshot eyes, the fire and fight of a few minutes ago drained out of him by the appearance of the enemy ship.

  Baxter had the closing Japanese vessel in his glasses, studying it carefully. “I think … I make her a merchant cruiser.”

  Koenig was also observing closely. “I agree with Mr Baxter. Though I think there might be something else, smaller, behind her.”

  “It could be the Imperial Yacht itself!” Juneau snapped. “As we can barely manoeuvre, I have no option but to strike to her.”

  Baxter’s fists clenched around the wood railing. The enemy ship was coming on in a fine old fashion, white water creaming along her bows as she ploughed through the waves. She was a converted civilian vessel, though, a small merchantman with a pair of light guns — probably four-inchers — in the bow and no doubt more down the sides. She was no doubt intended for scouting and commerce raiding — indeed, it had been a similar ship that had first spotted the fleet a long day ago. Under normal circumstances, her captain should not even have been considering taking on the Yaroslavich, old as she was.

  “He’s insane,” Koenig breathed, watching the converted freighter approach from a little off their starboard quarter.

  “Or he’s realised we’re lame and will find a spot he can bombard us from without us being able to retaliate,” Baxter ground out. To have come this far, and be so close…

  “Like the Vladimir and Pervaz-i-Bahri,” Juneau said, and smiled at Baxter’s blank look. “One of our illustrious predecessors who fought the barbarian Turk in the last century, the first time steamships fought each other. Vladimir won by using her superior speed to sit on his opponent’s stern and rake her.”

  “Well, we’re like to receive the same treatment,” Baxter growled. He knew Juneau was right, that they would have to surrender.

  “She’s in range of ou
r main guns, I believe,” Lieutenant Alexeev, the gunnery officer, said. “If we can bring them to bear.”

  “She’ll be in range of her own artillery shortly as well — I’m surprised they’ve not tried a ranging shot, though.”

  The words were barely out of Baxter’s mouth when a sharp crack reached his ears, followed by a second. Looking back, he saw the gun smoke being whipped away from the enemy cruiser’s forward guns, just as the shells raised waterspouts fifty yards ahead of the Yaroslavich. The Japanese fired again, the shells again landing ahead of her target.

  “If we could just bring our bows round a little, I could return with one of the main guns,” Alexeev insisted. Juneau hesitated, though Baxter knew it was not indecision but calculation. Given the precariously balanced steering arrangements, if they came off course, they might never get back on it.

  “More gunfire will attract other Japanese ships, even if we defeat this one,” Koenig pointed out, his calm assessment at odds with his previously fire-breathing attitude.

  Another pair of shells landed ahead of them. “Surprisingly poor practice from them,” Juneau commented.

  Baxter was less convinced. He swung his glasses from the armed merchantman to the spot where yet another pair of shells fell into the sea. The Japanese ship was closing on them quickly and was well within range of her guns. Despite the decreasing range, the rounds were always landing about fifty yards ahead of the cruiser. “No,” he said absently. “Remarkably good practice — she’s putting rounds across our bows, not missing us.”

  “Do they want us to surrender?” Juneau wondered. A few minutes ago he had been contemplating just that, but there was a hint of anger in his voice that suggested he would fight if the enemy presumed to demand his surrender.

  “They certainly appear to want to talk,” Baxter replied, watching as signal flags jerked up the merchant cruiser’s masts and then unfurled in the slight cross-breeze.