02 Shanghai Dreams (The Earl’s Other Son #2)

by Andrew Wareham

  South might be safer, but there were arguments for following the coast north and east until they came round to Port Arthur. If the mutiny was part of a deeper strategy, pre-planned, then that would be the logical course to follow.

  “Hopefully, there will be no mutiny, Mr Mason. Speak to the Navigator, Mr Mason. If we chase and lose them, then I want best course for Port Arthur or Vladivostok, depending on where we are. If we don’t find them there, then I shall write my report and send my papers in with it, because I shall be finished in the Navy.”

  Mason smiled and laughed loyally – it would not come to that, he was sure. He hoped so, at least, because his career would be ended too.

  Magnus was woken by thundering at his door followed by a voice bellowing in his ear.

  “Captain, sir. Mr Harborough’s compliments, sir.”

  Harborough had the Middle Watch, the dead hours of the night.

  The watch messenger, a boy seaman, hopped from one foot to another in his anxiety, not daring to touch the captain to shake him awake but wanting him out of his house and down to the ship at soonest. The night footman hovered at his shoulder, uncertain of the propriety of allowing this strange gwailo into the lord’s bedroom, despite the orders he had to bring any seaman from the ship upstairs immediately.

  Ellen woke, squeaked and burrowed under the bedclothes, having neglected to put her nightdress back on. Magnus staggered to his feet, having been in deep and pleasant exhaustion.

  “Who? What? Otvajni?”

  “Sir, Mr Harborough says that Russian has upped and buggered off, sir. Come quick, sir.”

  “On my way. Tell Mr Harborough… No, belay that. Go to the office of the Senior Naval Officer – you know where that is?”

  “Yes, sir. On the Bund, sir.”

  “Well done. Run to the office and tell the night men that they must – must, you understand – bring Captain Erskine to his cabin. I will see him there at soonest. Repeat the message.”

  “Tell the night men to rouse Captain Erskine, sir. You to see him at earliest.”

  “Correct. Run now.” Magnus turned to the house servant. “Working uniform. Now.”

  The servant ran into the hallway and called for the shore valet to come and fetch the lord’s clothes; he could not himself step so far up from his station as to touch the uniform himself.

  “Ellen, that damned Russian has fallen into mutiny, as we feared I must go, my love.”

  She stirred out of bed, searching for nightdress or dressing gown and close to destroying his resolve to leave for duty as the blankets fell away.

  “You must go, Magnus. Now, sir!”

  “So I must. Damn duty and the Russians equally, my lady!”

  He scampered into the dressing room, dived into uniform and quickly out to the carriage, knowing that it would be waiting for him by then.

  He ran up the brow to Racoon’s deck, brightly alert as far as the sentries could tell, returning salutes and looking around him for any sign of slackness. He could not in fact see anything at all, was no more than half awake, but had learned in his first days as a cadet at Dartmouth to simulate keen enthusiasm however he felt. The men seemed to believe his performance, and that was all that was needed.

  “Report, Mr Harborough.”

  “Shots were heard from the direction of Otvajni, sir, at about six bells; precisely, sir, at two fifty-three a.m., as recorded in the log. The standing patrol made its way to the scene, sir, and discovered Otvajni in process of casting off, sir. She headed out to sea at dead slow speed, sir. As she departed, three bodies were thrown over the rails and landed on the pontoon. Petty Officer McLean reports hearing splashes off her starboard beam, sir. He presumes other bodies, sir.”

  “Very good. A clear report. What can you tell me of the bodies on the pontoon?”

  “Sick Berth Attendant Haynes examined them, sir. He is to hand to make his report now, sir. Very unpleasant, sir.”

  Magnus turned to the SBA, waited for him to say his piece.

  “Three officers, sir. Mr Whitlocke came with me, sir, and identified the uniforms, sir. Two were lieutenants and one midshipman, sir, young, sir. All dead, sir. One lieutenant shot at close range, sir, the pistol almost touching his body, sir, the cloth burned around the bullet holes. Rifle would have blown a bigger hole out of him, sir. Shot five times, sir, emptied the cylinder. Chest and belly, sir. The midshipman had been cut up a bit, sir; cutlass, I would think, hitting him from behind first then slashing down at him on the deck; no more than a boy, sir. The other lieutenant was killed carefully, sir. Looked like they had taken him prisoner, sir, then did for him deliberately, sir. Pulled his breeches off, sir, they had, and made a woman out of him, sir, cut everything off, then rammed a cutlass up him from behind, sir, left it inside, all the way up to the hilt, sir. Sort of thing as if he had habits, sir, and they was paying him back, like. They’d tied a gag on him, sir, so he couldn’t scream out loud.”

  Magnus had heard whispers of lower-deck justice on hands who had raped boy seamen and had disappeared overboard, eventually; he had paid them no attention in the past. He swallowed down the bile, tried to seem stern and unmoved.

  “Thank you, Haynes. Make your written report to me as normal, giving necessary details of the wounds you saw. The Russian consul can deal with the bodies; no need for us to handle that. You will probably have to give evidence to a Court of Enquiry or inquest or whatever they have here; be sure when you do to give a full and unbiased account of all you discovered.”

  Magnus was fairly sure that any court would be comprised almost inevitably of ancient and venerable officers. On hearing Haynes’ evidence, they would want nothing more than to cover up everything, which might not be inconvenient, depending on what came next for Racoon.

  Mason was at his side, reporting Racoon to be at action stations.

  “Very good, Mr Mason. Make all ready to leave harbour at a minute’s notice, if you please. Ensure the men are fed by watches. I shall go ashore to the Senior Naval Officer.”

  Captain Erskine had evidently made a night of it on the previous evening. He was not at all well, was hardly able to speak let alone to think.

  “Mutiny, sir, and murder of some at least of the officers, probably all. One at least indecently tortured first, sir. Three bodies thrown ashore; more into the river. Ship has set sail, sir.”

  “Very good, Eskdale. What did you say? Indecently? Oh, dear God! What next?”

  “Messenger to Poltava, sir, and to the Russian consul. Best we should go to Poltava immediately, sir.”

  “Very good, Eskdale. Lead the way.”

  They took the official carriage, as Captain Erskine was incapable of walking the half mile to the shipyard.

  The sentry party on Poltava’s dock spoke no English; they had seen nothing, expected no visitors, were obviously unwilling to wake any officer. They shook their heads and stood firm, preventing access to the ship, ignoring protest and plea equally. Captain Erskine joined Magnus in walking across to the cruiser, Admiral Nakhimov. There was a midshipman accompanying the sentries there, probably on punishment detail; he spoke French. Erskine had some acquaintance with the language and Magnus could speak enough to find his way about a brothel; between them they conveyed the urgency of their message.

  The midshipman could not take them to Poltava, but he was able to go aboard his own ship and wake the officer of the day. A delay of nearly half an hour and the officer of the day managed to obtain audience with his captain and bring him down to the quayside.

  “Mutiny? Otvajni? Officers dead?”

  “Da. Da. Da.” Captain Erskine exhausted his command of the Russian language with the one word three times repeated.

  “Go to Poltava. Admiral must command.”

  They made a dignified trot along the dock and returned to Poltava’s brow nearly an hour after their first attempt to board her. The Russian officer screamed his rage and kicked the nearest sentry. The party scattered, sprinting aboard to waken anybody they coul
d find. Twenty minutes later a flag-lieutenant appeared, indignant that he should be disturbed from his bunk and inclined to tell them to wait until a civilised hour to see the admiral; Magnus watched with interest, wondering whether he would be kicked as well. The captain of Admiral Nakhimov contented himself with screaming again, turning bright scarlet in process.

  “I say, sir, what do you think the odds are of a heart attack?”

  “Damned near a certainty, Eskdale. I wouldn’t lay more than evens, myself.”

  The flag-lieutenant ran into the stern quarters, came back after ten minutes with the flag-captain, very smart in an ornate velvet dressing-gown.

  “Is what?”

  “Mutiny. Otvajni has sailed. Her officers are dead, in the river and on the Bund.”

  The flag-captain responded at length in Russian. They presumed he was swearing.

  “Is dead?”

  “Three bodies on the pontoon. Many splashes in the river. Badly dead. Torture.”

  Magnus reached across to the flag-lieutenant, who was uniformed and wearing his ceremonial sword; he patted the hilt and then made a gesture of thrusting upwards.

  “Bad killing, sir.”

  More Russian, definitely oaths from the vehemence displayed. The flag-captain turned to the lieutenant, gave an order, watched him go reluctantly back into the admiral’s quarters.

  “Better he get admiral from bed. Not me!”

  They laughed together, Erskine and Magnus accepting that they would have done just the same. Far better for a junior officer to attract the admiral’s morning rage.

  Half an hour and there was a muted roaring, slowly growing louder as it progressed towards them. The door flung open and the admiral appeared, the odour of fresh brandy showing that he had needed a pick-me-up to function at this early hour.

  “Is mutiny?”

  Captain Erskine gave a punctilious salute, Magnus following belatedly.

  “Otvajni, sir. Killed officers. Gone.”

  The admiral said nothing, his face blank. Magnus suspected the mind behind was busy, rehashing conclusions he must have come to previously. The mutiny had seemed probable since they had first arrived in Shanghai, had been brewing for some time before – the admiral must have considered how he would respond.

  There was a disturbance behind them as the Russian consul arrived aboard.

  “Captain Erskine! A pleasure to see you here, sir. This must be Lord Eskdale of Racoon. My lord!”

  The consul bowed and Magnus stood to the salute, admiring the fluency of the consul’s English.

  Formality satisfied, the consul begged permission to address the admiral privately.

  Magnus wondered why – they must, he thought, have a contingency plan in place.

  Ten minutes and the pair re-emerged.

  The consul spoke, preserving the admiral’s dignity, Magnus imagined. A mere civilian could beg for assistance while the Russian Navy could not.

  “Captain Erskine, our thanks for your rapid action, sir. Neither Poltava nor Admiral Nakhimov can go to sea for a week at least. Such being the case, I must declare the ship Otvajni to have been pirated and ask you to take the appropriate action to return her to the service of the Tsar, if you would be so good.”

  Captain Erskine bowed and then turned to Magnus.

  “Captain Lord Eskdale, you will sail immediately in Racoon to pursue and recapture the pirated ship. You will take all reasonable measures to capture the pirates and return them to Shanghai for trial and execution. It is of the greatest importance that Otvajni be taken before she can wreak havoc in the shipping lanes and you will take all practical measures to achieve the aim, short of hazarding your ship.”

  Magnus saluted Erskine, then, feeling he should make a job of it, the admiral and consul as well.

  “Racoon will sail as soon as I board her, sir. Permission to carry out my orders, sir?”

  “Go, Lord Eskdale.”

  Magnus strode away, dignity demanding that a captain should not run. Once out of sight he stretched out and down the brow and into the official carriage. Erskine could walk – he was in a hurry.

  “Cast off, Mr Mason. Course to the south, making for Hong Kong in the first instance.”

  Magnus thought it likely that Otvajni would head towards the busiest sea lanes first, if she needed to capture a navigator as they had surmised. If she had gone north and they could not find her, then a course for Vladivostok might make sense, although an interception would be unlikely in such a vast area of sea.

  “How far are we behind the fair, Mr Mason?”

  It was daylight and Magnus knew they must be miles behind Otvajni.

  “She sailed just before three o’clock, sir. Say one hundred and forty-five minutes ago, sir. Assuming that she is travelling at full speed and allowing for the benefits of a five knot current, lessening as she reaches the estuary, then we can postulate that she will be up to thirty-five miles ahead of us, sir. At an overtaking speed of perhaps three knots, sir, then we might expect to see her in the first dog, sir, provided she has taken a course south and inshore.”

  “If, but and maybe, Mr Mason. Inform the engine-room that I require full speed for not less than twelve hours and may then demand emergency speed from them. Double lookouts to the masts. Mr Brownrigg to me.”

  Brownrigg was waiting the call, appeared at the run.

  “Stern chase, Mr Brownrigg. Otvajni has a six inch that will bear on us. The nine inch can be ignored as I intend to keep clear of its traverse. It is essentially a shore bombardment gun, I believe and will play no part in our action. What is the range of Otvajni’s six inch?”

  “According to the book, sir, it is a thirty-five calibre gun. Ours therefore outrange it. However, sir, neither will be accurate at longer ranges, particularly as Racoon does tend to roll at sea. I would not really expect many hits in excess of three thousand yards, sir. In a stern chase, sir, we will have two guns that bear.”

  “We are ordered to take Otvajni, Mr Brownrigg. You will load shrapnel, not high explosive. Six inch at a distance and I shall aim to bring Racoon broadside at about two thousand yards to bring the three pounders to bear. Again, shrapnel and rapid fire. I want Otvajni’s deck to be untenable, all fire suppressed.”

  Brownrigg was not enthused by the order, could make no protest against it.

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  “Ready the boats for boarding, sir?”

  “No, Mr Mason. Small arms fire would cost us dearly. We shall aim to come alongside. Maxims busy until the last second then swarm her under. Officer of the watch to remain aboard and in command with a quartermaster and a skeleton crew below. Every other man to follow us over the side. You will take command of her to bring her back to Shanghai.”

  Mason would be prize master, a hint to those reading the report that he was ready for promotion.

  They left the river mouth, trailing a great cloud of black coal smoke, visible at ten miles and more.

  “What are we making, Mr Mason?”

  “A little more than seventeen knots through the water, sir, as fast as she has ever steamed, I suspect, sir. Mr Buchan will have a little in reserve, I would expect, sir. Not much, I would imagine but he will not wish to pull every last ounce of power knowing that we shall be full ahead for almost the whole day, sir.”

  Magnus nodded, debating whether he should order a small reduction in speed, for safety’s sake. Racoon’s engines were not the most reliable ever installed and might break down under the strain of twelve or more hours at full ahead. But he needed to catch Otvajni in daylight; given a night and she might well be irretrievably lost.

  “Much depends on Otvajni’s engineers, of course, Mr Mason. Will she be able to make her designed speed of fourteen knots still, do you think?”

  Mason thought probably not.

  “She was badly kept, sir, where we could see. I doubt she was better below decks, sir.”

  “They might have killed the engineer officers as well, Mr Mason. Probably would ha
ve. In that case, I doubt they will be able to keep her running at full speed. We may well come up with her earlier in the day. Feed the men early, Mr Mason. Delay the rum issue – I do not want the gunners to be feeling at peace with the world!”

  The masthead lookouts called junks and lorchas by the score, the coastal waters close to the Yangtse being some of the busiest in China, possibly in the whole world. Steamships were far less common still and it was not unusual to have seen none since dawn.

  “P and O liner, sir, distant in deep water.”

  The big passenger ships would not venture close to the coast, naturally.

  “Ask if she has seen a Russian ship of war, Yeoman.”

  The signal flags rose and the merchant navy read them slowly and carefully; responded within five minutes.

  “Nothing under Russian flag, sir. Second hoist, sir… ‘large gunboat under steam, inshore. Heading south. Distant twelve miles.’”

  “Make my thanks, Yeoman.”

  The Yeoman of the Signals was ready, had the flags to hand knowing that the captain would be courteous to P and O – the line was powerful in London and demanded good manners from the Navy. Most of the P and O deck officers were naval reservists and would be inclined to cooperate, but they would still expect polite signals.

  “Twelve miles; She must be making close to her fourteen knots, Mr Mason. If that is her, and it should be, we know of nothing else in these waters, after all, then we should have her in daylight.”

  Another hour and the foremast yelled that the sloop Gannet was in sight and signalling.

  “Up with a telescope, Mr Grant-Hartley.”

  The midshipman ran, showing a fine turn of speed into the top.

  “Gannet reporting, sir. ‘On passage, Hong Kong to Shanghai. Fired on by gunboat. Big gun. Ordered to stop. Returned fire and retreated’.”

  “Position?”

  “Eight miles south, sir. Gannet reports damage to foremast and six hands injured, none severe. Claims to have hit twice with five inch HE, sir. Damage done unknown.”

  “Gannet to make all speed to Shanghai.”