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

by Andrew Wareham

  The signal was sent and Gannet protested.

  “Gannet, sir. ‘Submit could sail as consort to Racoon.’”

  “She’s too slow, Mr Mason. To Gannet, refused. Inform Shanghai of imminent action.”

  Two more hours and a cloud of smoke was seen directly to the south.

  “If that’s Otvajni, then she was delayed by her action with Gannet. Possibly slowed by the damage she has taken. Action stations, Mr Mason. Serve out arms to the boarding parties.”

  Mason passed the orders, turned back to Magnus.

  “Puzzling me, sir, why Otvajni attacked Gannet. Why seek trouble with the Royal Navy?”

  “Mistake, Mr Mason, so I suspect. Gannet is old and would have been under full sail. She uses her engine as an auxiliary, you will remember. Otvajni probably mistook her for a merchantman, sea-going and likely to have a navigator aboard. That’s the problem with killing all of your officers, of course – there’s probably none aboard who could be relied upon to recognise a foreign warship.”

  “Good point, sir.”

  Mason was instantly convinced.

  “Engine room to give us everything, Mr Mason.”

  There was a slight increase in the volume of smoke and a distinct darkening in its colour. There was a smell of tar.

  Magnus raised an eyebrow and Lieutenant Mornington offered an explanation.

  “Oil, sir. He has thrown oil onto the coals as they go into the furnaces. Increases the temperature by an amount, sir. Very dangerous!”

  “Given us the better part of a knot, Mr Mornington. He can make his repairs when we get back to Shanghai – from the little I recall, extra heat is likely to cause some damage to the boiler tubes, but only slowly. We can survive a couple of hours at this pace.”

  The lookouts shouted a few minutes later.

  “Otvajni hull-up, sir. Pair of fast lorchas, heading inshore.”

  “What ports are close, Mr Mason?”

  “None of ours, sir. No Treaty Ports. Any number of Chinese places. Been some sort of disturbances down here, sir. Wars between the local princes, that sort of thing. Don’t know who is in control of what just at the moment. Rumours that the man from Hanshan has been throwing his weight about, sir.”

  “No concern of ours at the moment. Yeoman, signal Otvajni to heave to and await our boarders.”

  “Will they be able to read our signals, sir?”

  “Possibly, Mr Mason. If they disobey our lawful command, then we are justified in opening fire. The Yeoman’s log of signals will show that we acted lawfully when it comes to any inquiry. Always wise to act strictly according to the letter of the law, Mr Mason.”

  Mason nodded respectfully.

  “Yes indeed, sir. CYA, my first captain was used to say.”

  “Cover Your Arse – the wisest maxim of all in the Navy, Mr Mason. One I should have remembered in my youth, perhaps. Ready, Mr Brownrigg!”

  “Extreme range, sir.”

  “Go to your guns, Mr Brownrigg, lay them yourself, or one of them at least. Open fire to my command.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Earl’s Other Son Series

  Shanghai Dreams

  “Riflemen to act as sharpshooters, Mr Mason.”

  “Those who can, sir. Most of them are not very useful above twenty yards.”

  “Do you know who the good shots are? Put them in the bows, give them a free hand to select their own targets.”

  Mason indicated that he would. Magnus realised that he should have thought about sharpshooters earlier and organised a party of them; he would know next time, he thought, then wondered when, if ever, he would face a similar set of circumstances.

  “Never with any bloody luck.” He turned to the Maxim gunners, stood with their loaders almost at his side on the narrow conning tower.

  “Beg pardon, sir?”

  “That comment was for me, not you. When we come within range, I want you to silence the six incher first, if it is still firing. After that, the bridge if it is within sight, then concentrate on any gun still manned. If you see a rifle position, try to destroy it. Choose your targets, aiming for the most useful.”

  “What about men abandoning ship, sir?”

  “If they are not fighting, ignore them. Men who are running will do us no harm.”

  They had hoped to hear that, having no liking for killing the helpless. They had heard that the Russians were in mutiny against viciously cruel officers and had no great desire to kill them at all or bring them back for trial, provided their own necks were safe. If the Russians chose to fire on them, well, that was their bad luck; if they preferred to run away – that was what blind eyes were invented for.

  “Permission to open fire, sir?”

  Brownrigg bellowing from the bows; all gunnery officers had to develop powerful lungs to be heard above the guns.

  “Granted!”

  The starboard gun fired, the hull shuddering under the concussion. Magnus turned his glasses on Otvajni, picked up the shell burst on the edge of his vision.

  “Left fifty, short three hundred, Mr Whitlocke.”

  The port bow gun tried its own first shot.

  “Right twenty, short fifty.”

  The starboard fired again, on line and ahead by two hundred yards.

  Port achieved an airburst well towards the bows of Otvajni, shrapnel balls peppering the bridge and nine inch gun, Magnus hoped.

  Otvajni’s six inch replied, high explosive setting up a water spout half way between the two ships.

  “Fired while pitching, on the down, the fools, Mr Mason.”

  “Poor gunnery, sir. Quite shameful, in fact.”

  “Don’t sound so sorry about it, Mr Mason!”

  The two six inchers in the bows went into rapid fire, still not as fast as it should have been, Magnus thought, some four rounds a minute. He saw the smoke of airbursts along the whole length of Otvajni, and over the sea on either beam. Not as accurate as he wanted to see, either, but quite possibly as good as any other ship on station, better than most.

  “Firing HE we would be doing her some harm, Mr Mason. Not sufficient, however.”

  “Racoon is a bad gun platform, sir. Even in a moderate sea like this she is pitching and rolling unpredictably. Overmasted, sir, when using steam. A full suit of sails, now, would stabilise her to an extent, sir; at least, the roll would become regular.”

  “Cut the bloody masts off and she would be more stable still, Mr Mason. Sail has no place at sea in the last year of the Nineteenth Century!”

  Mason could neither agree nor say so, was almost thankful when a six inch projectile whirred seemingly inches above his head and cut the conversation dead.

  “That was almost a lucky one, Mr Mason. One round every two minutes, I make it. Not exactly quick firing!”

  It was fast enough for Mason.

  “Otvajni is under helm, sir. Turning inshore.”

  “Follow her round, starboard ten.”

  The quartermaster spun the wheel, shouted his repeat of the order, the confirmation of the action he was taking. Magnus stood to the voice pipe, watching Otvajni.

  “Hold her at that… Five of starboard wheel… Five more to starboard…”

  Racoon cut an arc across Otvajni’s turn, closing the range rapidly.

  “Where is she going, sir? Heading into port? There is a Chinese place not two miles distant, sir, out of direct sight, around the headland. Those two lorchas are making into it now; good speed, they are making. Amazing what they can do with those square lattice sails on a European hull.”

  Four of the three pounders and the port midships six inch opened fire, able to see the target and well in range.

  “Two thousand yards would you say, Mr Mason?”

  “Very nearly, sir. She has opened fire with her own smaller guns, sir.”

  There was a great crashing from above as a revolving one pounder slashed through the rigging of main and mizzen masts.

  “Too high, but that is a fearsome rate
of fire, Mr Mason.”

  “A ten second burst, sir, and five shells exploding. Our three pounders are making good practice, sir. The six inch are doing better.”

  “So they damned well should at less than a mile and closing, Mr Mason!”

  “Otvajni is still under helm, sir. Back now, heading into port.”

  “She was trying to bring that nine inch gun to bear, Mr Mason. Her gunners have protection, are probably unharmed as yet. Given up and is now running. Midships!”

  The quartermaster repeated the order and brought Racoon onto a straight course. Magnus watched Otvajni for a few more seconds, saw that she could not escape, had no time to make the harbour, would still be a good half mile offshore when Racoon came alongside.

  “Maintain fire. Mr Brownrigg! No overs! We must not risk lading shells in the harbour.”

  Magnus heard the cry of acknowledgement, saw Brownrigg run from the port bow six inch to the starboard. A seaman was making his way aft, from gun to gun, no doubt giving them the order.

  Mason was peering anxiously through his binoculars.

  “Repeated bursts to either beam, sir. A risk that the hull will be damaged, sir, that she will take water and go under.”

  “She has armour plate along both sides to within thirty feet of the bows, Mr Mason, according to the book. She should be safe from shrapnel bursts. Hopefully.”

  Another few minutes, less than a mile offshore, theoretically well inside Chinese territorial waters and no more than a cable distant from Racoon, he saw Otvajni’s bows coming round again, decided she was trying again to bring the nine incher to bear. He had a choice, to veer away to port, to certain safety but opening the range rapidly, or to come inside Otvajni’s turn and place himself on her beam. That would leave Racoon open to her smaller weapons but clear of the nine incher and rapidly able to board.

  “Ten of the starboard wheel… Bring her round hard, quartermaster.”

  Racoon rolled to starboard, turning as tightly as she could manage. The barrels of the six inch guns dipped with her, dropping the elevation of her shells. Four shells landed in Otvajni’s superstructure, the shrapnel balls ripping into the lighter steel above her line of armour.

  “Whoops! Too many of those will not be approved of by the Russian admiral, Mason.”

  “I wonder how deep they penetrated, sir. Every chance that they may have reached the engine room, sir.”

  “Useful if they knock down a few stokers; not so good if they blow a boiler.”

  The three pounders continued their barrage, finally attaining a respectable rate of fire and covering Otvajni’s exposed deck with shrapnel balls.

  “No fire from Otvajni, sir. All of her guns are unmanned, sir.”

  “Close her, quartermaster.”

  The Chief Petty Officer, the most senior man of the lower deck had the wheel, as was his right and duty in action. He would use his own discretion to interpret Magnus’ orders.

  “Closing, sir. Her starboard beam, sir, towards the bow.”

  That would give the Maxims a clear view of the bridge and six inch gun both.

  The riflemen in the bows suddenly opened fire.

  “Men come up to the stern Hotchkiss, sir. Falling, sir.”

  “Maxims, fire on the bridge. Keep them down.”

  Magnus dropped down the ladder from the conning tower, ran to the rail and the head of the boarders waiting there. Carter appeared at his shoulder, cutlass in hand.

  Mason shouted as they waited the last minute for Racoon to crash alongside Otvajni.

  “The lorchas, sir, closing at speed. Full of men, sir.”

  Magnus glanced across, could see nothing; the lorchas were hidden from him by the guns and bulwarks on the port beam. If they were pirates trying to fish in troubled waters, then there might be real problems.

  “Sod ‘em all, Carter. Deal with the Russkis first, then we flatten any Chinkee pirate who tries to poke his nose in.”

  The men cheered, it seeming a highly reasonable course of action to them.

  The guns were all unmanned now, the crews run to join the boarders; there was nothing to be done until the lorchas came to close action.

  “Ten of the wheel on, sir.”

  “Engine room to slow ahead.”

  Magnus calculated that would bring them alongside Otvajni and matching her speed.

  “Quartermaster, keep us on her.”

  An experienced man could interpret that order, did not have to have his hand held.

  The two ships thumped together and Magnus heaved himself up onto the bulwarks, yelled for the boarders and jumped, well at the head of the men. He saw Stoker Black, the ship’s hard man, in front of him, to his annoyance. Black ran towards the rear of the superstructure, kicking in a door and yelling and stumbling then pulling himself upright and thrusting inwards with his cutlass. Magnus saw a patch of blood spreading across the back of his shirt; a rifle bullet at close range, he presumed. He followed Black through the door, tripped over a body on the floor, a Russian with his guts hanging out, and ran forward up a steep companionway. There was blood slopping over the steps.

  Magnus came out into daylight, found he was immediately astern of the bridge. He ducked as Maxim fire hosed over his head. The Russians had barricaded the bridge, were in cover, a dozen rifles at least. Black was hanging over the top of the barricade, shot to pieces, one rifle bullet insufficient to stop him, a volley doing the trick. There was shooting belowdecks as well, and from under the bridge, probably from the nine inch gun position.

  He huddled into cover, looking about him and trying to spot another route into the bridge. He could see the Hotchkiss guns and the three pounders, each with a dead gun crew. There would be stops fitted to make it impossible to traverse any gun so far as to hit the bridge.

  The riflemen on the bridge commanded the whole of the stern part of the ship; the boarders could not make a lodgement there on the open deck.

  Magnus dived to the companionway, rolled down the steps, swearing as he bounced and battered his body.

  “Mr Mason!”

  “Here, sir. No way up to the bridge or into the gun forward, sir. All barricaded.”

  “Best to pull back to Racoon and use the guns. They’ve got some sort of makeshift armour to the bridge. Load HE and sod trying to take her, Mr Mason. Sink the bloody cow and to hell with Russia’s pride!”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  There was a sudden great outburst of firing and yelling from the bows.

  “What the hell?”

  Lieutenant Mornington shouted from the conning tower; they saw him waving but could not hear what he was saying. A boy seaman came running, holding low against occasional rifle shots.

  “Beg pardon, sir. Mr Mornington says as ‘ow there’s a great load of Chinks come aboard over the bows from them lorchas, sir. They’re getting in among the Russkis now, sir.”

  “This is our bloody prize! Charge!”

  Magnus led a howling mob back up the companionway and directly at the mutineers, boosting each other over the barricade of timbers and swarming into the bridge. There were shots and men fell, bellowing in pain and anger.

  Magnus saw a big bearded Russian firing a huge revolver, twice the size of an issue sidearm. He jumped towards him, slashing with his cutlass through the raised arm, knocking the revolver to the side as it fired. A bullet tore through the flesh of his upper left arm as his blade lodged into the Russian’s throat and shoulder; he fell into a pool of arterial blood, soaking his uniform in the most dramatic fashion. He scrambled back to his feet and stood dripping, trying to think of sensible orders to give.

  The shooting tailed off and the screams of fighting rage turned into wails of pain.

  “Secure the ship, Mr Mason. Clear the forward companionway.”

  It looked as if the Russians had used the furniture from the wardroom to block the ladder leading down to the bows. Ten minutes of heaving from above and below and the wooden wreckage was thrown over the side and it was possible
to contact the Chinese who had taken the bows and the belowdecks positions, bringing the defence to a bloody end.

  “And a fine good afternoon to you, Lord Eskdale! You seem rather bloody, my lord. Are you perfectly well?”

  Magnus matched Mr Ping’s formality – if he wanted to play, well, Magnus knew the name of that game.

  “Slightly injured, Mr Ping, and very glad to see you, sir. Rather surprised as well, I would add.”

  “My father has some troops in this area, sir, consequent on a dispute with a very foolish local gentleman. It was possible to run a battalion aboard the lorchas when they reported Racoon to be in action close to our shores. It seemed that we might be able to offer assistance after the fight, but, by the greatest of good fortune, we were able actually to take an active part. A volley from the Mauser rifles and then a glorious charge, sir, to match your own, and all is well. Might I make so bold as to enquire why you are in conflict with a Russian ship, my lord?”

  “Taken in a mutiny, Mr Ping, and turned pirate. Her consorts are in the yards at Shanghai, unable to sail, and begged that the Navy might recover their lost sheep.”

  “Ah! Thus your decision to board rather than to hold off and batter, my lord. A necessary action, I can see.”

  Lieutenant Mornington’s boy seaman runner, returned, puffing and short of breath.

  “Beg pardon, sir. Barfleur hull up, sir. With destroyers in company. Small ships closing fast, sir.”

  They would have heard shells exploding and turned towards the scene of the action, Magnus realised. It was a rule always to head towards the sound of gunfire.

  “Mr Ping, I must attend to my superiors, sir. Please accept my thanks for your action, sir. My report will say that Racoon was enabled to take Otvajni only by dint of your bold action. I do not doubt that you will receive formal recognition of your most welcome assistance, sir. Will you wish to remain on Otvajni to meet the commanding officer of Barfleur, sir?”

  Mr Ping had lived many years in London; he could imagine the outrage that would ensue if he was to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Lord Eskdale and claiming one half of the victory. The sensible Chinese gentleman would wish to be seen as a lesser body in such circumstances; there would be generous rewards for the little yellow man who knew his proper place. One day, things would be different, but not now…