Bloody Sunset

by Bloody Sunset (retail) (epub)

  Krebst was cranking for Dherjakin. Bob shouting into the Captain’s ear – as the engine finally spluttered and growled into life – ‘Do we have a bilge-pump, Captain?’

  ‘Hand-pump. There.’

  You’d be baling too, he guessed. If there was a baler, for God’s sake…

  * * *

  Chugging out. Van deserted on the quayside above them. Finder’s keepers… He wondered how accurately and how soon the Cheka would reconstruct the details of this escape. If one did escape. Might claim success when one was standing on the deck of one of the RN flotilla’s ships, with all these others present: but not before, and that moment was still a long way off.

  Hugging the quayside – and then the bank – on their port hand. With the end of the loading quay astern, a bend to port now. Chugging along at about three knots. Nobody talking much – probably pondering what he’d said about problems still to come.

  In the straight now – the neck of the bottle…

  ‘There. Forty metres. Throttle down a bit.’

  The wind was gusting from astern, the north. You’d have no shelter from it over the flat land, none at all. The best hope was that by dawn it might be dropping. At this moment he guessed it was about force 4, twelve or fifteen knots. Come up just a little, to twenty, you’d be calling it force 5. Still classified as breeze, not wind. Even force 6 was technically only ‘strong breeze’. And force 6, in this launch in open sea – well, to put it mildly, the girls weren’t going to enjoy it much.

  Not that anyone’s comfort was such a major consideration. What mattered was to get them through it alive.

  ‘Two lengths to go. On the bow there. See the place?’

  He throttled right down. Gear lever into neutral. ‘Nick – Krebst…’ Bank sliding by quite fast still, and the wind astern would be helping; he put her slow astern and revved up a little. Then as the way came off her, back into neutral with the engine idling, as the boat’s forepart nudged the bank. Majerle – the orang-utan – jumped ashore with the bow line; he’d stay on the bank, holding the boat in, until they were ready to shove off again. Nick had been instructing him in this en route; as well to make some use of him. Dherjakin called, ‘One of you out first, give me a hand?’

  So there were some limitations, from the peg-leg. Bob looked round, into the stern: ‘You two all right?’

  ‘So far.’ Nadia… ‘But will it be very rough on the sea, Bob?’

  ‘May be a little bumpy.’

  ‘It’s rather a small boat to go to sea in, isn’t it?’

  ‘Bigger than the one we thought we’d be using. And an engine’s a lot better than a pair of oars.’

  ‘Yes. Of course…’

  Irina chipped in: ‘It is going to be bad, though? I mean really bad?’

  ‘Unless the wind drops – yes. But—’

  ‘Nick said—’ Nadia again – ‘there was no bigger boat there to take.’

  ‘Unfortunately, there wasn’t. Isn’t. But – we’ll make it, don’t worry.’

  Hearing himself say it: wondering, will we, though…

  And just waiting now. The winch hut was a cube against dark sky up there ahead as the boat drifted round on the wind, held only by her bow. Without someone like Dherjakin who knew his way around they’d have needed some sort of light in there; but they were doing all right, he could hear the iron cogs squeaking round, and visualize that heavy chain sagging towards the mud.

  And remember the collision. The secondary crash which had been McNaught falling off his stool in the engine-space, and Johnny’s calm ‘Boom across the bloody entrance. Damn.’

  Nick’s voice instead, though, from the shore: ‘It’s done, Bob, we’re coming down to you.’

  No longer any boom across the bloody entrance, then. Only a guardship sitting out there like a cat beside a mousehole. This was the fence you had to square up to now. The one after that, the last – unless one ran into the Bolshevik navy, of course – would be the most difficult and the longest-lasting, but it was better not to think too much about it now, much better to concentrate on getting past the destroyer. Have everyone squat down in the bottom of the launch, he thought, when the time comes. And creep out at no more than two or three knots, round that corner into the other channel. Holding one’s breath, and saying prayers.

  Dherjakin was helped over the side. Nick and Krebst close behind him. Bob called, ‘Well done. And thank you, Captain.’ He raised his voice: ‘Shove off for’ard!’ Then remembered, switched to French: ‘Push off at the front!’

  He backed her off, with port rudder on to turn her. Then they were gliding out, the banks close on either side.

  ‘How much water over the chain when it’s lowered, Captain?’

  ‘Plenty. Twelve feet, easy.’

  ‘So you could get a destroyer in there, if you needed to.’

  ‘Certainly. Let alone the little Schichau that’s sitting out there now.’ He’d waved a hand into the darkness ahead. ‘I’ve had that one in – converted him to oil. I’ll be getting a whole clutch of ’em in the spring. That is – I would have had.’

  Bob hesitated. Listening to the echoes of what Dherjakin had just said, and wary of clutching at straws that turned out to have no substance. It was possible that he was misunderstanding this – straw-clutching out of wishful thinking… He asked the Captain, ‘Are you talking about a Schichau destroyer, or Schichau torpedo-boat?’

  ‘Torpedo-boat. I said – middling little feller.’

  ‘Schichau torpedo-boat. The guardship on station there now?’

  ‘Should I try to put it into English for you?’

  ‘No. That – won’t be necessary.’

  Irascible old sod…

  But – Christ almighty… He’d pushed the throttle to nearly shut. Needing time to think now. To think hard… Having assumed – not unnaturally – that the guardship would be a destroyer. And it could have been a Schichau destroyer – fairly antique, but full-sized, more or less. About one’s own age, roughly; they and the tiddlers, the torpedo-boats, had been built in Germany between – oh, 1886 to about ’98. But a Schichau torpedo-boat was small – with a correspondingly small ship’s company. She’d probably have a displacement of only about a hundred and fifty tons, two torpedo-tubes in her turtle-decked fo’c’sl, and a gun of some kind on her stern. Designed speed might have been about twenty knots or better – thirty years ago, of course.

  The launch still had way on, the banks of the inlet falling back on her quarters, but the engine only muttering, screw barely turning… He looked at Dherjakin again. ‘What sort of complement would this Schichau have?’

  ‘H.256 is her pennant number. Complement – fully manned, twenty-four. But we’re short-handed everywhere, she’s down to about – oh, fifteen or sixteen. Three fourteen-inch tubes, displacement a hundred and seventy tons – what else d’you want to know?’

  Nick came aft, stepping over the midships thwart. ‘Are we stopping for any particular reason?’

  ‘Just – marking time. New development. Hang on.’ He swung back to Dherjakin… ‘She’s not one of the really midget Schichaus, then.’

  ‘No. Effectively, you could say she’s a very small, lightly-armed destroyer.’

  ‘Two officers?’

  ‘If you can call ’em officers. The CO was a Leading Torpedoman until a year ago. The number two – God knows…’

  ‘Hear that, Nick? The guardship, we’re talking about…’ Back to Dherjakin – and excited now, finding excitement difficult to contain… ‘Captain – one very important question for you. And please let me have an absolutely straight answer – even if you have to think about it for a minute first… Are you with us? Seriously with us, now?’

  * * *

  About two miles to go. Having the chart in mind, also recollections of one’s previous visit here. He had the throttle wide open and the launch was making her six knots, possibly a little better, with the wind’s help. They’d just passed the opening to port which was the channel the
y’d taken in the CMB. Johnny Pope had ignored it on the way in, held straight on and shortly afterwards hit the boom. If he hadn’t – well, you wouldn’t have known the new base existed. You’d still have hit the mine-barrier – without any way of guessing what it was there for – and your only way out now would have been the skiff. And you would have drowned.

  Even in this launch… Five minutes ago he’d had to endure Dherjakin’s scorn, after having to admit that he’d planned on taking her out into the open sea.

  But now – two miles at six knots or better – twenty minutes, maximum. Easing her over to stay close to the starboard-side bank, so you’d see that fork off to starboard when you came to it.

  ‘Any ideas, Nick?’

  ‘Only to remind the Czechs they have just six bullets each – as we have – so not to go wasting shots.’

  ‘Might not have to shoot at all…’

  If it went really neatly. Of the crew of sixteen, at least two and possibly four might be on deck; and there’d be no attempt to take them by surprise. Dherjakin’s co-operation here was crucial: the surprise would come after you’d boarded. By that time the watch on deck would have called the CO, so there might be say half a dozen men to deal with initially. But there’d be five armed men boarding. Five because he’d given Dherjakin the pistol from the wireless room – trusting him (a) because he thought it was safe to do so, and (b) because if you were going to use him at all, you had to.

  Some questions for him, now…

  ‘Is it a four-pounder on her stern?’

  ‘Yes. And there’s a machine-gun – one of yours, water-cooled Lewis – abaft the funnel’

  ‘Nick – you’re a soldier, you must know all about machine-guns?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Better than that – we’ll have about sixteen crewmen to handle, we might muster them where you can cover them with it. You could show Krebst how to handle it, perhaps.’

  ‘And then what?’

  He’d turned back to Dherjakin… ‘What’s the CO’s name?’

  ‘Bakin. Calls himself a lieutenant.’

  ‘And is he any good?’

  ‘In his way, and by their standards. The ship remains afloat and functioning, his men obey him, more or less…’

  A mile to go. He gave Dherjakin the wheel while he had a chat with the girls. Feeling able to talk with them now: until just minutes ago he’d felt an estrangement, sense of treachery almost, in his intention of subjecting them to that ordeal. Now, it was a sense of enormous relief: at close range and in the dark he could actually look Nadia in the face – and hold her hands… She asked him, ‘What are the chances, really?’

  ‘Good. Very good.’

  ‘Are you telling us the truth, this time?’

  ‘I always tell the truth.’ There was some dispute on this, and when he took over the wheel again the launch had covered about another half-mile. Estimates of distance were approximate, since there were no landmarks to go by, only the high bank – comparatively high, in terms of local topography – receding steadily into the darkness, monotonously the same, minute after minute.

  ‘Captain – mind telling me how you came to be working for the Bolsheviks?’

  ‘It’s – a long story, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Just the bare bones of it?’

  ‘Well. When I lost this foot, the Navy I’d served all my life threw me on the scrap-heap. After half a lifetime. And I’m good at my job, I had – have – a record to be proud of. Understand me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘No of course about it. But it was actually said to my face – What use is a damn cripple to us, Dherjakin? Huh?’

  ‘So when the revolution came—’

  ‘I was needed again!’

  ‘By the wrong side…’

  ‘Who the hell are you to say what’s wrong, right—’

  ‘Well – surely—’

  ‘Nothing’s sure. Nothing.’ He flung an arm out; ‘Reduce speed, uh?’

  ‘Yes… You were able to – turn a blind eye to the murders, bloody massacres even…’

  ‘No. I wasn’t there, I’d been forced into retirement before all that. In any case – what comes first, the chicken or the egg – ever hear that, did you?’ The arm flapped again: ‘Slower!’

  So as not to give them longer notice of this visit than one had to. A minute or two – making a point of announcing the comrade Base Commander’s arrival – so they’d have no inkling of any threat… He cut the revs: less bow-wave, and less noise.

  ‘If you have to tell them who you’re bringing with you…’

  ‘Military Revolutionary Committee’s planning subcommittee, checking on defensive capability.’

  ‘Perfect.’ Whatever his politics, he seemed to know which side his bread was buttered now.

  * * *

  Down to two knots now. The other channel was visible, leading off to starboard. He’d lost sight of the nearer bank, then picked up the low, black hump of the other. The guardship would be somewhere to the left of that, out in the stream and only two or three hundred yards from them now. It occurred to him that they’d have got past, easily enough; with the sky clouded as it was now, the night was a lot darker than the last time they’d been here.

  Glimmer of light…

  Dherjakin had seen it too. ‘Lieutenant—’

  ‘Yes, I’m on it.’ No masthead light, though, as there should have been. If there’d been one you’d have seen it a long time ago, across the low intervening land. But they’d probably be aiming at near-invisibility, hoping to catch intruders – intruding CMBs, for instance – unawares. That light would be at upper-deck level: or from a scuttle that shouldn’t have been left open. He adjusted the course. Thinking about the actual boarding, now that it was only minutes away. He’d have liked to have been the next man on deck behind Dherjakin; but someone had to put this launch alongside, and it had to be done properly – not bungled, waking them all up too soon… He called, ‘Heads down, now.’ Because they might switch on a searchlight, and it would be better if to start with they only saw himself and Dherjakin – two figures rather than five – or even seven. The girls would stay down out of sight… He could see the outlines of the Schichau now – bow-on, at an angle of about forty-five degrees. That light was on her upper deck right aft – about where you’d expect them to lower a gangway or drop a ladder over, for the convenience of their visitors.

  They weren’t keeping much of a lookout, meanwhile.

  ‘Give ’em a hail, Captain?’

  Dherjakin cupped his hands to his mouth, bellowed, ‘Two-five-six, ahoy? Ahoy there, two-five-six!’

  Waiting. Echoes floating across the gently heaving water. Bob had the launch under helm, circling to come in on the torpedo-boat’s quarter… The answering hail came out of the night like a seagull’s screech: ‘Boat ahoy! Who are you?’

  ‘Dherjakin! Captain Dherjakin visiting comrade Lieutenant Bakin!’

  One could imagine the surprise. The Base Commander – middle of the night… A figure had crossed in front of that light, more lights came on, another man was hurrying for’ard. To the searchlight, the Lewis? But surely the name Dherjakin… They’d be too late with the gun anyway – the launch was sweeping in close to her and it wouldn’t depress that far.

  Dherjakin said, ‘They’re putting a ladder over.’

  A shout: ‘Comrade Engineer Captain Dherjakin?’

  ‘Yes!’

  Voices – a medley of them, carrying but confused, across the water… Then another hail: ‘Come aboard, comrade Captain!’

  Dherjakin growled, ‘What the hell d’you think I’m doing…’

  Bob called, ‘As soon as there’s room on the ladder, Nick…’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I’ll be behind you. Krebst – if they don’t take the bow line—’

  ‘He knows, Bob.’

  The orang-utan knew too, presumably. Bob hoped so: he couldn’t have managed much French at this mo
ment. Gear into neutral, then astern, and a touch of power, wheel hard a-port: a bump as she scraped alongside. Dherjakin moving quickly to the ladder, Krebst throwing a coil of the bow line up to someone on the Schichau’s deck. Gear back into neutral, wheel amidships, engine just muttering to itself. Nick threw a quick look behind him, saw the girls crouching in the stern, Nadia’s face turned up, watching him, pale in the thin shedding of light from up there on the deck. He turned back: she – they – had only to stay put, keep out of the way and out of danger… Dherjakin was on board, Nick Solovyev was in the act of boarding and the orang-utan was hauling itself up the ladder behind him. Krebst standing back, making way for Bob… He flung himself up the ladder – wooden slats between double chains – and on to the Schichau’s deck.

  Dherjakin was right in front of him, facing inboard – that cocky stance of his, but no gun in his hand yet as he faced two surprised-looking crewmen. Nick had just pushed past them, rushing for’ard with the orang-utan on his heels – both of them bearded, piratical, wild-looking even to the eyes of Bolsheviks – and the CO arrived at this moment, a thickset youngish man with his shirt hanging outside his trousers, coming in a hurry from the open screen-door in the side of the superstructure: ‘Captain Dherjakin!’

  ‘Ah.’ A gesture towards him as he told Bob, ‘Lieutenant Bakin.’

  Bob had his gun out. ‘Put your hands up, Lieutenant. And you two – hands up!’ A glance at Dherjakin: ‘Captain, for God’s sake!’

  Dherjakin drew his pistol, then. The three obeying now, raising their hands – incredulous… Bob said, ‘Come with me, Lieutenant Bakin. I want you to tell your crew to surrender without making any trouble. They’re under arrest, you all are, and you’ll be shot dead if you resist… Captain, keep those two here for the moment. Krebst…’

  * * *

  The orang-utan had stopped to help Nick Solovyev get the cover off the Lewis gun and then a pan of ammunition on to it from the ready-use locker, but Bob, on his way for’ard with Krebst and the Schichau’s CO to draw fuzes in the wireless shack, then rout crew out of the fo’c’sl, yelled at him in French to go down and clear the engine-spaces – access to engineroom and boiler-room being via the little hutch on which the Lewis was mounted.