Bloody Sunset

by Bloody Sunset (retail) (epub)

  * * *

  The four hundred miles took twenty-eight hours’ steaming, as it turned out. During which time as well as running the ship he had plenty to think about.

  To start with, Nadia. He’d been ridiculously slow in seeing it, but the answer had to be that Irina had either told her brother about Nadia’s extrovert behaviour on the Schichau’s stern the night before, or she’d threatened to. The threat seemed more likely. If Nick had known about it he wouldn’t have been just sulking over the other business, he’d have been – well, murderous… But Nadia wouldn’t have had anywhere to go, unless the Solovyevs took her with them to the comparative safety of the Crimea. It was a repeat of the Petrograd scenario – when Nick hadn’t been sure that his sister and mother would take her along – and last night, or maybe this morning just minutes before their appearance on deck, Irina would have told her, Behave – or else…

  So she’d behaved. Or tried to. And he – Bob – had damn near lost her.

  Whereas now – please God…

  But the other major question – doubt – while the Schichau plunged on south-south-eastward – through lighter seas now, conditions steadily improving – was what was likely to happen after all this to Robert Cowan, RNR. By and large, he thought the answer might be ‘not much’. They could hardly blame him for having been tricked by the Count’s lie, when the Commodore and Dunsterville had also fallen for it. And for that same reason – the fact they’d been had – they’d want to keep the whole thing quiet. Including the fact he’d killed a few Bolsheviks and stolen a warship, when the Royal Navy was only here – officially – to fight Turks and Germans. He thought they’d want to forget it, as soon as possible. No Grand Duchesses, no grateful monarch, no medals or promotions. A small error of judgement, through having been deliberately misled by a foreign national; regrettable loss of a CMB and two lives. No blame attributable: and all of it heavily overshadowed, probably, by the loss of Baku to the Turks.

  * * *

  Krasnovodsk Bay is protected from the open sea to the west by a long south-reaching finger of land, twenty-five miles of it, with the main entrance to the bay between its southern tip and Cheleken island. But there’s a small gap in it about halfway down, a lot wider than the Schichau needed.

  She was flying the White Ensign now, from the yard of her stubby mainmast. Turning to port, after passing through the gap, into the bay’s calm, sheltered water with Krasnovodsk town and port now eight miles to the north. 2 pm on Thursday 18th September: and they’d be docking in half an hour.

  Lieutenant Ugryamov had the watch, with one of the Royal Navy men on the wheel. Bob walked back into the Schichau’s stern, leant back against the four-pounder gun-mounting, with his hands in the pockets of a pair of white trousers that might have been Bakin’s, gazed out over the little ship’s frothing wake; thinking about Maroussia – hoping to God she’d have got away with it – and Leonide – whom he’d have to call on – on her or her family, when time allowed – and finally indulging himself in the luxury of thoughts of Nadia.

  She’d still be at sea, in HMS Slava, would have had a few good meals by now, and a hot bath or two. It would be strange, he thought, even rather daunting in prospect, to meet her when she was dressed and groomed – the Princess Nadia Egorova, looking as she must have done before these horrors started.

  They mightn’t recognize each other. Like two strangers meeting.

  Initially. Not for long. Provided she did – please – get in touch. Not have second thoughts, or – out of sight, out of mind…

  ‘Leitnant?’

  Krebst. Wearing the orang-utan’s boots. He’d been making himself useful as cook’s assistant and general dogsbody, and his service before that in the engineroom had been invaluable. Bob nodded to him, liking him. ‘All right, Sergeant?’

  ‘May I ask, sir, do you have any idea what they’ll do with me?’

  ‘No – can’t say I do… But if I can help – you’ve certainly been a big help to me… I imagine what you’d like best is to go home – right?’

  ‘That was Captain Majerle’s wish, sir.’ Krebst shrugged. ‘But – yes, eventually – when it’s possible, I suppose…’

  ‘The war isn’t likely to last much longer – according to reports. If you signed on with my people – on the understanding that you’d leave with us when we go – alternatively when the Turks are kicked out of Baku and we get that railway open…’

  ‘I should be very glad, sir.’

  ‘To serve afloat meanwhile?’

  Nodding, smiling, in his luxuriant blond beard. ‘If the leitnant could arrange it.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. Leave it to me, I’ll let you know.’

  * * *

  A light had begun to flash from Krasnovodsk’s signal station. Leading Signalman Bury was ready for it, acknowledged smartly, and Bob read the message as it flickered out to them: Berth on President Kruger starboard side to. Russian ensign should be flown, or none.

  And what the hell was that about…

  ‘Change the ensign, sir?’

  ‘Yes please, Bury.’

  Must be handing her over to the Russian Caspian flotilla, he guessed. It was surprising: with the questionable loyalties of those ships’ companies, the talk had been of paying them off and sending their crews home – not augmenting the flotilla. But presumably, he supposed, watching the White Ensign drop like a wounded bird and a moment later the white flag with its blue St Andrew’s cross climb up there in its place, there’d be some good reason.

  It was good news that the Kruger was here, anyway. She’d been the accommodation ship in Baku and all his gear except what he’d taken with him in Zoroaster had been in her; with any luck he might soon be able to cease looking like a pirate.

  He’d taken over the conning of the ship and sent Ugryamov to prepare on the starboard side for berthing, when the first rocket went up from the harbour. He heard the bang before he saw it: then saw the high, falling trail of orange-tinted smoke. Another rocket soared: then several more.

  Ships’ sirens, then. Screams, hoots, a fast-mounting cacophony of sound… Able Seaman Morton muttered, glancing sideways from the wheel, ‘Bit of a welcome, like, sir.’

  Astounding. His expectation had been to slip in quietly, berth where he’d been told – on the outside of HMS President Kruger, thus removed and to some extent hidden from the sight of the general populace. Who in fact seemed to have gone mad. Boats were putting out now, too – they’d be in the Schichau’s way if they didn’t shift out of it bloody quick – crammed with waving, cheering Russians. Another pair of rockets whizzing up, bursting in sparks and streamers of coloured fire: and the sirens still going full blast.

  ‘Slow ahead.’

  ‘Slow ahead, sir…’

  Clang of the engineroom telegraph… He glanced up, saw the Tsarist naval ensign whipping in the breeze. Somewhere, he guessed, politicians were at play.

  * * *

  About an hour later – having shaved and showered, and feeling distinctly overdressed in a Number Six white uniform – he knocked on the door of the Commodore’s day-cabin, opened it and stepped in over the low sill.

  ‘Ah. Clothed and in his right mind…’ The Commodore, whom Bob had encountered briefly when he’d berthed the Schichau alongside her, had two Army officers with him, a Lieutenant-Colonel Stuart and a Major Barstow. Barstow had something to do with Intelligence. The Lieutenant-Colonel murmured as they shook hands, ‘Have to congratulate you, Cowan. Top-hole, absolutely!’

  Everyone had been congratulating him. They’d all been on deck to see him berth the little torpedo-boat, had all wanted to stop him and shake his hand, slap him on the back, and so forth, after he’d crossed the plank to go and get cleaned up. His gear including the stuff out of Zoroaster had all been here; he’d been considered dead, and it would all have been parcelled up for dispatch to his next of kin, except that the Commodore had known that his only kin was also recently deceased. But even Mr Dewhurst, the normally crabb
y Gunner, had wrung his hand and muttered a lot of nonsense.

  It was all rather bewildering. He felt as if part of him was still somewhere north of Astrakhan.

  There was nothing from McCrae and McCrae. But apparently there’d been no mail in the past week. It was thought that because of the uncertainty over Baku they’d have been hanging on to it in Baghdad, waiting for a new pattern of deployment to emerge.

  Major Barstow said, ‘As much as you’ve told us so far about that supply base is most interesting, Cowan. We’re looking forward to seeing your full report on it. Obviously we’ve no direct involvement of our own, but—’

  ‘General Denikin has expressed keen interest.’ Colonel Stuart had cut in. ‘It’s been known for some time that they’re planning a move on Guriev, but nobody dreamt it was to be on such a scale. And of course it’s of strategic interest in relation to Denikin’s own plans. You’ve rendered the anti-Bolshevik forces a considerable service, in that respect.’

  ‘Pure accident, sir. And the second visit was – well, a matter of survival, a way out.’

  ‘Well, never mind that—’

  ‘Another fortunate outcome—’ the Commodore interrupted – ‘is the effect on morale here. The scenes you’ve been witnessing, your reception by the townspeople – our having to pull out of Baku’s been a blow, you see, they start thinking ‘We’re for it next’ – which is rubbish, of course, we can hold this place till kingdom come, if we’re allowed to… I know what you’re thinking – and you’re right, pinching that little Schichau doesn’t make two-penn’orth of difference to anyone, but – well, you saw ’em, heard ’em – eh?’

  ‘Rockets supplied by comrade Kuhn, sir?’

  Both the soldiers smiled. Kuhn was the political boss, the Social Revolutionary ‘Dictator’ of Krasnovodsk. The Commodore had shrugged. ‘They certainly didn’t come from us.’ He cleared his throat, ‘But Cowan – speaking of confidence tricks – Count Solovyev was lying to us, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I’m afraid he was, sir.’

  ‘He won’t admit to it. We’ve had a signalled interim report from Slava – General Denikin wants to know all about it, naturally – and Solovyev seems to be saying that you misinterpreted what he told us, that he’d only said he thought it was possible his mother might have taken the Tsar’s two younger daughters under her wing. What d’you say to that?’

  ‘That he’s lying again, sir. And anyway, he’d sold that yarn to General Denikin in the first place.’

  ‘Well, no.’ A shake of the head. ‘That’s not so, apparently. He told us he had – and it influenced General Dunsterville, of course. But according to Denikin himself, Solovyev only requested leave of absence to go and rescue his mother, sister and fiancée.’ The Commodore glanced towards the door: ‘Yes, Chief Yeoman?’

  CPO Harmsworth had knocked and was hesitating on the threshold. ‘Private signal for Lieutenant Cowan, sir, from Lieutenant-Commander Roebuck. I thought while we had him here on board – if you don’t mind, sir—’

  ‘Carry on, carry on…’

  Bob took the folded page. ‘Thank you, Chief Yeoman.’ Glancing at the Commodore: ‘Would you excuse me, sir?’

  A nod… ‘Colonel – tell me – if the Turks were to pull out of Baku – next week or next month, whenever it might be…’

  Bob read, Name of company in Scottish address is indecipherable. Please inform.

  ‘We can bung a reply out right away, sir, if you like.’

  Staring at the message. Thinking, Oh, you beautiful, fantastic—

  ‘Reply, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, please.’ Pulling himself together – or at any rate half together… He took the board, and the offered pencil, wrote – in capitals this time, having dashed this off on the last occasion in the control position of the plunging and rolling Schichau – ROEBUCK FROM COWAN – McCRAE AND McCRAE. THANKS.

  He hesitated – thinking of adding GIVE HER MY LOVE – and decided against it, not to risk spoiling this when Jimmy Roebuck had been so discreet. He passed the board back to Harmsworth. ‘Thank you.’ Reacting, then – the reaction triggered no doubt by the thoughts of Nadia – feeling suddenly like a man who’d run a race and had the trophy thrust into his hands before he’d even begun to get his breath back. If Nadia could be thought of as a trophy: it was a fact that nadyejhda was the Russian word for ‘hope’… But there again – being out of the trees now, so that one could as it were look back and see the wood – well, that hope was for oneself, and – begging the question, perhaps – for her. But could there be any hope at all in any broader sense – for this country or its people?

  The Commodore was still listening to some military dissertation from Colonel Stuart: all three of them noticeably cheerful, the atmosphere in the narrow, sunlit cabin redolent of progress – achievement, for God’s sake.

  And – all right, from their point of view…

  ‘All is well, I trust, Cowan?’

  The question, referring as it did to that signal, switched his thoughts back to Nadia, and his smile as he answered the Commodore was real, spontaneous. ‘Entirely so, sir – thank you.’ He nodded. ‘Very well indeed!’

  It really was – he thought…

  When he’d slept for about a day and a half, he’d know it was.

  Postscript

  The vastly outnumbered Dunsterforce’s defence of Baku ended in evacuation on 14th September, but on 30th October the Turks signed an armistice on board the battleship HMS Agamemnon, in Mudros harbour. British forces reoccupied Baku on 17th November, and with the opening of the railway from Batoum twelve forty-foot Coastal Motorboats under the command of Cdr E. G. Robinson VC RN arrived in the Caspian in December ‘after an adventurous six-hundred-mile journey during which Cdr Robinson and his officers had to work the train themselves’. The official account adds that ‘it was difficult to know which Russians were friends and which enemies, but all were equally determined to appropriate gear and stores belonging to the boats’.

  Turning now to a memorandum drawn up by SNO Caspian and headed Naval Events in the Caspian Sea 1918-19, under a sub-heading Possible Naval Activities during the Summer of 1919, paragraph (c) reads:

  About halfway between Astrakhan and Guriev are reported to be two divisions of Bolshevik Army who were in the late autumn advancing in the direction of Guriev for the purpose of attacking it and obtaining possession of the valuable Emba Oil Fields. The Bolsheviks were using tugs and barges before the ice made that impossible, to convey their stores, and it is possible therefore that operations may be undertaken on this coast.

  In the same document the strength of the Bolshevik squadron at Astrakhan is estimated as 10 Armed Merchant Cruisers, 9 destroyers, 8 small torpedo-boats and 4 submarines. Bearing these numbers in mind, it is interesting to turn back to the account of CMB operations in 1919, where it is stated that ‘The Caspian having been cleared of Bolshevik vessels, the British officers were sent home and the boats handed over to friendly Russians’, and that ‘CMB officers regretted not being allowed to follow the Bolshevik war vessels when they retired up the Volga’.

  My italics. And my thanks to Naval Historical Branch and the Ministry of Defence librarians for allowing me access to these and other documents.

  Also by Alexander Fullerton…

  The Nicholas Everard Naval Thrillers

  Dramatic, action-packed, searing adventure of warfare at sea: introducing sub-lieutenant Nicholas Everard…

  Find out more…

  First published in the United Kingdom in 1991 by Macdonald & Co

  This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2018 by

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  Copyright © Alexander Fullerton, 1991

  The moral right of Alexander Fullerton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

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  ISBN 9781788630917

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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