Mutiny on the Potemkin: A thrilling naval adventure story (Marcus Baxter Naval Thrillers Book 2) Read online

  MUTINY ON THE POTEMKIN

  Marcus Baxter Naval Thriller Series

  Book Two

  Tim Chant

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  EPILOGUE

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  ALSO BY TIM CHANT

  PROLOGUE

  Marcus Baxter shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his heavy wool coat and swept his gaze across the broad, calm, deep blue waters, the distant shadow of cliffs that looked like they had been pencilled onto the horizon. It was no longer winter in this part of the Russian Empire, but there was a bite to the breeze that blew across the ferry and whipped away the smoke from her four funnels.

  “It feels good to be at sea again, does it not, Baxter?”

  “This may be an impressive lake, Yuriy Makarovich, but it is still just a lake.”

  Yuriy Makarovich Koenig, late of His Imperial Majesty’s cruiser Yaroslavich, threw his head back and laughed. Baxter was glad to hear the sound — Koenig had been in low spirits during the journey, as well he would be. No sailor relished losing their ship, and as the senior surviving officer he would likely be court-martialled when the authorities got round to it. They would have many more illustrious personages to bring before a board of admirals before they reached a young officer who had served on an old cruiser that shouldn’t have been there in the first place.

  Koenig joined him at the rail, and Baxter caught a strong waft of vodka on the young man. Well, that would explain his improved spirits. “Well, true enough — but for sailors like us, a lake is better than nothing. And is this not a magnificent ship?”

  That last was said with obvious pride. Baxter looked along the top deck of the SS Baikal from their post at the stern. “She is, indeed, a fine ship.”

  Koenig slapped both gloved hands down on the rail. “English built, you know, but assembled here.”

  Baxter smiled at the young man’s enthusiasm and slightly awkward attempt at bonhomie. “Oh, I’d know a Whitworth ship anywhere. A clever design.” He gestured over the back of the superstructure, down to the double doors through which he’d witnessed a line of train carriages being loaded that morning.

  “And about to become obsolete,” Koenig went on, his face falling. “They’ll complete the line around the south of the lake later this year, I’m told, and there will be no more need for ships.”

  Baxter regarded the young Russian officer. Koenig was one of the good ones, who’d done his duty and well. Too many like him had gone to their ends in the bloody water of the Tsushima Straits. He deserved better than the way Baxter knew he’d be treated.

  That took his mind in a dark direction. He thought of Juneau and the others on the old cruiser, the ones who’d stayed behind. Men he had trained and then fought alongside, even though he was not of their country or their Navy. No one knew what had become of any of them or their ship.

  Koenig had survived, at least, and while he had been surprisingly quiet on the subject, he had confirmed that Ekaterina Juneau and young Tommy Dunbar had at least survived the journey into Vladivostok.

  Baxter shook his head. Best not to dwell on such things. He reached out, clapped the much smaller, slighter man on the shoulder hard enough to rock him on his feet. “There’ll always be a need for ships, and sailors to crew them,” he said, trying to force some cheerfulness into his voice. Koenig’s position and lurking bitterness reminded him of his own situation not so long ago. Unjustly cashiered from the Royal Navy, cast on the shore and struggling to find employment in the only trade he knew.

  Looking back, it was hard to say if he’d been better off scraping by in Edinburgh. At least he’d had his liberty and hadn’t been living under the shadow of a firing squad. He couldn’t ignore that, even if he tried. The ever-present pair of nondescript men who watched him from a few yards away were a constant reminder of it.

  He had to admit, though, that he’d lived more in the last year that he had for the previous five. Not least because of the woman he’d known and — perhaps — loved. Who may, or may not, have betrayed him.

  It was all a little too confusing. At least now, though, he had something approaching his liberty. He’d been a bit surprised that the Tsar’s police hadn’t whisked him away to be kept under lock and key. It seemed, though, that no-one quite knew what to make of him or, indeed, what to do with him.

  If there was one thing a life at sea had taught Baxter, it was to enjoy what he could while it lasted. He took a deep breath, relishing the cold air in his lungs. “Enough of this talk,” he said. “Let’s go and get a drink.”

  The ferry’s route took less than a day, in ideal weather conditions at least, cutting at a leisurely pace across the southern stretch of the long but narrow lake. That didn’t stop it having a well-appointed lounge bar, and it didn’t stop said bar being quite busy.

  Most of the people in it were military, and most of those were soldiers. A small knot of sailors occupied a corner table, but Baxter knew he and Koenig wouldn’t be welcome there. They were officers from the ships trapped in Vladivostok, not undefeated but surviving in the ongoing war with Japan. The reek of defeat clung to Koenig, though, and Baxter was regarded with nothing but suspicion.

  They weren’t as bad the Army officers, though. They clustered in two distinct camps, infantry and cavalry, at either end of the long, well-appointed room. The cavalry contingent in particular was surrounded by the detritus of their campaign against the bar’s stock — empty champagne bottles upended in ice buckets and carafes of vodka for the most part — and were in full voice, singing loudly.

  “What will you have?” Koenig asked as he and Baxter took a seat at a small table. The furniture was all dark wood and polished to a deep lustre. Brass fittings polished with, apparently, the same obsessiveness a Royal Navy crew might achieve, and glittering crystal decanters offset the other sombre furnishing.

  “Vodka is fine,” Baxter said, as a waiter appeared silently with a carafe of the clear poison and two glasses. He’d developed a taste for the stuff, which the Russians seemed to drink like water, during the long months at sea with the 2nd Pacific Squadron.

  “I mean, what will you have with it?” Koenig demanded cheerfully, seeing away his glass. He cast a glance around the bar, seemingly oblivious to the hostility already manifesting amongst the Army officers. “I think a bottle of champagne will be most suitable.”

  Baxter briefly considered whether they should take the bottle and return to the upper deck. He’d spent altogether too long cooped up in a train carriage during the long journey from Vladivostok, and before that under house arrest in the Russian port. That had been tolerable, almost welcome, after a week or more at sea in an open boat. Of late, it had started to wear thin for him.

  He noticed a young officer staring fixedly at Koenig. It wasn’t hat
e. Anger? The icy glare turned on Baxter, then flickered away almost dismissively.

  “Yes, champagne sounds like an excellent idea,” he said. “And perhaps some caviar?”

  He might as well enjoy his time, he thought, given how uncertain his future was. Particularly as Koenig was paying for everything.

  “Any idea who the chap glaring at you is?” he asked quietly, after the bottle had been delivered and poured.

  Koenig cast a casual glance at the cavalry officers. “Cossacks,” he said dismissively. “Trans-Baikal Division — you can tell from the yellow flashes. No idea who that captain is, though.”

  Baxter immediately regretted drawing his friend’s attention to the officer. The bar was too noisy for the Army officers to have heard him, but his glance and slight shake of the head had been clear, and just as clearly misinterpreted. The officer who had taken a particular interest in Koenig rose — more steadily than Baxter expected — and swaggered across the short stretch of deep red carpet towards them. None of his comrades rose with him, but directed their rapt attention to the scene.

  It was a dynamic Baxter had seen a dozen times before, and he didn’t like it one jot. The Cossack officer had a calm assurance that bordered on arrogance, and his flat dark eyes had little human about them. Although he was a Cossack officer, he was clearly an aristocratic Russian. Likely the sort of officer who was brutal to the men under his command — even by Russian standards. His uniform was well-tailored but disarrayed just enough to indicate it was deliberate.

  In short, he was cut from the same cloth as any number of similar officers Baxter had had the misfortune to bump into in his own career.

  “You are Koenig, of the Yaroslavich?” the cavalryman demanded. Like most Russian officers, he spoke unaccented French.

  Koenig blinked up at the fellow, and Baxter realised the young lieutenant was perhaps drunker than he’d first appeared.

  “Well, speak up, man!” the Cossack demanded. “Or has the thrashing you took deafened you?”

  Baxter tried to keep his voice mild as he interjected. “Naval battles can indeed be very noisy things,” he said, slipping easily into the same language. “Particularly if one is commanding one of the main guns, as my friend here did.”

  The officer feigned shock at being spoken to by someone he clearly believed inferior. “My God, the pet speaks, and speaks a civilised language. Not well, of course.” Having dismissed Baxter, in his own mind, he turned his sneering expression back on Koenig. “So, commanded one of the guns, eh? Much good it did you.” He turned with an expansive gesture back to his audience, inviting their participation in the ritual. “Why, I heard the entire fleet barely hit a Japanese ship, let alone sunk one!”

  “A betrayal!” one of his fellows shouted. “If they hadn’t dawdled, Port Arthur would not have fallen!”

  Baxter could see the Vladivostok squadron officers stir uncomfortably. Koenig may have been a pariah amongst them, but they would not stand for a fellow sailor being so ridiculed.

  Koenig found his voice suddenly. “Well, I heard you mostly turned tail at Mukden and ran!” he spluttered.

  A sly smile crept across the officer’s face, as his victim rose to the bait. Baxter knew, from what he’d read, that his friend was being unjust to the Army — mostly from ignorance and anger, he surmised. “Well, if our efforts had been properly supported…” the cavalryman began.

  Baxter had had enough. He knew exactly how this would go, and he had to break the cycle if Koenig was going to salvage any sort of career. That’s what he told himself, anyway, in the clear part of his mind. He could feel his anger surging, though, boiling up from where he tried to keep it tamped down. He’d been here before, been on the receiving end of it. Unfortunately for this posturing dandy, Baxter wasn’t constrained by military discipline.

  He rose, making himself appear casual, and then straightened to his full height. That gave him the satisfaction of seeing this cavalry officer blanche very slightly. Few people appreciated just how large Baxter was, until they saw him up close and standing straight. He’d used that to his advantage in the past.

  “What’s your name?” he asked softly, sticking to French.

  The officer straightened as well. He was relatively tall, but couldn’t quite muster Baxter’s six foot five and certainly had none of his bulk. What he did have was the surety of the gentry that they were above reproach or consequence. “I am Rittmeister Yulian Danilovic Zubov, and you will address me as ‘your Well Born’!”

  “Will I indeed?” Baxter said mildly, then punched him in the guts.

  It wasn’t a hard blow, as much a shot across the bows as anything else. Zubov staggered backwards nonetheless, the wind taken out of him literally and figuratively, and was propped up by some of his fellow officers who rose in his support.

  Baxter switched to Russian as he heard Koenig rise. Most Russian aristos barely spoke their mother language, but he and Koenig often conversed in it. “Stay out of this, Yuriy,” he said. “I want this to be a fair fight.”

  “You dare!” the struck officer roared as soon as he’d caught his breath. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself at that point, though. Men like him didn’t use their fists — they used a riding crop or cane on their subordinates, and the troops under their command on the enemy. They didn’t resort to brawling.

  “But there’s a dozen of them!” Koenig protested.

  Baxter cracked his knuckles and grinned at the Army officers. “As I said. A fair fight.”

  CHAPTER 1

  Baxter’s head hadn’t hurt this much since he’d been knocked out by Vasily Ivanovich, his one-time jailer and latterly friend aboard the Yaroslavich. His ribs felt tender, and he knew he’d be sporting a decent black eye.

  His recollections of the fight, though patchy, suggested he’d probably got the better of it. At least until the two Okhrana men had intervened with the unfair advantage of having blackjacks. He guessed, from the difference in motion, that he was once more back on rails, which suggested a profound unconsciousness. A body and mind attuned to the changes of the sea would have noticed a switch of transport otherwise.

  “My predecessor was unfortunately lax in allowing you as much licence as he did,” someone said, just out of his line of sight. Baxter reckoned he should have been able to see the speaker, but his left eye was already swollen shut. “Not a mistake I intend to replicate.”

  He groaned as he sat up, trying to blink his eye clear. It was gummy but light finally made it through, bringing the other man in the train cabin into focus. As soon as that happened, Baxter knew that he was in trouble.

  “While some of our betters may previously have interceded on your behalf, which may have given you a false sense of confidence, I would encourage you to consider that protection at an end.”

  The fellow wasn’t much to look at, at first glance. Even seated, it was clear he was small, with iron-grey hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes were a very pale blue, startling against his otherwise dark complexion. It was the eyes that let Baxter know he was in a new world — appraising, sharply intelligent. Cold.

  “I wasn’t aware that anyone was interceding on my behalf,” he said.

  “Oh, apparently there are some who believe you are merely an innocent pawn in the great game.” Scorn curled through the man’s voice. Baxter was so disoriented that it took him a moment to realise he was speaking English, with barely a hint of an accent. “That you should be quietly let go, guineas put in your pocket to allow you to disappear off home.”

  “That’s news to me,” Baxter said, trying not to let anything show. He knew, instinctively, that this man would pounce on any hint of weakness, of human fallibility. He wasn’t aware of having any friends in Russia. Ekaterina Juneau had apparently wanted nothing to do with him when he’d arrived in Vladivostok; indeed, he was not unconvinced that she had been behind his almost immediate arrest by the local authorities. Juneau himself was presumed dead, and Koenig certainly had no influence.


  It must be Ekaterina, he realised with a stab of — what? Happiness? Joy? He knew she was in some way associated with the Okhrana, which had put her in a position to help him. Why she hadn’t told him any of this, or just got him out, was a mystery to him. One his pounding head couldn’t contemplate.

  “You certainly present very well as being an idiot,” the policeman observed mildly, breaking in to his chain of thought. “Your compatriot tells a different story, however.”

  Baxter stirred, but his anger had been spent in the brawl. “Arbuthnott,” he spat. “I wouldn’t believe a word he says.”

  He’d not seen the rogue British intelligence agent since Vladivostok. His own arrest had taken some of the shine off the triumph of survival, taking an open boat through the aftermath of a battle and enemy waters. He’d still taken some satisfaction in watching Arbuthnott being carried away under armed guard.

  “Oh, I do not. This is not the way to survive long in my trade, believing what anyone says. Which is why I’m going to be spending a lot of time with both of you.”

  “Good job it’s a long journey to St. Petersburg, then.” Baxter stretched back out on the bench. He realised this wasn’t the cabin he’d had on the Trans-Siberian train. That had been comfortable enough, even if his captors had not seen fit to acquire one of the more luxurious accommodations. This was bare, the train carriage itself smaller.

  “Oh, we’re not going to St. Petersburg,” the man said, with a very slight smile. This confirmed what Baxter had come to suspect, that he had been transferred onto a different train. “You will not be permitted within the same city as His Imperial Majesty.” The little man stood and fastidiously straightened his plain grey overcoat. “We are going to Odessa, where we will be able to spend much time together. Undisturbed.”

  The implications of that statement were clear. While Baxter may have friends in Russia, he was being taken somewhere they wouldn’t look for him. He hadn’t looked for help before, but now he knew none would be forthcoming.