The Steel Tsar (14 page)

“Cut engines.” Again we were drifting, waiting for a sight of the black ships. A wind was striking our outer cables, making them sing. Stars had begun to appear overhead.

Pilniak shivered. “It’s as if the world’s ceased to exist,” he murmured.

In silence, we continued our drift.

Then we spotted them, below and about half-a-mile ahead.

“Engines! Full!”

Again our diesels screamed.

“Three points starboard, hard, helmsman.”

We swung so that we faced the black ships side-on.

“Fire all guns!”

We offered them a broadside which was, in my view, a masterpiece of gunnery, sending a stream of shells in a vector towards both ships, which were sailing virtually side by side.

We hit one badly, evidently damaging its engines, because it began to turn in the wind, virtually out of control. We had no explosive shells and the enemy hulls could resist everything but a close-range total hit from our guns, so we were concentrating on their engines and their control-vanes. It was the best we could do.

The second ship began to go to cover in the lower clouds and now we could see that it was in wireless-telephone contact with its companions, for as the wounded ship withdrew, two more started to ascend. We could see nothing of our own sister ships and had to assume that they had taken evasive action or had been brought down.

The gondola shook violently and I nearly lost my footing as our hull received at least one direct hit.

“Rapid descent, height coxswain,” ordered our captain.

We fell through the skies like a stone until we were actually below the enemy craft, slowing, it seemed to me, just before we struck the ground.

“Full speed astern.”

We raced backwards over a deserted steppe. The city and the Cossacks were nowhere to be seen. Captain Korzeniowski had chosen his own area of battle.

The black ships were in hot pursuit, attempting to imitate our tactics.

One of the ships did not pull up in time. She hit the ground with a massive thump. Her gondola and all aboard her must have been smashed to fragments. She began to bump upwards again and we could see that she had left a great deal of debris behind. She was nothing but a drifting hulk.

Korzeniowski seized his chance. “We’ll use her for cover. Get behind her if you can, helmsman. Forward, half-speed. One point to port.”

Just as we swam in beside the ruined ship, her companion’s guns began to go off. They hit the hulk and shells burst all over her, but we received only minor concussion. We moved up over her, all our cannon going at once and again we managed to damage vanes and engines on the nearest warship.

It was getting dark. Searchlights suddenly came on, blinding us as we stood on the bridge. Captain Korzeniowski gave the order to switch on our own electrics. It would make us visible to the enemy, but at least we would not be entirely blinded.

“Give them another broadside,” said Captain Korzeniowski quietly.

Our guns sought the source of the searchlights and we saw the last black ship begin to retreat upwards, perhaps trying to lure us into pursuit.

Captain Korzeniowski smiled a grim, experienced smile and shook his head. “Half-speed ascent, engines slow astern.”

We climbed away from our enemy, into the clouds again. I was mightily impressed by our captain’s superb tactics.

Pilniak was elated, in spite of himself. “That’s showing them what real air fighting’s all about,” he said. He clapped me on the shoulder. “What do you think, Mr. Bastable?”

I was not naturally capable of the same display of emotion as the Russian, but I turned, grinning, and shook him by the hand. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said.

The black ship had extinguished her searchlights and had vanished.

“We must wait until morning now, I think,” said Captain Korzeniowski. “Thank you, gentlemen. You are an excellent crew.”

The half-moon was now visible, seemingly huge in the sky. Again the captain gave the order to stop all engines. The Russians were cheering and hugging one another, absolutely delighted by what could only be considered a victory against almost impossible odds.

It was an hour or two later, as we rested and debated the morning’s moves, as our operator attempted to get wireless instructions from Yekaterinaslav and then, when that failed, from Kharkov, that the ship was suddenly shaken by an almighty thump.

At first we thought we had been hit, but the ship was moving strangely in the air and had not descended a fraction. If anything, we had gained a little height.

We were asking ourselves what had happened when Captain Korzeniowski came racing from his cabin, glaring upwards. It was as if he, alone, knew what had happened.

“I’d never have believed it,” he said. “They’re better than I guessed.”

“What is it, sir?” I asked.

“An old tactic, Mr. Bastable. They’ve been following us all along, using nothing but their steering gear to keep track of us, drifting as we’ve drifted.”

“But what’s happened, sir?”

“Grappling clamps, Mr. Bastable. They’re sitting on our crown. Their gondola to our hull. Like a huge, damned parasite.”

“We’re captured?”

He grimaced. “I think it’s more in the nature of a forced marriage, Mr. Bastable.”

He shook his head, his fingers stroking his mouth. “My fault. It’s the one tactic I didn’t anticipate. If they get through our inspection hatches...” He began to issue more commands in Russian. Rifles and pistols were broken out of our tiny arsenal and a gun put into every hand.

“Everyone to the inspection hatches!” cried Pilniak. “Prepare to repel boarders.”

I had never heard that phrase used before.

Above us the enemy ship’s engines were shrilling now as we were borne forward.

“All engines full astern,” said the captain. He turned to me. “It could rip us and them apart, but we have no choice, I fear.”

The ship began to shake as if it was undergoing a gigantic fit.

Through the quivering companionways we raced for the inspection hatches, listening carefully, through the general row, and hearing noises from inside the hull which could only be men climbing slowly down towards us. To fire upwards into the inspection tunnels risked a gas-escape and the possibility of being incapacitated by the fumes. Fewer than half our riggers were issued with breathing equipment, for the
Vassarion Belinsky
had never expected to be captured by boarders.

“We’re going to have to shoot when they emerge,” said Pilniak. “It will be our only chance.”

I held my revolver at my side, four or five armed riggers with rifles stood immediately behind me in the narrow passage as the ship shuddered and wailed in her efforts to free herself from our captors.

Pilniak said: “It was a daring move of theirs. Who could have guessed they’d try it?”

“They’re as likely to destroy their own ship as they are ours,” I said.

Pilniak offered me one of his wild, Russian grins. “Exactly,” he said.

The hatch cover had begun to open.

We readied our firearms.

I
n the dim moonlight entering from the overhead ports, it was impossible to identify the figures who first broke through. In Russian, Pilniak ordered them to throw down their arms or we should open fire. Then we noticed that they were waving a piece of bed sheet on a stick. A white flag. They wished to parley.

Pilniak was disconcerted. He told the invaders to hold their position while he sent for orders. One of the riggers ran back along the passage towards the control deck.

The men in the hatches appeared to be amused and made some cryptic jokes which I failed to understand and which Pilniak, it seemed to me, refused to hear. It was pretty obvious to me, however, that none of us wanted to fight in those close confines. Few could survive.

I think Captain Korzeniowski had realized this, for he returned with the rigger. Pilniak told him what was going on. He nodded, then addressed the man holding the white flag.

“You know that this is an impossible situation for both of us. Is your leader amongst you?”

A small, stocky man pushed forward and gave Captain Korzeniowski a mock military salute. “I represent these people,” he said.

“You are the leader?”

“We have no leaders.”

“You are their spokesman, then?”

“I think so.”

“I am Captain Korzeniowski, commander of this vessel.”

“I am Nestor Makhno, speaking for the anarchist cause.”

I was astonished. Before I could check myself, I uttered his name: “Makhno!” It was the man with whom I had been imprisoned in Japan. I had never expected to see him again. I had no idea that he knew anything at all about airships.

He recognized me. His smile was cheerful. “Good evening, Mr. Bastable. You are once more a prisoner, it seems.”

“You are not much less of one,” I remarked.

He smiled. It was a quiet, sardonic smile, almost gentle.

He wore an old, elaborate Cossack coat, with a great deal of green and gold frogging, an astrakhan hat pulled onto the side of his head, a peasant shirt, belted at the waist, baggy trousers and high riding boots. He looked the picture of the romantic Cossack of fiction and I had half an idea that he deliberately cultivated this appearance. There was even a Cossack sword at his side and one hand toyed with the butt of an automatic pistol stuck into his silver-studded belt.

“You serve the rebel Djugashvili, I take it,” said our captain. “Are you trying to talk peace terms?”

“I’ve given that up,” said Makhno. “It doesn’t appear to work. You mention peace and everyone tries to shoot you or jail you. I do not, as it happens, serve anyone, save those who elect me. But we have agreed to give Djugashvili our help during this campaign. We do not support his ideology, only the spirit of the revolution, the spirit of the true Cossack. We are anarchists. We refuse to acknowledge government or despots of any description.”

“You’d not agree the Steel Tsar was a despot?” I said.

Makhno acknowledged my remark with a short bow. “I would agree absolutely. We believe neither in masters nor in slaves, Mr. Bastable.”

“Merely in Chaos!” said Pilniak with a sneer.

“Anarchy means ‘no government’, not disorder.” Makhno dismissed Pilniak’s remarks as those of a naive child. “And it has nothing whatsoever to do with Djugashvili’s idiotic so-called socialism. We do not support him, as I told you. We support the spirit of the uprising.”

Captain Korzeniowski was confused by this information. “Then how do we negotiate? What do you want?”

Makhno said: “You are our prisoners. We want no bloodshed. We would rather have your ship in one piece.”

Captain Korzeniowski became stern. “I will not surrender my ship.”

“You have little choice,” said Makhno. He looked to the outer ports.

We all followed his gaze. On flexible steel ladders dangling from the black ship, armed men were clambering down towards our engine nacelles.

“In a few moments your engines will be out of action, captain.”

Even as he spoke one of our screws stopped turning. One by one the other engines stopped. From outside, in the chill wind, came the sound of cheering.

The captain put his hands in his pockets and spread his legs. “What now?” he asked stoically.

“You will admit that you are completely in our power.”

“I will admit that you are an expert pirate.”

“Come now, captain. This is not piracy. We are at war. And we have won this particular engagement.”

“You are a bandit and you have seized a vessel representing the government of the Union of Independent Republics. That is an act of piracy, of rebellion, of treason. We are indeed at War, Captain Makhno. You will recall the enemy, I think. It is Japan.”

“A war between authoritarian governments, not a war between peoples,” insisted Makhno. “What sort of socialist are you, captain?”

Korzeniowski scowled. “I am not a socialist at all. I am a loyal Russian.”

“Well, I am not a ‘loyal Russian’. I am an anarchist and, as my birthplace seems important to you, a Ukrainian. We oppose all governments and in particular the Central Government of Petersburg. In the name of the people, Captain Korzeniowski, we demand that you surrender your ship.”

Korzeniowski was in a dreadful position. He did not wish to waste the lives of his crew and he could not, in conscience, hand over his command.

“You are a democrat, I take it?” said Makhno.

“Of course.”

“Then put it to your men,” said the anarchist simply. “Do they wish to live or die?”

“Very well,” said Korzeniowski, “I will ask them.” He turned to us. “Gentlemen? Airshipmen?”

“We’ll fight,” said Pilniak.

Not one of us protested, but not all agreed. The idea of spilling Russian blood was abhorrent.

Makhno accepted this. Indeed, he seemed to have expected nothing else, yet he was not convinced. “I will give you a chance to debate your position,” he said. He began to move back towards the hatches. “You cannot escape now. We are already carrying you to our headquarters. If any of you wishes to join our cause, we shall be happy to accept you as brothers.”

Captain Korzeniowski did not order us to fire. We watched as the anarchists retreated, pulling the hatches closed behind them. It was then that I realized we had been subject to a diversion. While we had parleyed, we had not given attention to what had been going on outside the ship. I think Korzeniowski understood this, too. It was obvious, as we returned to the control deck, that he did not hold a very good opinion of himself at that moment. As an aerial tactician he had no equal. As a negotiator he was by no means as successful. It seemed that Makhno (as I learned was his wont) had achieved checkmate without losing a single life on either side.

Helplessly, we watched the stars and the clouds go by around us as, with engines straining, the anarchist airship bore us steadily towards its base.

On the control deck, Captain Korzeniowski was sending a wireless message through to Kharkov, attempting to receive instructions and to give some idea of our position. Eventually, after several attempts, the operator turned to him. “They have cut our antennae, sir. We can neither send nor receive.”