David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

Joining the Sulitsa, Paul felt the current quicken. Malinovsky steered the boat into the centre of the stream to catch the flow. A second later a challenge reached them from the far bank, calling on them to identify themselves. The night suddenly filled with an ominous silence except for the cough of the Lyena’s engine. Paul held his breath.

‘The steamship Lyena ,’ Malinovsky shouted back, leaning out of the wheelhouse. ‘Joining the flotilla.’

The silence deepened. Then the voice called back, ‘Advance, Lyena .’

Malinovsky opened the throttle and the little steamer gathered speed with the current. To his right Paul saw the boats of the flotilla moored against the eastern bank, lights strung like pearls on their rails and smoke stacks. Past them loomed the larger outline of one of the destroyers. On the bank beyond, the camp was alive with movement. Shadowy figures flitted in and out of the trees. The Lyena’s engine was rattling noisily now, drowning all sound from the shore. Paul fed more timber into the boiler’s firebox as Malinovsky had told him to do and was half-choked by the smoke streaming aft from her stack.

Clearing the most easterly of the moored steamers, it must have become apparent that the Lyena had no intention of slowing and joining the rest of the boats. Paul waited for another challenge but could hear nothing above the beat of the Lyena’s engine and, just as he thought they had got away with it, a spotlight illuminated the river behind them and he heard a crack as sharp as a bullwhip.

The bulwark beside him splintered. An moment later something whined past his ear instantly followed by a second crack. Memories of the trenches came flooding back as he realised he was under fire. He brandished the spanner pointlessly then threw himself to the deck as the light ranged across the river. From the bank ahead of them the sound of a machinegun cackled like a maniac above the pounding engine. The wheelhouse glass shattered and the steamer seemed to judder as rounds hammered into her hull. The Lyena bucked and veered to starboard as she joined the main channel of the Volga, wallowing like a hippopotamus as the two currents converged. Malinovsky swung her towards the northern bank and the machinegun fire receded behind them. Paul raised his head above the bulwark, peering back along the river and listening for the sound of a chasing destroyer. The spotlight was uselessly ranging the southern bank and one of the campfires, set higher from the river, seemed to flare brighter as he watched. The boom of artillery followed, echoing over the water. He ducked again as the shell screamed overhead and splashed into the river beyond the bow. Another followed but without the spotlight the gunners could not get their range. The shell whined over their heads to port and exploded in the trees on the northern bank.

Paul fed the firebox then crawled for’ard, clattering down the steps into the saloon. He found Sofya crouched under the table, arms over her head. Another shell hit the water to aft throwing up a plume of spray and rocking the Lyena . Paul reached for Sofya. He put his arms around her and she pressed against him.

She was shaking and he remembered his first time under an artillery bombardment, hunkered down in a trench dugout. That had lasted an hour and a half, quaking the timbered walls and ceiling of the dugout with every explosion, threatening to bury them in mud.

‘Have they hit us?’ Sofya asked.

Paul looked up into the wheelhouse but could see nothing.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘They can’t get our range.’

And as he said it he realised the shelling had stopped. He crawled back aft and peered over the stern. He could hear nothing but the sound of their own engine. The spotlight had gone out. Paul thanked the Russian Orthodox God for the incompetence of the sailors manning it. To his amazement no destroyer had followed and he wondered if its commander had been ashore. If the navy was anything like the army he was familiar with, no one would dare do anything without orders.

The Lyena was hugging the north bank. He suddenly realised that if there were any forward units on the river they were steaming straight for them. He checked the boiler then went back through the saloon and up into the wheelhouse.

Malinovsky was at the wheel. The windows in front of him had been shattered and blood was running down his face onto his shirt.

‘You’ve been hit,’ Paul said.

‘Glass, that’s all,’ said the captain.

Paul held his shoulders and squinted at him through the gloom. Malinovsky’s left cheek had been lacerated and he had a wound on his neck that was pumping blood. Paul shouted for Sofya and took the wheel.

‘Can you steer?’ Malinovsky asked. Paul supposed he was about to find out. ‘Head for the centre of the river.’

Sofya came up to the wheelhouse, saw the blood and helped Malinovsky back into the saloon.

Paul turned the wheel away from the bank but too far. He spun it back to compensate. Through the broken glass he saw the bow was empty. Valentine had gone. Hit? He might be on the deck, or even gone overboard… Paul opened his mouth to shout when a hand fell on his shoulder and frightened him half to death.

‘That was close,’ said Valentine.

Paul’s heart missed a beat. ‘Are they following?’

‘I don’t think so. How’s Malinovsky?’

‘Cut. Flying glass. Sofya’s seeing to him.’

‘Can you steer this thing?’

‘As long as I don’t hit anything,’ Paul said. ‘Can you?’

Valentine took the wheel. ‘I’ve done a bit. Go aft and see if you can see anything.’

‘You’d best keep her mid-river,’ Paul suggested. ‘They might have started moving troops up-river already.’

Valentine grinned. ‘Aye-aye, skipper.’

In the saloon Sofya was bandaging Malinovsky’s neck with strips torn from a shirt. The captain’s face was pale, his eyes black beads sunk deep in his head. Paul laid a hand on his shoulder and went aft to look back onto the dark river. He could see no lights and heard no sounds above the rhythmic chug of their own engine. He put some more timber in the firebox then, reaching for his cigarettes thought better of it. He didn’t suppose there were snipers like they had in the trenches, but a light on the river and the sound of an engine would be enough for a competent gunner to estimate their range. He put the cigarettes back in his pocket and made his way round to the wheelhouse again.

‘It’ll be light by the time we reach Kazan,’ Valentine said.

Looking east down-river, Paul saw the first faint suggestion of dawn. Somewhere ahead was the People’s Army of Komuch and the Legion. Another front line to pass through and with nothing more than a letter for cover.

Malinovsky came up into the wheelhouse, shouldered his way past Valentine and retook the wheel.

‘How far is the railway station from the steamboat pier?’ Valentine asked.

‘On the Volga? Twelve, thirteen versts.’

‘So far?’

‘It’s the floodplain. In the spring the Volga and the Kazanka Rivers burst their banks. This time of year it’s dry enough but the Volga pleasure steamers always tied up at a pier near the mouth of the Kazanka. Before the fighting there used to be trams and carriages to take people into the city, but now…’ he finished with a shrug.

‘What about the Kazanka?’ asked Paul.

‘Yes, I can take her up the Kazanka, past the Admiralty. The railway bridge crosses the river just beyond it. North of the Zilantovski Monastery she bends around and runs parallel to the dam. If we can get through I can dock her near the Kazan Kremlin. It’s no more than a verst or two from there to the railway station. But if you’re thinking of taking a train east you’ll have to get through Azin’s army first. Your best bet will be down-river. That’s the way the Whites will go when the Red Army move up.’