Inferno

Chapter 81

The southern Baltic, off Rugen

The autumnal wind cut into him like a knife and Kydd shivered, pulling his grego tighter. Still muzzy from being summoned on deck in the early hours of the morning he peered over the side to where Brice was indicating.

‘The boat, sir,’ he said. ‘We were hailed out of the night, sounded urgent. Not, as you might say, a cry of distress at all.’

It was an ordinary inshore fishing vessel with three occupants, their faces pale in the lanthorn’s gleam. What was this little craft doing so far out to sea at this hour?

One of the figures cupped his hands and shouted up hoarsely. The words meant nothing to Kydd but he told Brice to allow one aboard.

The man heaved himself over the bulwark. He looked around warily.

‘I’m Captain Kydd, of His Majesty’s frigate Tyger. What is your business, sir?’

‘Kapten, ja?’

‘Yes.’

‘I Sven Halvorsen. From Rugen. I haf much to discuss.’

There was something about the look of intensity on his face that jerked Kydd to full alert.

‘Come below, then.’ He leaned over to Brice. ‘Send for my coxswain,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s to go to my cabin and, without saying anything, hear this fellow and tell me afterwards what he thinks.’

Tysoe lit the oil lamp and left.

Halgren entered soon after, intelligently with a pistol in his belt as though on guard.

‘Now then, Mr Halvorsen. Pray tell me what this is all about,’ Kydd said.

‘I ha’ been sent by Overste Taksa, colonel of the Swedish Patriots of Stralsund. When our brave army was overcome by Bonaparte, Stralsund taken into his empire. We only on Rugen island are left to fight on.’

Kydd nodded sympathetically. ‘I honour you for it, sir.’ He’d heard how the Swedes had put up a fierce resistance but had been overwhelmed so the last portion of the Swedish empire on the southern Baltic was lost to them, and only recently. No wonder there were still forlorn bands on the larger, inaccessible island with hopes of one day restoring their lands.

‘He know you English do not wish to involve, that he unnerstands.’

‘It is because we are extensively engaged at this time, unfortunately,’ Kydd replied. The Swedes were friends, the only ones left, and it would not do to show unwilling. On the other hand becoming involved in a desperate patriotic struggle on a foreign shore, whatever the cause, was out of the question.

‘So he offer you something you want in return you give him muskets, guns, pay.’

This conversation must have been played out so many times along the edge of Bonaparte’s empire where his rapacity and ambition had driven the conquered to desperate measures. At least he could listen politely, Kydd decided. ‘Go on.’

‘He say, first he can give you information, good information, for he has spies in Stralsund, Rostock, Lubeck. When ships sail, what they carry, where they go. Second, he has plan. He want you British to join with him – he make secret place on Rugen, you bring trade ship there, unload, he can take it inside Europe, not bother you. Much profit!’

This was something else entirely. Intelligence of the kind Nelson had set the greatest store by. And a gateway into the continent for British manufactures, utterly confounding Bonaparte’s Continental System of economic blockade, and worth almost any effort in securing.

It was very good. Too good?

‘You have some form of authority to speak of this, of course?’

Halvorsen fumbled inside his waistcoat and brought out a paper, folded many times.

Kydd opened and scanned it.

To the kapten of the British ship which cruize our shore … In essence it confirmed Halvorsen as an emissary of the Swedish Patriots of Stralsund, and accredited to discuss any matter. It was signed with a huge flourish and bore a red stamp.

If the man had been caught by the French with this, it would have been his death sentence. It must be genuine – and what was being proposed was too vital to be discussed and relayed at second hand. He had to see the principal.

‘It would be better I discussed this important matter directly with Mr Taksa, I believe.’

‘Overste Taksa.’

‘Yes, of course. Do you think it possible I could meet him?’

Halvorsen hesitated for a moment. ‘Very well. I take you to him – but only a few peoples come with us.’

‘When do you think …?’

‘He at north-east Rugen, at Lohme, not so far. We go now in the dark, stay one day, return in the next dark.’

Tyger was in a slow and uneventful cruise about the island and wouldn’t miss his absence for twenty-four hours, and in that time a great deal might be accomplished. ‘A good idea. I’ll ask the gunroom to find you some refreshment while I prepare. Till then, Mr Halvorsen.’

He waited until the man had left, then asked Halgren, ‘What do you think? Is he a Swede?’

‘He’s Swedish,’ his unsmiling coxswain replied.

‘Do you know anything of his organisation?’

‘No, sir. I’ve not been to Stralsund since Swedish Pomerania falls.’

‘Of course. You know Rugen at all?’

‘Sir.’

‘Well, this Lohme, for instance.’

‘Very wild. Not people or animals – forest, cliff, small harbour. Very far from Stralsund, nobody likes this.’

‘So a good place to hide.’

‘Sir.’

It would be away from any French, who would not have consolidated their hold that far in this unpromising island. A quick dash in under cover of darkness … It was all very possible and, in any case, he had no reason to commit to anything if he was not convinced.

‘Halgren, I think I’d like you to come with me. Keep a weather eye on the beggars.’

‘Sir.’

Dillon was happy to record proceedings and Kydd had his little team.

Leaving Tyger to a doubtful Bray, they set off in the fishing boat into the outer darkness on a compass bearing.

When the blacker shadow of Rugen formed, Halvorsen quickly had their position and put down the helm to westward. In a short while, he doused sail, and while the boat drifted offshore he muttered something at the two hands, who produced a lanthorn and set it alight.

He brought it up clear of the gunwale and then down; up, then down, three times. They all stared ashore intently. The procedure was repeated – and a pinprick of light answered.

‘Good,’ Halvorsen grunted. ‘All is clear.’

The small harbour was still and quiet, not a light to be seen. The little party hurried along the stone quay and through the silent town. A steep path led up the cliff, through woodland that reeked of resinous Baltic fir. At the top they found a clearing and a decrepit building, some kind of summer house. Two figures stepped from the shadows and Halvorsen lifted a hand in greeting, bringing his party to the front door, which opened for them.

Words were exchanged and they were taken into a musty parlour. The curtains were tightly drawn and a single candle lit on the table.

‘Wait in here. I get the Overste,’ Halvorsen said. ‘On no account you leave this room!’

He left quickly, voices fading into the heavy stillness.

Minutes later, Kydd heard the clop of horses coming up the inland road, then snorting and snuffling as riders dismounted, the jingle of equipment clear on the night air.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Kydd stood to greet the colonel.

The door opened and three soldiers strode in, wearing uniforms in green and buff with large boots and ornate curved and plumed helmets, their epaulettes and metalwork gleaming in the candlelight.

One bowed briefly to him and snapped in French, ‘Capitaine Jominie. Twelfth Dragoons of the Stralsund Garrison. Captain Sir Kydd, an escort awaits. You must now consider yourself a prisoner of the French Empire. Your sword, if you please.’

Kydd fell back in shock.

The French! How had this happened? He’d been betrayed, but by whom?

In a red flush of shame he unbuckled his sword-belt and handed it over. The officer nodded and the two others took position behind them with drawn swords.

‘March!’

A plain closed carriage was drawn up outside, escorted by a squadron of well-armed dragoons, a disciplined force well able to discourage any attempts at rescue by the Patriot band.

Keeping a fierce rein on his emotions, Kydd climbed inside and sat opposite the French officer, who smirked. Burning with anger at himself, Kydd looked away. Dillon sat next to him, his expression wooden; Halgren was told harshly to ride outside. They jerked away down the road.

Kydd forced his thoughts to an icy logic. Betrayal. He’d been addressed by name and therefore he was expected. Thus it had to have been an elaborate plot by the French to take him.

It had been so easy. A well-crafted and credible bait, a worthy performance from Halvorsen, and his own gullibility had done the rest. It stung that he’d been so readily taken in. It would echo about the world – the Royal Navy relieved of one of its celebrated frigate captains. Whatever else, his career was finished.

It was galling and his fault – but at least Tyger was safe. Bray would hesitate to leave while Kydd’s important ‘negotiations’ were dragging on but would eventually report to Keats off Mon.

As dawn softened the landscape, it brought no relief from his raging thoughts and he sullenly watched the monotonous prospect of endless woods and copses go past until they arrived at a ferry crossing. The city of Stralsund was clearly visible across the water.

At last the carriage clattered into a fortress courtyard and Kydd was invited to descend by a grinning trooper. Conscious of his dress uniform in ribbon and star, he stood for a moment, adjusted his cocked hat and strode forward through the curious spectators, not giving them the satisfaction of displaying any emotion.

He was led up broad stone steps, then a spiral staircase to the highest level of the building. Passing guards at every corner, his heart sank. His captors were taking no chances on escape.

They were pushed into a cell, small and awkwardly shaped, a truncated L, at a corner of the fortress. The door clashed shut, a peephole flashed with an eyeball and the three were left alone.

‘I – I’m sorry for what has happened,’ Kydd began. ‘It was-’

‘Sir Thomas,’ Dillon said quietly. ‘If you’ll allow me to make a personal observation?’

‘Yes?’

‘I would think it no less than a dereliction of duty were an officer to abandon an opportunity such as you were presented with. You had no choice – and it turned out this way. I believe we must accept it.’

‘Thank you, Edward,’ Kydd said.

He went to the single barred opening and peered through. ‘Damn them. It looks out over this villainous city and never a sight of the sea.’

The cell was sparsely furnished and gloomy. Two low beds occupied opposite walls – one of them would have to doss down on the stone floor. A single rickety table and two wooden chairs completed the furniture.

‘I rather fancy escape from here will be a vexing concern. Even if-’

The lock rattled and the door opened wide.

‘Sir Thomas.’ An officer in a flamboyant uniform gave a cynical smile. ‘If you are at leisure, Commandant Moreau desires he should meet you.’

‘Ah, the famed Kydd of Tyger,’ the florid, corpulent fortress commandant declared, regarding him with interest. ‘An honour to meet such a one.’

‘Sir, I protest at the scandalous conditions that I and my staff have been subjected to,’ he said hotly. ‘This is neither honourable nor acceptable to my station.’

Moreau spread his hands widely. ‘I’m desolated, please believe, Sir Thomas, but I have my orders for your strict confinement. You see, you are now a prisoner of note with a destiny that cannot be denied.’

‘I do not understand you, sir.’

‘You have not heard? I do apologise. It is the direction of the Emperor that you be put on trial in Paris before the world for crimes unspeakable among civilised nations.’

Kydd reeled in disbelief. ‘Crimes? This is preposterous! What am I accused of, pray?’

‘For complicity in the violation of the sacred soil of neutral Denmark, of course.’

It didn’t register at first. Then he realised what was going on. It was not the first time that a naval officer had been held responsible for an action in general. Sir Sidney Smith himself had been captured and taken to Paris for a show trial as an incendiary, having been active in Admiral Hood’s firing of the French fleet in Toulon four years earlier. He’d escaped with the aid of royalists before the trial could take place.

Now Kydd was being made a public spectacle and focus of confected indignation as Bonaparte trumpeted the guilt of the British nation to the world. He’d be found guilty, naturally, and his execution would be managed theatre.

‘I see. May I ask-’

‘Soon. The authorities have their preparations, you will appreciate.’

Kydd was led back to his cell in a daze of horror.

‘Sir?’ Dillon said, in great concern.

‘I’m to be put on trial in Paris before all the world as a violator of neutrality. This whole has been a plot to seize me for that purpose.’

Dillon gasped in dismay. ‘The duc d’Enghien!’ he blurted.

In a move that had shocked and dismayed all Europe, troops sent by Bonaparte had crossed the border and kidnapped the duke, taking him to Paris where, after a quick trial, he had been summarily executed. There was little that Napoleon would not do to serve his purposes and Kydd’s fate could now be considered certain.

Halgren gave a hoarse cry and battered on the door in hopeless fury. It suddenly opened, a guard thrusting out savagely with the butt of his musket, sending the big Swede groaning to the floor.

‘We have to get out, whatever it takes,’ Dillon said in a low voice, kneeling by the hunched figure.