The Baltic Prize

Chapter 22

In Copenhagen, Krieger’s little navy was the toast of the town and there was no difficulty with an increase in numbers. He had ambitions to go further – much further.

‘I’m going to do it, Steen,’ he said to Bille. ‘Else we stand to be known as a mosquito fleet only. I want to make ’em bleed!’

Together they plotted their great stroke on the charts. Off Copenhagen’s harbour was the desolate four-mile-long island of Saltholm, with its surrounding shallows, and a bare three miles further across was the coast of Sweden, Malmo. Between these two must pass any who entered the Baltic but did not wish to risk the perils and the greater distance of the Great Belt.

What Krieger was planning was nothing less than a massed gunboat assault on a convoy, a slaughter of the lot.

The English had now begun gathering the impatient merchantmen in loose convoys, but these were escorted by ships of the Royal Navy – at the moment small ones, true, but he had a grudging respect for their valour and professionalism and knew what he was up against.

In Nyholm there now lay a satisfying twenty-five gunboats, a firepower not far off that of a broadside from a battleship, but conditions had to be just right before he sprang his trap. The crucial requirement was for the wind to drop right down so the escorts could not race to the rescue of their flock, while under oars they would be taking their pick of their victims. At the same time there had to be enough to waft the convoy to its doom.

He had to be patient. Quite a number of independents could be seen against the far shore but he was waiting for larger prey.

On the eighth day a fast galley brought warning from Taarb?k in the north that a great convoy was on its way: seventy merchantmen, a huge prize. But it was guarded by four naval vessels, even if they were only gun-brigs.

They came on slowly and it wasn’t until after midday that the close press of sail appeared in view. They would be very aware that any threats would come from the hostile shore of Denmark to their right, not the rumpled placidity of the Swedish shore to their left. As a result the four gun-brigs took station along the outer right, their ensigns limply flapping in playful zephyrs, faced with the near impossible task of protecting all seventy sail spread out over a mile of sea.

This was Krieger’s chance: in unhurried fashion twenty-one gunboats assembled inside Saltholm island, their low presence undetectable over the scrubby flatness. He watched and waited. The light north-westerly meant that when he signalled their appearance it had to be such that a retreat back into the Sound against the wind in the confined waters was out of the question.

The hours ticked by. Then the fickle breeze faltered and died, leaving sails listlessly flapping and the convoy drifting helplessly.

The timing was perfect.

‘Advance by division – let’s help ourselves, kammeraten!’

With elated shouts the men bent to their oars and the gunboats surged forward towards the mass of sail, spreading out to give a field of fire to each.

It was an exhilarating charge but almost immediately Krieger saw that things were not going to be easy. Between them and the convoy were all four gun-brigs with just enough way on in the whispering breeze to slew around to bring their broadsides to bear. They wouldn’t open fire until they got closer for, like most lesser warships in the Royal Navy, their armament was in carronades, heavy in metal but inaccurate at range – close in, on the other hand, they could obliterate any oared craft.

To get at the convoy they had to break through these but they showed no sign of shrinking from what faced them.

There was really only one course: they had to put down the escort.

Warily a dozen gunboats closed in a semi-circle on the nearest drifting gun-brig. Out of range of the brig’s guns first one gunboat, then a second opened up with their great guns on its beam. The sullen concussion of their discharge thundered and rolled over the calm seas, one after another.

In a hopeless defiance the brig returned fire, the crack and thump so pitifully less, gun-smoke in the still air hanging in great smothering clouds between them.

The shots told: in the first minute the gun-brig’s main top-mast toppled, bringing down a tangle of canvas and rigging that smothered the mainsail. Another hit sent wreckage leaping up from her fore-deck, but still the fierce resistance continued.

On the ship’s quarters several smaller gunboats began taking position closer to, at an angle that prevented the brig’s guns bearing on them. Like hounds baying at a cornered stag, they added to the fire-storm.

The captain was going to sacrifice himself for his charges and for this Krieger could only honour him – and put an end to it.

‘Take her in, Peder,’ he grunted.

Straight in – for the battered stern-quarters.

The firing died away as their killing lunge began. Another two gunboats got under way and made for the bow, and as they prepared to board by storming, seamen appeared at the deck rail with pikes and cutlasses, determined to repel boarders in a last heroic stand.

‘Oars – hold water, Peder,’ Krieger murmured, and as the gunboat slowed he hailed up to the brig’s deck through cupped hands.

‘The British captain, ahoy!’

A figure detached itself from the defenders. ‘Aye – L’tenant Wood.’

‘Sir, I’ve seventy men in this craft and two more lie off your bow with the same. You’ve done all that honour demands and I ask that you yield to me.’

There was no reply and Krieger thought he’d not been heard, then the voice hailed back, ‘As I’d spare my men a useless blood-letting, so be it.’

From the deck of the defeated vessel he saw what the courageous man had achieved.

Overcoming his ship had taken a quarter of Krieger’s force and with another three to batter down there were not so many on hand to do the work of seizing the convoy. Quick thinking by someone had the convoy turned about and, in a slightly stronger breeze, it was straining to make for the safety of Malmo. There was not going to be a wholesale slaughter.

At the same time he saw with rising satisfaction that half a dozen, maybe even a score, of trading vessels had been taken and each was now under the Dannebrog flag, but with the time bought by this sacrifice the remainder were being shepherded into Malmo and out of reach.

As the prisoners were led over the side into captivity he couldn’t help but reflect that, if all convoys were to be escorted by such, a stiff fight lay ahead.