The Baltic Prize

Chapter 29

Tyger’s recall came by dispatch cutter, whose captain wasted no time confiding, ‘Gen’ral Moore’s gone off in a huff. Won’t play at war with the Swedes, and now His Nibs can sail when he likes.’

It was welcome news, and Kydd was on his quarterdeck when the frigate raised Gothenburg and the fleet. Sharp eyes noted Victory and the others with sail bent on the yards – at long last the fleet was on the move.

Kydd had his orders and there was no need to report so he lay to, bringing aboard last-minute stores and ready to take position when it was time.

The longed-for signal came down smartly in the flagship.

Then, in accordance with the order of sailing, the fleet formed up in line ahead for nearly a mile of unchallengeable puissance, the legendary Victory in the van, leading the grand progression that was England’s Baltic Fleet off into the unknown. Gathering astern was an uncountable number of merchant ships at last on their way, and ranging ahead were the frigates.

It was to be the Great Belt route to the Baltic, no flaunting off Copenhagen but the pointed insertion of the battle-fleet between its island and the mainland a far more potent demonstration of effortless superiority in the subjection of Denmark to the will of England.

The airs were light and erratic and it took patience and skill to conn the fleet through the eighty-mile passage to the open sea, but with the sight of the steep white cliffs at the tip of Langeland, Saumarez and his great fleet entered the Baltic. Course was shaped to larboard to thrust deeper into the sea. As the distant blue-grey of the lands to starboard slipped by, Kydd reflected that this entire coastline from end to end was in Bonaparte’s hands – it was chilling testimony to how the war had so turned against them that now only Sweden remained a friend.

As a scouting frigate, Tyger soon left the fleet astern, reaching out into the seas ahead, her station the south Swedish coast, which they would reach the next day.

It was Kydd’s customary first-night-at-sea-on-a-mission dinner and his great cabin was suitably dressed. Tysoe had laid out the green and gold china service that Persephone had insisted Kydd must have and, with the silver he’d acquired as a result of successful actions over the years, he could boast a very respectable table.

Above the cabin door was the framed needlework by an unknown hand – ‘Tyger, tyger, burning bright!’ – and along the varnished panels were other adornments that Kydd’s wife had lovingly chosen for him: miniatures of wild creatures, calm and stately scenes of country life, wistful and charming rustic moments.

And, most precious of all, a self-portrait done at his insistence. It had been executed in haste, yet the strong, bold daubs without the customary delicate finishing gave such vitality to the piece that he could feel her presence radiating out to him, the warmth of a smile that was for him alone. It found its place in the centre over the line of the stern windows, above where Kydd sat now, host of the evening.

‘Come now, gentlemen, we’re to show our respect to the cook with this feast!’

It was a welcome chance to make the most of fresh shoreside produce while they could. It would be a challenge from now on for Saumarez to victual his fleet, given the hostile lands on all sides and the far distance to the victualling yards of England.

The dishes were taken appreciatively, and when the loyal toast had been given, the brandy made its appearance.

Kydd allowed the low murmur of conversation to wash over him, a little subdued under the realisation that they were essentially alone as they penetrated deep into a hostile sea in a headlong rush into the unknown. The Baltic might well turn into the next ferocious crucible of contending powers, Britain fighting for her life against the colossal forces that Russia with France could bring to bear – and they would be in the forefront.

Kydd’s gaze roamed over the table. The hard, ruthless and efficient first lieutenant Bray; the patient intelligence of Bowden, who’d been with him since those far-off days of his first command; the unsmiling and prematurely matured Brice, whose conquering of his own demons had led to Iceland and Persephone.

And the others: the genial and utterly competent sailing master, Joyce, the brave and modest Royal Marine captain, Clinton, the careful but shrewish purser, Harman. And, of course, his confidential secretary, Dillon, whom he’d trust with his life and who had become, of all aboard, the closest to him.

In the glow from the brandy his thoughts were drawn to the mess-decks where shipmates of old had their being. Without doubt they were spinning yarns and entertaining each other with tales of the seven seas – and keeping the world at bay as old shellbacks always did.

Toby Stirk, messmate with him since Kydd had been a pressed man in the old Duke William, who’d quickly come to believe that Kydd would go far and now trusted him as a captain he would follow into the gates of Hell itself.

Ned Doud and his inseparable friend Pinto, both of whom he’d shipped with before the mast and shared adventures with, and who had taken to following him as well.

Then there was Halgren, his big Swedish captain’s coxswain – how did he now feel, Sweden invisibly out there in the darkness? And-

‘Gentlemen, your attention, please!’ The talk fell off immediately at Bray’s forceful growl.

This was irregular – they were all guests at Kydd’s table and Bray had no entitlement to demand speaking rights.

‘I’m not one for words,’ he began, triggering smothered smiles all about him, ‘but now seems right to say m’ piece.’

Having the table’s rapt attention he got to his feet and faced Kydd. ‘Sir, it’s been a while since we faced the three frigates not so very far astern from here. We all threw in our coin t’ get something for the ship as will help us remember that day, ’cept the scurvy crew that did it were well adrift in their timings, but now I has it. Sir, on behalf o’ Tyger frigate, we ask you’ll look after this’n for the noble barky.’

He was handed a bulky package, which was passed on to Kydd, who had to beg a seaman’s knife to cut the string, his own long put away.

It was a punch bowl, not the usual chaste silver but of well-turned plain china, which was perfect for the purpose. In rousing colours and trimmed with a gold base it had a remarkably accurate and detailed depiction of the engagement on one side and on the other a pleasing vignette of what could only be himself, splendidly poised, training a telescope on the enemy, standing on the quarterdeck by the helm and under an unduly large and billowing flag.

‘Why, this is beautiful,’ Kydd said, admiring it from all angles. ‘The gold rope trim is hawser-laid, I see, none of your lubberly cables. And here, finished with right true Carrick bends as will stand any sea and still give good service, the ends seized as will prevent capsizing.’

Everyone in the cabin nodded, the metaphor most pleasing.

‘I’ll certainly take good care of it, gentlemen, and it will come out for every visitor who needs to be told of Tyger’s valour.’ He was sincerely touched, for this was not only a gesture to himself but an expression of their common bond with Tyger.

‘On behalf of the said lady, I do accept this distinguished ornament in perpetuity.’ The traditions of the service held that the trophies of a ship that went out of service would be stored respectfully, then passed on to the next with the same name. ‘Thank you indeed – all of you!’