The Baltic Prize

Chapter 31

As winter quarters for the British fleet, Marstrand was well placed. Ice-free, only fifteen miles north of Gothenburg, it was sheltered on all sides and ashore offered a fleet-worthy establishment of storehouses and repair sheds, even a tavern or two. On the bare slopes above it was the stern round tower of the Carlstens fortress.

The day they arrived, however, it was less than a welcoming sight for a steady drizzle drifted across in ragged curtains. Kydd watched as the anchorage opened up, keen to know what his reinforcements amounted to as sent by a reluctant Admiralty. But all he could see was a single brig-sloop, not unlike Teazer of old, and a gun-brig of lowly size tucked close in to the shore.

Noting their British colours, Tyger cast anchor near them, but unaware of their pennant numbers Kydd simply hoisted ‘all captains’.

The gun-brig was first away, her little cutter making wet but determined progress toward Tyger.

Kydd waited at the side. An officer came over the bulwarks and advanced to greet him. ‘L’tenant Garland, captain of Snipe gun-brig,’ he blurted breathlessly. ‘Reporting as ordered.’

Absurdly young, his look of sincere admiration was almost comical in one so damp.

‘Captain Sir Thomas Kydd, Tyger frigate,’ Kydd responded, doffing his hat in reply to the youngster’s removing his. ‘And if you’ll attend on me in my cabin.’

He was taken below while Kydd waited for the brig-sloop’s pinnace to reach the side. The ship looked familiar but he couldn’t place it: one of the many of her kind that were doing every task that came their way along the seaboard of Britain, this one distinctly old-fashioned with her bluff bow and sharply curved, ornamented beakhead, not often seen in today’s plain wartime craft.

There were bumps alongside as the pinnace hooked on, and shortly after, the worn cocked hat of a commander appeared, then the man himself, in a dripping boat-cloak, who punctiliously faced aft and uncovered before doing the same for Kydd.

It was Bazely. His friend since the days when Kydd had been a young commander of a brig-sloop.

‘Why, who would have thought it so?’ Kydd said with delight. ‘M’ dear fellow! Step aboard and you’re right welcome.’ The sloop was, of course, Fenella, from those far-off days on the coast of Cornwall.

Bazely merely gave a short bow and remained mute.

‘Come to join the sport, hey?’

‘Reportin’ as ordered,’ he said woodenly.

Kydd was taken aback at the attitude but the last time he’d seen Bazely was during some of the wilder excesses he’d descended to while on leave in London. Among other things, he had been seen in public with the disreputable Prince of Wales and his circle. Kydd had since left that behind, but he recalled Bazely’s bitter words when they had parted that Kydd had forsaken the sea for high society. Surely Bazely didn’t still hold it against him – didn’t he know that the high seas were where Tyger’s captain’s heart lay?

‘Let’s get below out of this cursed weather,’ Kydd offered and led the way below.

Tysoe had a hot negus ready for them and Kydd, taking one armchair, gestured to Bazely to take the other, Garland contenting himself with a straight-back chair.

‘Well, gentlemen, we’ve some excitement ahead, I believe.’

Bazely regarded him levelly, saying nothing, cradling his drink.

Kydd was annoyed by his attitude: now was the time to be open and forward. He needed to have a measure of his captains, their experience, their views on the mission, their dedication to the team. For all their long acquaintance, he’d never known Bazely as a fighting captain, and had little knowledge of his seamanship skills.

He deliberately turned to Garland. ‘We’re for the north, the high north. Have you service there, perhaps?’

The young officer coloured. ‘Snipe is my first command, Sir Thomas. I’ve only service on the east coast. I’m sorry, sir …’ He trailed off.

‘No matter, and you, sir?’ he said evenly, looking at Bazely.

‘None.’ Still the wooden tone.

‘I see. Then you’ll both have to be guided by me. Tyger has been this way before and knows the ropes.’

‘Sir. These Arctic waters, shall we be expected to fight at all?’

‘I do not say it’s impossible, Mr Garland.’

‘It’s just, well, to think to fall on the enemy while in conditions that …’ He was pink with embarrassment.

Kydd sympathised. The young man had probably seen no real fighting. His little gun-brig was a small enough craft to challenge the high north – and his imagination was no doubt seething with frightful images of ice mountains and polar bears. ‘It’s not so hard a place in season. Why, there were quantities of merchant jacks from Hull and similar that used to make the voyage to Archangel every year without inconvenience.’

He looked deliberately at Bazely. ‘Do you have any concerns at all, Commander?’

‘Many.’

‘So?’

‘How am I to rig m’ men against the weather, without I’ve any slops of the right sort t’ give ’em?’

‘This is a fleet yard. You’ll have my note to draw what’s necessary before we sail. Anything else?’

‘Victuals. If we’re on a cruise t’ the north, Fenella don’t have the endurance, let alone Snipe here.’

‘You’ll be on Tyger’s books while we’re away – and that’s my complication, not yours. More?’

Was it that Bazely, still only a commander after all these years, resented Kydd’s rise, having to take his orders?

‘Yes. What in Hades are we about in these latitudes?’

Kydd drew in his breath. Should he demand respect, the occasional ‘sir’, the formalities of rank? In the kind of mission Kydd was anticipating, men’s lives would be at hazard and a sulky subordinate was the last thing he needed.

‘Intelligence, looking into Archangel to see if the Russians or any are intending mischief. And on the way I’ve a mind to stir up both them and the Norwegians, who I’ll remind you are the enemy in these parts.’

It seemed to satisfy but Garland stirred uncomfortably. ‘Should we not be rather reporting to Admiral Saumarez, Sir Thomas? We’ve little enough force together, I’m persuaded.’

He shrank under Kydd’s look, but then Bazely took it up. ‘He’s right. If it’s intelligence we’re after, that’s what we’re there for, aren’t we, for God’s sake?’

Kydd bit off his retort and answered shortly, ‘Understand that there’s higher matters involved here, as make it damn near imperative. Our course is set and I will not have argument.’

He’d arrived at some far-sighted conclusions that he was confident were the right ones. He’d been to the high north before and knew its remoteness, a frozen territory far removed from the usual ebb and flow of the civilised regions. It was untouched by the great war that was raging, age-old practices still observed, people following the same time-worn rhythms of life in their isolation. Now he was returning: to lands that were enemy but defenceless. If he came down on them with fire and thunder it would be carrying the war directly to Britain’s foes for a remarkably small outlay of naval force.

And the result would be that in fear all trade would cease. To defend the long coastline, troops and ships would have to be diverted to the dread conditions of the north, all at great expense to the enemy, and loss of those numbers to the battlefield in England’s ally Sweden’s war.

He didn’t really expect any war-fleets in Archangel. How would the Russians have got ships there, given there was only the one route, out of the Baltic, through Saumarez’s fleet and around the entire swell of Sweden, Norway and then the Barents Sea? No, as last time his would be the biggest ship on the coast. Tyger would do her duty and visit but he’d be surprised if there was anything at all to report.

Bazely folded his arms coldly.

‘So. Stores complete, we sail two days hence.’

‘Orders?’ Bazely was pointedly requesting written orders covering eventualities such as falling in with the enemy, rendezvous in stress of weather and the like. Kydd nodded an agreement: he’d get them, even if Dillon would be working long nights again.

There was desultory discussion over charts, pilots, watering and other matters, but each officer found reasons not to accept an invitation to dinner.

As they stood to go, Kydd said quietly, ‘Ah, Commander Bazely, a word with you before you leave?’

After Garland had closed the door behind him, Kydd opened, ‘Edmund, I’m at a loss to account for your bearing towards me. I’d reckoned you a friend. Are you offended in some way?’

Bazely’s eyes glowed but he did not respond.

‘Is it something you’ve heard, a false-’

‘I’ve nothing to add t’ what I said when we last parted.’

‘About my exchanging the sea for the high life ashore? If that’s all it is, then I can tell you-’

‘Anything more … sir?’

It wounded Kydd. There were few enough friends left from his younger days and Bazely’s usual colourful banter had always brought a smile. Now they were working professionally together for the first time and it had to be like this.

‘No, I won’t detain you any further,’ Kydd replied, saddened that his good fortune and rise in society had triggered resentment and surliness unworthy of the man he’d known.