The Baltic Prize

Chapter 32

Leaving the Atlantic facing Norway to the British squadrons already on the coast, Kydd’s plan was to go to work beyond Tromso and the Arctic Circle to the far north before the descent into the Barents Sea.

Sailing into a freshening north-westerly, Snipe was making the running. Kydd was gratified to see that the young lieutenant clearly knew his ship: with lee gunwales nearly awash, the little brig was bucketing along in fine style.

As they thrashed northwards the cold was bitter and insinuating, felt in every wind-blast, rain flurry and dash of spray. Kydd spared a thought for the others in his little convoy. The Tygers knew what to expect, but in Fenella and Snipe men would be entering the first stage of misery when work on deck would leave them numb in body and mind, and without a galley fire in these harsh seas, they were denied the solace of hot victuals.

They would be paying little attention to the marvel of the midnight sun, the sharp spicules of driven ice crystals on the air, the green-white monstrous surging of the polar seas. Kydd had had the foresight to send senior hands from Tyger across before they left to give homely advice to the seamen of the pair, and purser Harman had obliged in the matter of recommendation for stores and clothing. If this had been followed they had the best chance against the elements, and once they’d rounded North Cape the battering from the north-west would ease.

Seventy-five degrees north latitude reached, it was safe to bear away around the top of Norway.

It had been a kinder passage than the one Tyger had done before, the stark plunging cliffs of North Cape appearing out of a mild haze over to starboard on time as expected. Now to put his plan into train.

The sailing master had conscientiously recorded their movements before and he was better prepared with reliable charts and notations, so Kydd confidently stood on until the coast began to trend south-easterly. And he found what he was looking for: a fjord deeply incised into the iron-black coast with a sharply twisting entrance that gave excellent shelter. The wind was cut off, as if by a knife, as they rounded the entrance and glided in to anchor off the massive scree-slope of one of the encircling mountains.

Here he would stay for several days while the smaller ships recovered – and at the same time take the opportunity to assess the situation.

The high north prospect was as frightful as he remembered: the majesty of snow-streaked peaks, the peculiar intensity of the smell of brine, the infinite desolate dark crags, the immense clouds of sea-birds. And the silence.

From first Snipe, then Fenella wisps of smoke rose out of the galley and the three ships lay to their rest.

But soon it was time to put out into the Barents Sea.

‘Sail hoooo!’ The cry came almost immediately they met the open water – a galley-built barque, low in the water and strange in looks, with its up-rearing bow, faired-in stern and brightly coloured hull.

‘A gun,’ Kydd ordered. A forward six-pounder cracked out and sent a ball across its bow. The effect was instant: its sails flogged about in panic until they were brought in and the vessel came to an untidy stop. There was no flag that he could see, and that meant an examination.

‘Away my barge, and I’m to board myself. Mr Dillon, Halgren – you’re coming with me.’ He needed Halgren’s Swedish and Dillon’s Russian.

Veteran of countless boardings as a lieutenant, Kydd knew what he was after and it would be a rare bird to escape him with contraband on board, but it was information he needed more.

‘Sir, says he’s Zemlya out o’ Vardo, bound f’r Hammerfest,’ Halgren said at length. ‘An’ claims he’s a Pomor and has a licence.’

The master was a long-faced individual with the largest beard Kydd had ever seen. His crew, bunched behind him, were shabby, frightened, and watched with dark, alien eyes.

‘Ask him what flag.’

‘Says again as how he’s a Pomor, no flag.’

‘What the devil-’

‘They’re sea gypsies,’ Dillon explained. ‘Half Russian, half Norwegian or neither. They’ve been fishing and trading in the north since the time of the Vikings.’

‘No papers, then?’

A grubby parchment was produced, in Cyrillic characters and totally incomprehensible to Kydd. Dillon took it and pronounced that it was a licence to trade granted by the Kem of Solovetsky, which was in Russia.

‘Doesn’t mean he’s Russian – only that he’s squaring yards with them,’ Kydd said. ‘What’s his cargo?’

In response the main-hatch was opened. The hold was tightly stowed with sacks of grain.

The Pomor master was clearly anxious. A powerful frigate of a foreign but distant empire comes from nowhere into their hard but untroubled world, firing guns. What did it all mean? ‘No treasure, only corn, and does this offend the English sea-captain?’

Kydd grimaced. ‘Ask the beggar whether he’s seen other men-o’-war in these waters.’

‘Says he’s only a humble Pomor trading on the coast and-’

‘Never mind. Tell him we’re letting him go.’

This was no enemy to be wiped from the seas, still less to be made prize.

He returned to Tyger in an irritable mood. ‘Signal “proceed”,’ he snapped.

The word would now get out that an English squadron was in the offing but that was all to the good for what he had in mind.

No sooner had they rounded the stern headland of another fjord than two more sail were sighted. One put about and disappeared behind an island but the other stood on.

‘Take us beyond the island,’ Kydd grunted to the master. A bad conscience was as good an indicator as any of prize-worthiness.

The ship, a little larger but much the same in build, saw the frigate cut across its path and decided to give up.

Kydd boarded with Halgren and Dillon once more and found a similar situation – the ship in corn and headed the same way.

He ordered the hatch opened. As before, a tightly packed cargo of grain sacks.

‘They take corn west and dried fish east while the weather holds,’ Dillon translated.

At this rate- Kydd paused. Why was the first ship nowhere near her marks and this, equally loaded, low in the water? He glanced into the closely stowed hold. What if …?

‘I want five hands to rummage this hold!’

With the sullen crew and nervous master watching, they hoisted out layers of grain sacks – and then, open to the daylight, there was the true cargo. Tubs of tallow, chaldrons of pitch, resinous tar, linseed, wax, iron, furs. All exports of a blockaded Russia, contraband, on their way to the wider world.

‘And his papers?’ Kydd asked, but knew it was too much to expect a manifest, charter party or port clearances, none of the usual maritime commercial evidence that could condemn the ship as prize. And who could say for a certainty that these were Russian goods?

In the usual run of things, the vessel would be judged good prize after a Vice Admiralty court hearing, but they were in the inconceivably remote north. The correct way was for the vessel to be carried into an examination port by a prize crew, but the nearest would be Leith, a thousand stormy miles away. And the value of the cargo was in no way compensation – it was of far more worth to Russia, whose revenue depended on getting its exports out.

Kydd considered his options. Destroy the ship? That would make him judge and executioner in one, and his sense of fair play rebelled at this – and in any case, was this what his little squadron should be doing? Taking the inoffensive ships of the wandering Pomors? It was highly improbable that the Russians would send any forces so far into the wild north to protect them so it had to be accepted that his main objective was not being gained.

In any case, when word got out, all would skulk in port until he’d wearied and left.

He focused on the larger picture. The Russians were getting past the blockade. They were deriving war-paying income from this and it had to be stopped. Not only that but the harmless grain for fish exchange was keeping Denmark’s vassal Norway fed while its fish went to the Russian war effort.

Should he return now with his report to Saumarez, proposing a standing force on the coast? After all, apart from the Baltic, this was the only access Russia had with the rest of the world, and if it were severed it would cause incalculable harm to their cause.

‘Where’s he from?’

‘Vardo, as was the other. This is their main port.’

Back in Tyger he had the master produce his charts. ‘Vardo – where’s that?’

It took a little while but they found it: in Finnmark, a Norwegian port and therefore fair game. It was tucked away in one of the fjords not so far distant.

Kydd looked closely. Well sheltered, apparently in the lee of a mountain chain – and on an island.

His eyes gleamed. It was all very possible.

He summoned Bazely and Garland, who sat warily to hear his plan.

Kydd outlined what he’d learned, principally that the ancient Pomor trade was now smuggling contraband and had to be stopped.

‘I’ve heard o’ this crew and they’re naught but fisher-folk and beggars scraping a living,’ Bazely grated. ‘Why do we have to go against ’em, poor bastards?’

Kydd held his temper. ‘Because they’re aiding the enemy. And we’ve a chance of striking at the heart of the whole business.’ He smiled grimly. ‘By going instead against the merchants as give them their cargoes.’

‘I don’t understand, Sir Thomas,’ Garland said, wide-eyed.

‘He means, knock at their door an’ demand they kindly stop.’

‘Commander Bazely!’ Kydd flared. ‘Be damned to your distemper! I’ll have you pay respect due my person or it’ll go further, I promise!’ An adverse report to the commander-in-chief would put his sea career in jeopardy, something Kydd was reluctant to do. He kept his gaze fixed on the man until his eyes dropped.

‘This is my plan. Vardo is well sheltered by a pair of overlapping offshore islands. I’ve no doubt the Pomors choose the inshore route to the town but we shall stand in between these islands to give us our surprise. Once in, we shall see what opposes us. If there’s a fortress of size or anything larger than a frigate we shall withdraw. If not, I shall stay hove to in order to assess the situation with a view to the most effective motion we can contrive, which I will hail across to you both.’

Garland looked as if he wanted to speak.

‘You have objection?’ Kydd asked coldly.

‘Oh, no, sir! It’s just that, well, we’re sure to come across quantities of these Pomor craft, all capital prizes. Do you think-’

‘No, I don’t. We haven’t the prize crews.’ He relented, aware that any talk of prize-money to a needy lieutenant with a ship to care about was decidedly attractive. ‘I regret it, but we have a wider war to take notice of, Mr Garland.’

‘So we take, burn, sink and destroy the beggars … sir.’

‘You heard me, Commander – I said we’d lie off while I decide the manner of our engagement.’ He paused. ‘Depending on circumstances we may require to send in a landing party. Royal Marines and seamen from Tyger and Fenella and, if necessary, a further division of seamen. Prepare these for deploying at any time after we appear off the town. I shall expect all action to be broken off and a complete retiring before dusk. Inform your men of this, and that consequently any left ashore will stay there. Signals and other instructions will be ready in the morning. Any more questions?’

There were none, and after they had returned to their ships, Kydd was left alone with his doubts. Just what could a frigate, a sea cruiser, do against a town? Even if in company with a sloop and gun-brig. He’d never heard of such an action since the age of Vernon and the Spanish Main, and this was completely different.

What if there was opposition? Any determined repulse might well end with him damaged and unable to proceed on to his larger mission. Should he give up tamely and sail away to the contempt of all?

No – he was making what he believed would be an active and significant strike against the enemy.

In extended formation the three ships raised the outer islands of Vardo at dawn, cleaving the polar seas on their way to war. For the sailors, in their thick clothing against the biting chill, this was a strange and disturbing sensation. The islands were bare, bleak and with not a single tree anywhere, simply naked rock with blotches of green in crannies and clefts.

‘Quarters, sir?’ asked Bray, his face suspicious and tense.

‘In a little while, perhaps. Keep ’em below decks for now, out of the cold.’

He could see Bray was uncharacteristically on edge, distracted, but he’d joined Tyger after their previous Arctic voyage and these conditions would be new to him, the sights harsh and alien. A proud man, he wouldn’t ask questions.

‘Form order of sailing,’ Kydd grunted, as they passed between the islands. The flags shot up, fluttering loudly in the frigid breeze.

‘And now you may go to quarters,’ he added.

Snipe shook out more sail to take the lead with Fenella, Tyger staying prudently astern – he would be warned soon enough if there was any menace within.

The two smaller ships disappeared through the passage but did not return. Tyger held her course and, after clearing the rust-red bluffs at the end of the island, the whole prospect of the port of Vardo opened up.

Kydd took it in: the town was in the centre of the bay, more than a quarter-mile of huddled wooden buildings, once brightly coloured but now faded and drab. The waterfront had its cargo-working gear to one end, three vessels alongside it, more offshore waiting and, behind, a row of warehouses. Nowhere was there a man-o’-war and the gentle slopes did not bear any sort of fortification.

As instructed, the two brigs separated and went to either end of the settlement, then put about and beat in towards each other, their blue ensigns streaming out for all to see.

Kydd paced on his quarterdeck. Vardo was there before him – helpless, vulnerable. A wind flurry bit into his bones and in that moment he felt melancholy at what war was demanding. He caught himself and brought to mind why they were there.

Then he heard a distant thud and saw a rapidly disappearing puff of smoke from the ridge above. They’d finally woken up – his blood quickened and he looked for others.

Another – this time from the opposite end of the ridge. He couldn’t see where the ball had gone; the two brigs, well inshore, had held their fire and were apparently untouched.

Minutes passed. Then the first opened up again, a flat blam against the wind. He saw the shot strike in the sea well out from the two brigs, and far wide of Tyger. Another shot from the second gun, its ball nowhere to be seen. Kydd shook his head in disbelief. Just two cannon to defend a town!

Snipe and Fenella were converging on Tyger for orders.

By the time Bazely rounded to under their lee Kydd had a plan.

‘Fenella, ahoy! You are to take aboard my landing party, and with your own will land them at the wharf under Captain Clinton.’ Bazely would have the sense to cover one half of the party landing with the other half.

‘They are to set afire the warehouses and godowns under the protection of your battery. Once ablaze you will then re-embark them and retire. Understood?’

There was a short space before Bazely replied, in a flat monotone, ‘What if the town goes up in flames, too? Set ashore a rescue crew or-’

‘Do your duty, sir, is all you’re asked!’

‘The Pomor ships? They’ll make a fine blaze.’

‘Leave ’em alone. Carry on!’

It obviously surprised Bazely but Kydd had his reasons. The Pomors were not the target: the merchants were. If they howled at their losses, demanding protection, Kydd’s objective would be served without the need of further destruction.

The marines and seamen mustered, Captain Clinton with his men in fine array, the seamen, loose-limbed and restless, a midshipman in charge- Kydd looked again. ‘Mr Clinton, stand down that midshipman immediately, sir! He’s to report to me, this instant.’

Rowan reluctantly left the group and hurried up, sheathing his dirk and removing his ridiculously large cocked hat.

‘Mr Rowan, what do you think you’re at?’ Kydd blazed. ‘This is a dangerous landing in the face of the enemy, no place for one so young, sir.’

The midshipman did not reply, a stubborn look conveying all.

‘Well?’

‘It’s my duty, sir,’ he said flatly.

Kydd’s face tightened: it was most unlikely that he’d been placed in charge without special pleading. ‘Mr Rowan, you’re confined in Tyger until I give word, else – understood?’

The boats pushed off, and Kydd quickly had his pocket telescope up to see progress. An anxious scan reassured him that no soldiery was massing to contest the landing, only figures running, boats putting off, general disorder. The red coats of Clinton’s marines were visible as they landed briskly and took position to establish a perimeter before the seamen came in.

The first flicker of flame came from a barred window of the furthest warehouse to the left. His trust in his Royal Marines captain was not misplaced: this was upwind and the blaze would be carried down to the rest.

It didn’t take long – soon the conflagration leaped and devoured, advancing down the row unstoppably.

Before dark the entire party had returned aboard. ‘A fine stroke, sir,’ Bray rumbled, as they watched the eager flames. ‘Looks like it’ll spread, if we’re lucky.’

Kydd did not feel proud of his work, especially when it became obvious that the fire had taken hold in several of the nearer buildings. The entire town was of timber, not a stone edifice in sight, and there would be real fear and panic setting in by now.

It was time to go.

The little squadron reached the open sea and shaped course south-east towards the Barents Sea and Russia.

Kydd retired to his cabin.

‘A word with you, Sir Thomas?’ Dillon asked from the door.

‘O’ course, old fellow. What is it?’

Dillon sat carefully in an armchair and steepled his fingers, choosing his words. ‘Sir. I pray you won’t take amiss what I say.’

‘Good heavens, Ned. Whatever’s on your mind?’

‘A small matter. Sir, it’s said in certain quarters that … that you’re favouring one of the midshipmen. Protecting him, making his path smooth.’

It gave Kydd a jolt. ‘You mean Rowan.’

‘Just so, sir.’

‘Do you think I am? He’s only a child.’

‘Sir, this may be so but he’s a warrant officer and has to learn how to be one.’

‘I can’t let him rush in, waving a sword and-’

‘It’s not in his best interest, you standing between him and what he has to do.’