The Baltic Prize

Chapter 33

A day later, and without any change in the hard, bleak coastline slipping past, they arrived at their destination. As if on cue a spiteful squall came from nowhere filling the air with whirling snow particles, sharp and icy, cutting visibility to yards.

Kydd rapped out orders that had sail taken in and a minute gun begin its monotonous bark to keep the little fleet together. The misery continued for three hours until it lifted as quickly as it had come, revealing a measureless immensity of heaving grey sea under a dismal lead-hued sky.

Morale was suffering. Kydd knew what was needed – some real action against an armed and dangerous enemy, with something to show for it at the end.

It came rather sooner than he’d hoped.

A large island loomed ahead. Tyger led the way past its ten miles or so of louring crags that ended abruptly in vertical bluffs with a flat footing at its base curving around out of sight.

Beyond was the blue-grey bulk of the coast of Russia, nearer than Kydd cared for after the recent squall, and he gave orders that took them further out to sea.

Brice, the officer-of-the-watch, had his telescope trained astern at the island. ‘I’d swear … Yes, it is.’ He straightened and handed the glass to Kydd. ‘Sir, if you’d take a sighting to inshore of the flat area …’

Kydd focused the big telescope carefully. ‘Masts. And of a size.’

But for their lofty height they would have been concealed by the footing. ‘Signal to both “investigate line-of-bearing sou’-west b’ west”,’ he threw at Maynard at the flag locker.

Tyger made to heave to as the pair wore around to beat back to the island.

Their sail disappeared as they rounded the footing and into some kind of bay beyond.

Before they could return, the sudden muffled thunder of heavy guns erupted from inside the bay.

‘Down helm – take us back!’ Kydd roared. If a battle-fleet was moored there the two scouts were in serious difficulties.

Tyger came round slowly as men raced to quarters.

The guns continued – and Kydd agonised: they must be pounded to wrecks by now.

At the turn of the bay, Tyger swept around. There was no battle-fleet at anchor but dozens of ships, some full-sized ocean-going merchantmen, huddled together in a sheltered cove. And on the slopes directly over the anchorage a fort was firing furiously at the fleeing brigs.

Snipe’s topmast was a tumbled ruin where it must have taken a shot strike but Fenella had gamely passed a tow under fire and was making slow progress seaward. They were saved only by the hopeless inaccuracy of the fort’s gunners, probably army-trained artillerymen unused to distances over sea.

The three vessels made for the open sea. Kydd, however, had no intention of letting it rest. The big merchantmen were worth going for alone – they would be bound for the larger world and from them wealth uncountable would flow back to Russia and its war.

By the time the horizon was innocent of land he had a plan and summoned his captains. ‘I see you’ve swayed up a jury topmast already,’ he complimented Garland. ‘Well done.

And my respects to Commander Bazely for his timely tow.’ There was no response.

‘It’s my intent to make assault against the shipping,’ he said, without preliminaries. He looked deliberately at Bazely as he spoke but there was no change in expression. ‘They think we’ve been driven off and are no doubt celebrating.’

‘It’s madness,’ Bazely broke in. ‘Close in, with that great fort, they’ll knock us t’ flinders before we’ve even set about the merchantmen. Sir.’

Kydd gave an icy smile. ‘Do allow me to finish before you make judgement, Commander.’

He spread out a roughly sketched chart of the end of the island. ‘The island’s name is Kildin. It’s near uninhabited but its purpose is to guard the entrance to the Kola river, well used by the Norwegians and others. The fort is to watch over their safe anchorage.’ He paused and added, ‘Tonight after dark we will take the fort by storm. Afterwards we’ll attend to the merchantmen at our leisure.’

Garland looked unhappy and shot a quick glance at Bazely.

Kydd continued, ‘We have the advantage of surprise and, more than that, we will be landing here, the opposite side of the island and less than two miles behind them.’

‘The whole coast is cliffs! We can’t scale ’em in the dark, for God’s sake!’ Bazely retorted.

Kydd thinned his lips and spoke very carefully, as if to a child: ‘There is a cleft, a gully in the scarp. We mount up there to the top and deploy.’

Years ago, as captain of Teazer, a brig-sloop the same size as Fenella, he’d done exactly that in Guernsey, having topmen with tackles haul up a swivel gun with which he’d successfully stood off an army. He saw no reason why it couldn’t work here, even though it had been only an exercise that time.

‘I’ve never heard o’ such a business. What if y’r gully is blocked or similar?’

‘If the gully is impassable the entire action is called off.’

‘This is-’

‘Your part is safe enough, Mr Bazely, at dusk to sail about again and make motions against the ships as though cutting them out. The fort will fire away and, being blinded at night by the gun-flash, you have little to fear.’

Bazely coloured and bit off his retort.

‘A blue rocket from me signifies success with the fort, at which you are to land and join with us. A red rocket means a failure and you are to withdraw immediately.’

‘And I, Sir Thomas?’ Garland asked.

‘To sail about discharging your guns at random to confuse the Russkies still more.’

There were no further questions. The landing party would be Clinton’s marines, with a division of seamen from Tyger, and as the brigs would not be involved ashore they’d no need of details.

Kydd’s squadron stood out to sea, for all any on land knew, in full retreat. At the appointed time the course was reversed and as dusk drew in the island loomed ahead.

The brigs separated and headed for the inner anchorage. Timing was critical: there was a low, near-full moon to the north but it would be gone in two hours. If they were not in position by then it would be futile going on, but as well a fearsome thing to return back down the scarp. Kydd remembered how long it had taken in Guernsey to scale the cliffs – and that had been in daytime.

He had a picked band to go in but they couldn’t produce miracles. Bray had demanded command but Kydd decided to take charge – if this risky venture was not working out he could abandon the assault at that point rather than carry on obeying orders with vain heroics.

Tyger lay to under backed topsails as her boats went into the water. Kydd would be in his barge with the men detailed for special tasks, Clinton in the launch with his marines, and the seamen in the cutters.

On impulse Kydd called down the deck, ‘Mr Rowan. With me – messenger.’

The lad raced up, his face a picture.

Guilt stabbed at Kydd. What if …? ‘Stay by me at all times,’ he warned sternly. ‘You’re my runner and I must have you near in case I’ve an order to send.’

‘Aye aye, sir!’ There was no mistaking the eagerness and excitement. ‘Shall I have a cutlass, sir?’

‘Runners don’t have such. It slows ’em down.’ The one thing the child would not be doing would be going hand to hand in a desperate fight.

They set off without delay, heading into the preternaturally ghostly shore, the slop and plash of the oars loud in the air.

The gully was easy to find, the open cleft a stark shadow with a tiny shell beach below. The boats crunched into it and the men tumbled ashore, their equipment and muskets piled in readiness while they assembled.

The moon cast enough light but it was at a low angle and threw long, dense shadows. That didn’t deter the topmen: with their coiled lines over their shoulders their duty was to get up the dismaying tumble of rocks in the cleft.

Standing tense, the others waited for word while Kydd reminded himself that if there was no way up he could call the whole thing off without loss – at this stage at least.

One part of him half hoped that this would the case as he glanced at Rowan beside him, importantly doing his duty and seemingly unconcerned of what lay ahead.

After an eternity a low voice carried down. They were halfway up and had found a path.

Kydd went forward, grabbed the guide-rope and began to haul himself up, the seamen and marines following. An alien chill and spectral shades made it fearful going. In the utter stillness every sound was magnified as they clambered and slithered up in the shadows.

Pressing on, the line of men followed until unexpectedly the escarpment fell away, and they were on an uneven plateau bare of grass or scrub, undulating down to the south in the fading luminosity. They came together in order. Kydd took out his compass for a bearing and pointed the way. The enterprise was on.

Clinton’s scouts moved out and the rest followed in a line. It was hard going over loose stones and sandy gravel; there were curses in the anonymous darkness, and as the moon lowered below the line of cliff-top, their progress slowed in the inky blackness.

As far as Kydd knew, their objective could not be more than a mile or so ahead, but reading a map in the dark was out of the question. They could move on only in trust that a single compass bearing would bring them to the right point.

And then – in obedience to orders – the night split apart.

Alarmingly close ahead heavy guns opened up, livid flashes leaping skywards as gun after gun crashed out into the blackness to deter the impudent British raid on the ships in their charge. The fort must be over the ridge, obligingly giving them confirmation of their position and positive direction. The little party hurried forwards.

Kydd’s plan was that all attention would be elsewhere but it was a perilously close margin between coming within sight and making the actual assault. He goaded his men on as they stumbled and fell on the stony ground.

At last the rear of the fort came into full view in all its squat menace. It was as he’d seen from the bay: lengthy, to give maximum breadth to mount the cannon, and with quarters at the back. And, praise be, the height of the walls was a mere fifteen feet or so, nothing for agile topmen, and near the centre, large swinging doors gave entry and exit. No mighty fortress.

Kydd saw that Rowan looked petrified and thrilled at the same time. The gun-flash played on his young face as he peered ahead, spellbound.

But this was no time to be distracted and Tyger’s captain forced concentration on the task in hand.

Lying full length while the bellowing of the guns continued, he took reports. Brice – his topmen with their grapnels ready to go. Clinton – every man at arms, waiting for the word. Stirk – gunner’s mate with the fearsome task of hunting down the magazine when the doors were opened in time to prevent a suicidal detonation.

Kydd didn’t hesitate. ‘Go!’ he hissed.

The topmen raced across the open space, unchallenged.

It was the critical moment: Kydd rose, then loped towards the walls, expecting at any moment a line of muskets to appear but there was only the continued hidden crash and roar of the great guns.

Nearer, he could make out figures atop the wall – still no opposition!

The rest of the charge bunched at the big doors, completely vulnerable from above and then, from inside, scattered shots. Pistols? Sounds of scraping and thumping were heard at one door and then it swung wide.

Kydd flung himself inside, his sword out, ready for the sudden rush of defenders – but by the light of several stands of lanterns in the inside square he could see that, apart from a few running figures, it was deserted. His mind scrabbled for an explanation.

‘Clear the guns!’ he bellowed, gesturing with his sword along the embrasured fortification. His men sprinted for the stone steps at each side while Clinton coolly had his marines kneel in careful aim, picking off the gunners, who milled helplessly without orders.

Kydd realised why there was no real opposition: his distraction in the bay had worked better than he’d dared hope. The fort commander had sent his troops down to the wharves to confront what he’d assumed to be a landing, fatally overlooking the possibility of a simultaneous land assault from behind.

Rowan was close behind him, dirk out, uncertain, tense.

‘Stay by the gate,’ Kydd snapped urgently at him, then turned to Stirk. ‘You take that side, I’ll take this.’

Without a word, the big man turned and, with two others, left quickly on his deadly quest.

The magazine would have an entry port and steps down, but at which side of the fort? They had no time to think – he had to cover this part.

With Halgren his only companion, Kydd ran over to the base of the other side’s steps.

He reached a door – it was open, and led into a room. Further in there was a sudden wisp of flame, its tawny light growing and dancing. Kydd burst in and saw a Russian officer bent over, dropping torn papers on to a candle in the middle of the floor.

The officer looked up in naked fury. Yanking out his sword he threw himself at Kydd, who met his charge with a hasty parry, the loud clash and hiss of steel the only sound. They swayed together. The man smelt rank, beast-like, and his livid moustached face was inches from Kydd’s.

In a convulsive heave Kydd pushed him away, but his quick lunge was savagely knocked aside. Kydd hastily swept his sword up for a return slash and their blades met with a slithery kraaang, the power of the blow visceral and merciless.

Another wild swing came, which Kydd met with difficulty, its ferocious malignity suggesting it was coming from the fort commander whom he’d so publicly humiliated by defeat. Where was Halgren?

They pulled apart, panting, circling warily. The wildly flickering candlelight cast devilish shadows and he noticed the man’s waving blade – a curved Asian weapon, almost a scimitar and heavy with it.

In a sudden onrush, the man was crowding, slashing, the confined space making any swordplay crude and brutish.

Kydd stumbled on some loose object and the man’s teeth showed in savage triumph as he swept up his blade for a crushing blow to the head but Kydd’s sword was up in time and it was met in a clash of steel on steel of shocking violence. Where the Hell was Halgren?

With a frantic twist to the side he was out from under, but too late to turn his blade. He smashed forward with the hilt of his sword into the man’s face and heard a crunch. With a muffled cry the officer reeled back, clutching at his bloody head. Kydd did not waste his chance and his deadly thrust caught the man squarely in the chest, sending him to his knees with a look of horror before he slumped forward, dead.

Gasping and heaving, Kydd turned and stumbled out to see Halgren picking himself up, two bodies at his feet.

At the same time a seaman raced towards him. ‘Mr Stirk’s respects an’ he’s found an’ made safe the magazine.’

The guns were now silent, abandoned by their crews.

It was a victory.

His eyes sought out Rowan, still faithfully at the gate as ordered. ‘Find Mr Maynard,’ he panted, ‘and tell him it’s a blue rocket this time.’ Trembling with shock, Kydd sheathed his weapon and leaned against a wall to steady himself. It had been a near thing.

An image pushed itself to the front of his mind – Persephone, his dear and true love. Did he have the right to make her a widow?

The answer came with the question. He would always do his duty, as she would know he must. If it ended against him, it was as much his fate as a happy return to her.

And with it came another answer. That once the fight was on he need not fear the fatal weakening of her presence – from the nervous uncertainty before a contest through to the chaos and madness of a pitched battle there was no time for tender thinking, even if he wished it, and he could go on in confidence that he would never let himself or his men down in that way.

The present returned. ‘Get those guns manned – they’ll be coming back!’

When the first wave of soldiers topped the rise, they were met with the brutish thunder of heavy shot that sent them fleeing frantically in all directions.

Stirk came up, his face rueful. ‘Ain’t no way we’re able to blow th’ fort, sir. There’s nary a pinch o’ powder left to us.’

A parsimonious Russian bureaucracy had no doubt seen to it that this northerly outpost would receive no more than a nominal share of gunpowder. Kydd’s crowning scene, the explosive end of the Russian fort, could not now take place.

But there was another thing they could do.

‘All hands not guarding prisoners, to the guns. I want ’em capsized over the walls.’ He added, ‘And when they’re down, get the prisoners to haul them to the cliff edge and tumble ’em off. Understood?’

At the deserted waterfront Bazely and a couple of dozen of his men waited for orders. ‘What’s to do with these all?’ he asked, his sweeping gesture taking in the many ships now lying helpless before them. The tone was offhand.

To Kydd, again, there was no question of prize-taking. And a good two-thirds of the huddled throng were Pomors.

‘Take all the three-masters and destroy by burning. Leave the rest.’