The Baltic Prize

Chapter 34

Before the streaky pale dawn broke, Kydd had the squadron at sea on the last part of its mission – gathering intelligence on the Arctic town of Archangel, the only port left to the Russians until they broke out of Kronstadt, the dockyard at St Petersburg, and confronted Saumarez. If there were any moves against England by the Russians joining with the Dutch and French, Archangel was where it would be.

The mission needed careful planning. Following the coast trending south-eastwards through the Barents Sea, they would reach the fabled inland White Sea, the gateway into the heart of Muscovy. With an entry-width of not much more than twenty miles, it was beyond belief that, being at war and with the ice having retreated, the Russians weren’t patrolling it, possibly with some of their large frigates. Should he take on a hard action all for the sake of what could be discovered within?

From past experience Kydd knew that Archangel was set well within a maze of flat marshes and endless muddy delta riverines. The last time he’d had a pilot with him – could he make it through with the countryside up in arms against him? It was a daunting prospect but it was the main mission of his cruise north and he had to find some way of discovering the truth.

The snow-streaked prominence of the end of the Kola peninsula loomed; they were now turning south and entering the White Sea.

It had been timed for early morning. There were two sail abroad; by their size they were Pomors, unlikely to contest his presence. Apart from them, the seas were empty and, in tight formation, the squadron forged south, keyed up for the first encounter.

By degrees the water took on a definite discolouring, a drab vegetable wash, the tell-tale sign of the great Dvina river issuing out from the immense land mass of Asia, on whose banks Archangel lay. They were now well within the White Sea in its south-east part, with vast uncharted regions to the west and south. Still no patrolling frigate or worse.

It was only a few hours’ sail from the wide Mud’yugsky anchorage where Tyger had rested before. Men-o’-war could very likely be there.

Kydd sniffed the wind: the same steady nor’-wester – fair for arriving, foul for leaving. The next hours would be a tense time. The sea and landscape were exactly as he recalled, dreary, lifeless, repellent … and quiet.

The anchorage emerged ahead, a mass of ships all facing into the current from the Dvina. Tyger cruised past them, no colours aloft. Kydd examined the vessels closely. The dozens at anchor all had bare spars. No sail bent on, no movement to sea expected. And not one anything remotely like a warship.

Curious faces appeared on their decks but there was no panic-stricken rush to flee, just a careless lassitude.

He put about and stood out a mile before the squadron hove to. Should they sail away, satisfied that there were no threats here in the north? Or, as his orders read, ‘Look into Archangel’ for enemy activity?

Bazely and Garland boarded promptly and he took them below.

‘So, no sign of the enemy. You’ve not been in these parts, I have. Tyger has too deep a draught to attempt the passage to Archangel up the delta. If Tyger can’t reach Archangel then neither can the Russians.’

The gift of intelligence that he’d be bringing back was the priceless information that there could be no ship of consequence in these regions, for to go further in the Barents Sea they would meet the great barrier of Novaya Zemlya and the pack ice, no place for any naval squadron.

‘I believe we’ve evidence enough there’s no threat to us here.’

Bazely said nothing, his gaze expressionless.

‘If you wish it, Sir Thomas,’ Garland said keenly, ‘I’d make attempt to-’

‘Thank you, no.’

‘The mission is over?’ There was the barest hint of sarcasm in Bazely’s tone.

‘Not immediately. I’ve something in mind as will tell ’em we’ve come calling.’

‘Which’ll be …?

‘No bombarding of Archangel, if that’s what you desire. Instead a much more damaging stroke.’

It would be against the White Sea Company, which hunted whales from Archangel even to the remoteness of Spitsbergen. He remembered the operation that had had the whalers putting to sea from Archangel with empty vats in which they’d concealed furs, but now they’d be back to their old calling. And that meant, on return, landing the vats of whale-oil at the receiving depot, Severodvinsk, where deep-draught vessels could safely load.

They set sail, the depot just an hour or so down the coast to the southernmost mouth of the Dvina.

It was a scene of desolation: a waste of frost-pale marshland extending across the entire horizon, unrelieved but for a sprawling huddle of wooden buildings next to a long, low wharf.

Kydd went ashore with the landing parties; he wanted to make sure the job was done properly.

As scores of workers fled their advance he led them straight to the warehouses where the vats were stored.

‘Up-end ’em, then let the gunner’s crew do their work,’ Kydd ordered the seamen, then stood back as they moved in.

As they tackled the huge vats one by one, a fortune in whale-oil was spilled, cascading in honey-coloured streams into the sandy soil. The empty copper vats were then set upon by the gunner’s party with hammer and spikes, effectively rendering them impossible of repair.

The fishy stench was all but unendurable and Kydd left them to it, finding a fringing sandy beach to stretch his legs. The land midges were out in clouds, the sliding muddy Dvina nearby, with its floating detritus of decayed branches and sod-clumps listlessly issuing out into the sea. It would be good to be quit of the place.

Unexpectedly a figure fell into step with him. It was Bazely, who stared ahead as if in thought, then turned to Kydd. ‘I confess I’ve misjudged you, Sir T.’

Kydd stopped and smiled with relief. ‘How so, old fellow?’

Bazely paused, then pronounced, ‘Because I was wrong. You’re much worse than I ever reckoned on.’

Kydd felt a dull heat rising, as Bazely continued, ‘You were hell-bent on making y’r number with the nobs at court because you’ve got ambition.’

‘What makes you-’

‘Don’t deny it. You’ve got so much ambition it stinks! Whenever there’s a chance o’ making glory you’re into it, gives no mind to who’s to pay for it. You’re after your flag! Some poor buggers are going to be passed over as yellow admirals so you can hoist y’r bunting is what I can see.’

‘You’re out o’ soundings, Bazely!’

‘Why else all this roaring ashore, throwin’ everything into a fright when all you’re asked to do is get intelligence, which we got today in an hour?’

‘If you don’t know why, then it’s not for me to explain it to you, Commander,’ Kydd said tightly.

‘All you’re doin’ now is puttin’ in time before you gets y’r battleship. No more th’ simple sailor you, Sir T, only the company of that scurvy crew o’ politicians an’ dandies will do. Well, this is to say you’re welcome to ’em. Good day to ye.’ He strode off without a glance back.

Kydd fought down anger, then came to a sad realisation. This was not jealousy or a mere accusation of ambition – every naval officer had ambition, and some had been blessed with good fortune, like himself. No, Bazely wouldn’t have risked his standing by antagonising his superior unless there was a more compelling reason.

He’d been reaching out for the companion and step-ashore shipmate he’d known, and all he saw was a bird that had flown so high it was now out of reach.

There was absolutely nothing Kydd could say which could alter that. Bazely, in his way, was saying goodbye to his friend.