The Baltic Prize

Chapter 36

Kydd had been assured the assignment would be for no more than a couple of weeks, and in his absence Tyger would be attached to the fleet for local duties.

He had much to think on as the aviso cutter slashed through grey seas eastwards to Karlskrona, the home port of Sweden’s navy. Saumarez had taken his initiatives as a sincerely intended strike against the enemy, but he’d made no secret of his view that he was little more than a spirited frigate captain with scant idea of the larger picture.

And there was every reason to take this assignment as a means of cooling Kydd’s ardour: in his instructions Saumarez had been at pains to point out that Kydd was not empowered to make promises or commitment of any kind, merely to give advice on current tactics of the Royal Navy, its capabilities insofar as that applied to the Baltic Fleet, and any suggestions of an operational nature that he might feel from time to time would be acceptable.

On the other hand, he was to see this as an opportunity to take the measure of the Swedes, their strengths and weaknesses, with a view to a future combining of fleets in the face of the Russian threat. All would depend on the openness of the Swedish, and on how successful he was in getting along with them.

At the same time there were many questions to which Kydd needed answers. Just what had happened behind the scenes with the Swedes that had General Moore abandon the Northern Expedition? Why was Saumarez taking pains to distance himself in his naval dealings with them? If Russia was the common enemy why were they not doing everything in their power to come together against the foe?

He remembered the reception in Gothenburg when the governor had let slip that while they were allies they were not necessarily friends – and Envoy Thornton’s reaction at Kydd’s question to him. Would he find what was behind it all?

They raised the outer islands that so effectively guarded Karlskrona. No commander of a square-rigged vessel of size would dare risk entering this offshore maze – the confined waters between made tacking and wearing against an unfavourable wind out of the question.

It was impressive: countless vessels of all classes moored in neat rows, larger vessels in the outer reaches of the five-mile-wide harbour. Kydd realised that numbers and types would be known to Saumarez and took in the prospect of a major Baltic naval port.

The cutter knew where to go, and before long Kydd was stepping up to the quay before the stern naval headquarters, the large blue and yellow-crossed ensign of Sweden floating free.

He was met by a neat, slight officer who stepped forward and saluted. ‘Welcome to Karlskrona,’ he said crisply, his English nearly flawless. ‘Orlogskapten Jens Stromsson, at your service. Sir Kydd, I believe?’

‘It is, er, Commander.’ They shook hands formally and Stromsson threw some words at waiting seamen, who took charge of Kydd’s small baggage.

‘My ship is the frigate Krigare and you are to be my guest.’

Processing quickly, they reached the end of the quay and a waiting four-oared boat. They were taken out to where a vessel lay moored, smaller even than his old command, the brig-sloop Teazer.

Stromsson saw Kydd’s surprise and said, ‘A frigate, yes, but modest and trim as will be at home among our islands.’

First impressions were good: clean, taut and well fettled, the little warship looked the part.

‘How many guns?’ Kydd asked.

‘Four twelve-pounders and sixteen three-pounders.’ Kydd kept a blank face. A puny enough fit for a sloop, let alone a frigate.

They were piped aboard and Kydd was taken to the great cabin immediately, even before being introduced to the two officers in the side party.

‘My cabin is yours, sir,’ Stromsson said, with an expansive gesture. Kydd knew better than to refuse his sacrifice and bowed in acknowledgement.

‘We will take a drink together while we talk.’ A light golden liquid in small glasses was proffered; Kydd recognised the caraway fragrance of akvavit but this was quite different from the Danish liquor.

‘Skal!’

Putting down his glass, he saw that Stromsson was regarding him intently, as though making up his mind about something.

‘Sir Kydd, or do I call you …?’

‘If you allow me to call you Jens, then it’s Thomas, my friend.’

‘Thank you, Thomas,’ he said, raising his glass with the hint of a smile. ‘We will be friends, then.’

‘Yes.’ The intelligence in his features was matched by wariness but Kydd warmed to him.

‘Do you mind if I speak directly?’

‘As you will.’

‘Your orders, Thomas. They must tell you to discover what you may about our navy, but more than anything whether we can, or will, fight next to you against the Russians.’

Cautiously Kydd agreed.

‘I will tell you now of my orders. And they are to deny you this.’

‘I see.’

‘No, you cannot. We are a proud and great sea nation – in the century just past we ruled the Baltic as our own. And at Svensksund in ’ninety we scourged the Russians to a famous defeat. Why not now? And if you have a powerful fleet and we join with you, we’ll be the inferior and therefore the subordinate one. My king will never countenance this.’

‘Jens, it was your Admiralty that asked for me.’

‘Yes, they did. That I and others may learn what they can of the navy of Nelson that will help us in our encounters with the Russians.’

‘Why do you tell me this, Jens?’

‘Those are my orders, which I have told you, and now I say they are foolish and disastrous. I will disobey them.’

Kydd blinked in astonishment. Stromsson went on, ‘We’re in common cause against Bonaparte and the Tsar both. Or that is what the world believes.’

‘Are you not?’

‘No, sir. We are too riven with strife and disagreements, too many divisions, factions. You should be aware that the King is surrounded by French followers, the worst of these includes foreign minister Ehrenheim, his own private secretary Baron von Lagerbjelke and many others. They see this Bonaparte win his every battle on land and their admiring knows no limit. They will not rest until they have an aligning.’

‘Will they succeed, Jens?’

‘The King is still on his throne and keeps all power in his hands. There are plots, conspiracies, betrayals – but none dare raise a hand against a Vasa.’

‘You are still loyal.’

‘To Sweden, and therefore her king. But …’

‘Yes?’ Kydd prompted.

‘The King is not, as who should say, a warrior. His military decisions are sometimes … rash. His understanding of the world some would say is childish, others deluded.’

‘And you, Jens?’

‘I … I fear that he is as they say. An example – without declaring war, the Tsar has sent his armies into Finland to seize it from us. King Gustav’s response? To send his army in the opposite direction to take Norway from the Danes!’

‘Ah.’

‘And worse. By insisting on personal command, he’s lost the handsome offer of a British expedition to help defend his kingdom. Now he stands fair to losing the assistance of your Baltic Fleet in facing the Russians at sea.’

So this was what was happening at Matvig. Saumarez was keeping the eccentric king at arm’s length, what he’d termed ‘retaining his independence of action’.

‘How goes it in Finland?

‘Not so good. We lost our great frontier fortress of Svartholm within days and the Cossacks have ridden overland to defeat our best generals and take all of the south.’

Kydd brought to mind the chart of the Baltic with one finger pointing east, the Gulf of Finland, which ended in St Petersburg, and the other pointing north, the Gulf of Bothnia, which separated Finland from Sweden.

‘They can’t threaten Sweden itself. They need to cross the Gulf.’

‘Oh, it won’t come to that. We’ve lost the southern lands but they can’t go on – the fortress of Sveaborg is still safely under our flag and lies in their rear.’

‘Sveaborg?’

‘Our most mighty and impregnable stronghold. It lies on an island and contains dockyards, stores and, above all, the skargardsflottan, our archipelago fleet of a hundred ships of many kinds and all designed for Baltic warfare.’

‘Then what is your main worry? Military, that is.’

‘I have been open with you, Thomas, as I must be. This is to give you fair understanding of our position when you go back to speak with your admiral. And I have to say to you now, our army morale has been gravely sapped by these events, as has the navy’s. It means, sir, that not all officers are reliable. Their spirit is troubled, their allegiance uncertain.’

‘Why do you tell me all this?’

‘The stakes are very high. If we cannot best the Russians at sea, they are free to go on to invade Sweden. If we can, then they cannot support their armies and must fall back, and Sweden is saved. All depends on this.’

‘And your forces are not enough to settle the matter.’

‘On their own, no.’

‘I can promise nothing.’

‘I understand that.’

Kydd felt unreality creeping in. Here, in the cabin of a foreign man-o’-war, he was hearing near-treasonous disclosures from one who desperately wanted to ally with them against the common foe.

Then he understood: if in the future there was a joining of arms, and the British uncovered this state of affairs for themselves, there could be no more trust – the alliance would be a dead letter. On the other hand, if they were aware of it beforehand, then any agreement of combining would be with eyes open, no undue expectations, and therefore could be relied on.

‘Then I believe we understand each other, Jens,’ he said, with a broad smile. ‘What shall we do now?’

The relief was evident and Stromsson eased. ‘Thank you, my friend, for your comprehending of my position. There’s much I would ask you but it can wait. We sail this afternoon for Sveaborg and on the way we will talk of sailoring and Nelson.’