The Baltic Prize

Chapter 37

They were soon at sea before a brisk westerly.

Kydd saw the ship was manned well but that spirit and mood were lacking. At manoeuvres, instead of energetic and purposeful team-work, there were sullen shouts of command and reluctant hauling – how would this translate to a close-in fighting situation?

The two other officers were of quite a different stamp from Stromsson: older, suspicious and surly, so unlike the confident professionals of the Royal Navy. At dinner Kydd tried to engage them in talk about themselves, the war, the future. It was hard going. And at his customary evening turn about the decks before he retired for sleep, he heard a stream of snarled pessimism and hostility from the officer-of-the-watch.

Stromsson tried to make up for them. An educated and observant man, he was a good conversational partner and Kydd’s respect for him grew.

‘In my father’s day we ruled the Baltic – the northern and southern shore both, all paid respect to our flag. Now we’re held in contempt. I fear for our destiny, my friend.’

Kydd tried to change the subject. ‘What’s our task today, Jens, you cracking on at such a pace?’

‘Dispatches. We call at Stockholm for the King’s dispatches to Finland – to Sveaborg therefore. It’s been a hard winter this year, there’s still much ice. You’ve seen some?’

‘I have – Spitsbergen, and I won’t bother explaining why we were there.’

‘Ah – well, we’ve nothing to stand before that, but in the higher Baltic in some years it’s very reluctant to melt in the spring. We’ll probably meet some on the way.’

Stromsson returned from Stockholm in a bleak mood and had Krigare back at sea and beating east without delay.

‘The news is not good. The Russians are pushing further into Finland and our generals are letting them. In confidence, my friend, these dispatches for Sveaborg are from the King, true, but in their character are not what they need to hear. Defeatist – to hold the fortress to the last man and so forth. They need instead strong and encouraging words that stiffen and inspire, not this.’

‘They’ll hold, of course.’

‘They will. We call it the “Gibraltar of the North” for its might and strength. And we have a matchless advantage – the fortress is commanded by none other than Admiral Cronstedt.’

‘Oh?’ Kydd said politely.

‘As you island English will not know,’ he said, with a smile, ‘this is the man who won for Sweden the greatest naval battle in the history of the Baltic, Svenskund, against the Russians. He’s no stranger to facing them on the field of battle. And within the shelter of Sveaborg lies our entire archipelago fleet. I have no fears for its survival, Thomas.’

The next day the weather grew noticeably chillier. Kydd recognised the keen, almost metallic tang that lay on the air: it was from wind that had recently passed over wide areas of ice. He shuddered.

Reducing sail they laid course to the north. Within a few hours Kydd saw the tell-tale luminous white glimmer in the low horizon ahead. Ice.

They raised the first outer islands – dark contrasting crags set about with fringing white, the sea around them now an ice-mush, floes disintegrating into yet smaller floating fragments. And, above the whole, a wreathing frost-smoke.

With a practised eye, Stromsson nodded. ‘We’ll not make Sveaborg in this.’

It was clear that, further in, every island was joined to the next, set in an unbroken flat expanse of ice extending as far as the eye could see.

Crisp orders had Krigare altering to starboard, making for one of the anonymous islets that sprawled across their bows. Kydd wondered how charts could be used when every sea-mark was the same – a hump of snow pierced by occasional streaks of dark rock.

‘Vallisaari. We use it when iced-in.’

A boat was lowered and prepared, Stromsson’s dispatches in their satchel placed carefully aboard. ‘Do come, Thomas. You must meet Admiral Cronstedt if only to tell your grandchildren.’

The boat set out, the monotonous bump of ice against the bow increasingly continuous as they headed in to a small pier.

‘Lazy fellows.’ Stromsson snorted as they approached.

‘No welcome?’

‘They should have spotted us coming in. I’ll rouse ’em out of their cosy quarters.’

They disembarked and headed for a scatter of farmhouse-like buildings. There were lights but no one seemed to be about.

Embarrassed, Stromsson went to the back where there was a small stable block spread with straw. He shouted once but there was no reply, merely three curious horses’ heads appearing at their stall. ‘Damn the blaggards!’ he ground. ‘We’ll have to take horse by ourselves to cross the ice to the fortress.’

He saw Kydd’s expression. ‘Don’t worry, it’s quite safe.’

Impatiently he strode to a stall. ‘I’ve dispatches that can’t wait. Here, I’ll ride this one, you take that chestnut.’

Saddled up, they took a flanking trail around the island.

It was yet another new experience for Kydd, crossing solid ice on horseback. As they rounded a point he was reassured by the number of black silhouettes on the whiteness between them and the blunt squareness of the white-streaked fortification. Some of the figures were huddled together; others walked; a few were on horses.

Stromsson carefully negotiated the irregularities at the edge and then on to the smoothness of the solid ice, the hoof-strikes sounding uncannily wooden and hollow. Kydd gingerly caught up and Stromsson broke into a smart canter, ice-chips flying up in every direction.

They passed one huddled group, then another.

From behind them came a cry of surprise. Stromsson’s head whipped round to see. ‘They’re greencoats – Russians!’ he yelled at Kydd, his face distorted with horror. Then he squinted ahead, as if in disbelief that the Swedish flag lazily floating atop the walls was still there.

‘Ride! Ride for your life!’ he screamed, crouching over his horse’s neck and thrashing the beast unmercifully. It lunged forward in a frantic gallop and the two raced together over the gleaming ice in an insane frenzy.

Kydd could just hear the soft popping of musket fire above the thunder of hoofs but dared not look away. The grey-blotched, white-streaked walls were much closer now, but barring their way a group of musketeers were kneeling and bringing their pieces on aim.

Stromsson swerved giddily and drove straight at them. One or two puffs of gun-smoke appeared and they broke, unnerved, scattering. The two horses shot through and on to the ornamental gate. Soldiers appeared along the line of the battlements, spreading out along the walls – would they realise they were friends under pursuit and open the gate?

Nearer still Kydd saw that the gate had a flight of steps before it, surely impossible for a galloping horse – but Stromsson didn’t slacken speed. At the last moment he brutally wrenched the reins to one side and his horse, caught by surprise, skidded sideways and fell sliding to its haunches before fetching up in a tangle of hoofs and tackle in the verge of snow-covered grass before the steps.

Kydd instinctively did the same and threw himself bodily aside. His snorting mount did likewise, launching his rider into the snow-drift. Then he felt himself tugged to his feet and dragged forward, the buzz and spanggg of bullets all about them. At last the gate opened and they stumbled through.

‘Rare sport, Jens!’ Kydd managed, but the officer was barking questions at a sergeant.

He turned back, his expression grave. ‘Sveaborg … is under siege.’ He caught his breath and continued, ‘These last weeks. Helsingfors has fallen and we are surrounded.’

‘Do you think-’

‘No. We’d never make it back to the ship. Here we must remain until things become clearer. I have to go to the commandant, now. Stay with me, please, and do not stray, I beg.’

Horses were brought and, with a strong escort, they set off. On the way Kydd took in a vast fortification built on a complex of four main islands, walls and casemates bearing hundreds of guns, countless buildings skilfully laid out – and swarming with troops. There was no castle or stronghold so immense in England that he could bring to mind.

They dismounted at the imposing severity of the headquarters and entered. Kydd was left in an anteroom, a pair of sentries pointedly on guard at the only door, while Stromsson strode into an inner office.

After a short while he came out. ‘Admiral Cronstedt desires you attend on him at once,’ he announced, his face unreadable.

Kydd followed and bowed elegantly at the stern, upright figure seated behind a massive desk. Two others were standing close.

Crisp words in Swedish were exchanged and Cronstedt bowed slightly, his manner reserved and rigid. ‘You’re here for a purpose,’ he said in a hard voice, his English heavily accented but understandable.

‘Sir, it is not by my wish that-’

‘I know how you came, Sir Kydd, don’t trouble me with that. If I find you are here as a spy, then know we have a short way with such.’

Stromsson intervened in Swedish and Cronstedt relaxed fractionally. ‘Very well. You are in the custody of Orlogskapten Stromsson, who is known to me.’ He regarded Kydd with something like contempt and continued, ‘We are under siege at this time and I cannot be held responsible for anything that may happen to you.’ The admiral had a high, bulbous forehead and narrow mouth, almost ascetic in appearance. ‘You will share rations and quarters. Any behaviour inconsistent with the status of guest will result in your instant imprisoning. You understand me?’

‘I do, sir, and thank you for your courtesy to a stranger,’ Kydd answered, with a bow. The two officers behind him glowered as Kydd followed Stromsson out.