The Baltic Prize

Chapter 39

A party of Swedes gathered below the church. At the sound of a trumpet a lieutenant lifted up a plain white flag. Others fell in behind, and the small band set off across the ice to the low hummock that was Lonna island. A tight cluster of Russians waited on its foreshore.

Well clear, the Swedes came to a halt. A single figure rode to the receiving assembly. They moved away together into the centre of the island, no more than a hundred yards across, and disappeared from sight into a small, well-guarded building.

Atop the outworks, Kydd and Stromsson watched in silence.

In a little over an hour the lone horseman joined his comrades again and they silently retraced their course. Without stopping to speak to the waiting crowd, they disappeared into the headquarters.

‘I don’t like it,’ muttered Stromsson, turning away. ‘No noise, no display.’

They had not long to wait. A summons went out: all officers to gather in the great hall immediately.

In their billet Stromsson buckled on his sword. ‘Wait here for me. I’ll be back directly with any news.’

Stromsson stepped out the short distance to the headquarters and found a place in the packed hall.

The hubbub died away as Cronstedt came out to stand at a lectern. ‘Your attention please. I have the gravest news, which I fear will cause much despondency, but I feel it my duty to inform you first.’

He looked over his officers with an expression of supreme regret. ‘Stockholm has fallen. The Russian commander has given me these shocking tidings in confidence, together with his assurance that a powerful army is at this moment but days away and therefore a conclusion to this dismal war cannot be far distant.’

In a shocked silence, he went on, ‘In view of this, General van Suchtelen has been kind enough to offer me generous terms … for the unconditional surrender of Sveaborg.’

The hall erupted into pandemonium, officers shouting and arguing, stamping out their rage and despair.

Cronstedt stood quietly. At length he held up his hands for calm. ‘We have endured long and nobly. If we-’

There was a ragged shout from the body of officers. ‘To tamely surrender in the face of a few barbarian Russians is not the Swedish way and never has been! We fight on, and with a whole heart. Be damned to this talk of a cowardly submission!’

A bedlam of argument followed and the big room rocked with noise. Grim-faced, Colonel Jagerhorn marched up to stand with the commandant.

Cronstedt waited with a pained expression, then continued, ‘I’ve no need to point out that there are women and children from Helsingfors in great number within these walls, seeking safety. It is only humanitarian to spare them the cruelty of a bloody storming, and taking into consideration our present shortage of powder, I can see no alternative other than to accept these terms while we’re able. Therefore – reluctantly – I’ve hereby agreed to the laying down of arms three days hence.’

‘No! Never! Fight on while there’s any true-hearted Swedes as will stand with us!’

Cronstedt nodded to Jagerhorn. A column of soldiers trotted into the room, their muskets tipped with bayonets. The officers broke in confusion, stumbling and fighting their way in a mad flight for the doors. Stromsson flung himself after them.

In their quarters Kydd sat appalled at the sudden uproar.

Stromsson burst in. ‘Get your gear,’ he panted. ‘We go to our bolt-hole. It’s over, we’re to surrender!’

In the riot and anarchy no one noticed their rush to the sanctuary and when they were securely inside they quickly barred the entrance hatch.

‘You were right, Jens. Dammit, you were right!’ Kydd swore.

Stromsson said nothing, his expression stony. ‘He lies, of course.’

‘Cronstedt?’

‘No, the Russian. There’s no possible way they’d get across the Gulf to threaten Stockholm, let alone past our archipelago fleet there.’

‘Then?’

‘Bluff. The same with his big army on its way. And Cronstedt is going along with it.’

‘Does he believe it?’

‘I don’t know – but I’ve heard the gunpowder magazine has been under strict guard these last weeks. Whether to prevent the people knowing how little remains or a move to stop powder being supplied to the guns, who knows?’

‘Whatever, it’s a hard place we’re in.’

‘I know it, Thomas. Now it’s more than ever crucial you’re returned to your admiral, else Sweden will never be trusted again and must abandon all hope of any sort of working alliance to save her.’

‘So what do we do?’ Kydd muttered, looking around at the dusty, littered room that was their quarters.

‘Cards?’ suggested Stromsson, with a wry grin, producing a pack.

Three days later, through a louvred opening in the tower, Kydd watched as the Russian forces approached over the ice, a long, snaking column of dark-green-coated troops flanked by fur-capped Cossacks on horseback. And through an opening on the opposite side, Stromsson followed what was happening at the Great Courtyard, which was on the highest point of the next island and where the ceremony was about to take place.

Neither spoke as they witnessed the proceedings: the distant tinny sounds of a military band, the endless tramping feet, the harsh commands. And the Swedish colours beginning its slow and despairing descent at the courtyard flagstaff and the brisk, jerking rise of the double-headed eagle of Russia in its place.

For the rest of the day there was confusion and dull noise, with multitudes of people moving in slow, sullen streams, pulling carts and barrows piled high, milling about in no particular direction. Smart squads of Russians marched here and there and listless Swedes without arms shuffled towards their barracks.

The night was eerily quiet, and in the morning the exodus began. Led by the exiled Swedish troops, a procession of people poured out over the ice towards Helsingfors, a mile or so distant.

‘I’m not clear what’s to be our plan when there’s only Russkies here,’ Stromsson whispered.

‘At night. We wait until they’re into their cups with celebration and then-’

A loud, ragged crrummp sounded nearby, cutting him off.

He stopped in surprise. ‘What the …’

Hearing an even louder whooomf, he crossed to the other opening and gazed out. From the direction of the dockyard a vast column of smoke and sparks roiled up, shot through with livid flames and growing larger by the minute.

‘It’s – it’s the sacrifice of a hero!’ Stromsson breathed, transfixed.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Some man of immense courage has set torch and powder to the archipelago fleet. At the cost of his life he’s denied it to the Russians.’

Kydd shook his head in admiration.

Stromsson became suddenly energised and pointed below. ‘See them!’

On all sides there was general panic, figures running aimlessly to and fro, and then, as if in some kind of realisation, they were rushing on to the ice and heading for the foreshore.

‘They’re fearful the magazine will blow up,’ he said, then declared firmly, ‘And we’re to join them.’

Snatching up his bundle, Kydd hastily followed Stromsson down the ladder and out on to the slushy square before the church.

‘This way!’

They raced down the short distance to the main quay, unrecognisable in their great-coats, and joined the panicking rush spreading out across the glistening expanse.

Slumping forward, driven by fear, they kept a prudent distance from the Russian escorts, who were helpless to stem the onrush, and then they were through.

Slackening pace they kept with the streaming multitudes, panting and witless, like the others, until they reached the Helsingfors shore. As though still in thrall to terrible events, they fled along the streets and away.

‘Where are we going, Jens?’ puffed Kydd.

‘To my uncle’s dacha,’ Stromsson replied breathlessly. ‘I regret, up on the hills.’

No one was resident in winter. Guiltily they broke in through the rear and settled exhausted on the shrouded furniture.

‘Now, my friend, how are we going to get you back?’