The Baltic Prize

Chapter 52

‘Two dead, five wounded. It could have been much worse,’ Clinton reported to Kydd, as he stepped out of his barge. ‘They’d high hopes of the gunboats and, dare I make the point professionally, retreated to their fortifications too precipitately. Our boat mortars persuaded them of their folly and they’ve yielded.’

They trudged together through the sandy scrub towards the small rectangular fort by the rearing red-banded lighthouse, its flag at half-mast as though uncertain what should be done.

Capitulation formalities were brisk and to the point.

In short order a sullen mass of Danish prisoners was mustered on the open ground before the fort, their weapons piled in a heap, and Kydd found himself in possession of the little fort.

It was nothing much more than a square stockade with earthen parapets and a two-storey wooden command post.

‘Ha. So now I’m governor of Bornholt,’ Kydd said, regarding the prim little desk with its neat tray of papers and the dark-stained walls with their uplifting pictures of homeland country life.

Dillon was ransacking the cupboards but managed a grunt.

Kydd settled himself into the comfortable padded swivel chair by the desk and contemplated his next move. The island was inhabited, mainly at the opposite end where fisher-folk had a huddle of dwellings and rack-drying barns. They were keeping to themselves and would be no trouble. The lighthouse was now being restored while stores and a small number of defensive guns were landed for use by the garrison from Tyger and Riposte.

To all intents and purposes Kydd’s task was complete.

There was just a most satisfying duty to perform. As the victorious commander, his was the obligation to write the dispatches of the action.

It was his first such, and he felt the weight of responsibility. Addressed to the commander-in-chief, it would be the account of record, quoted in the London Gazette, possibly a paragraph in the Naval Chronicle and countless reports in newspapers around the kingdom.

Those noticed in it would be honoured – to be mentioned in dispatches would stay as a feature in an officer’s career for life while the naming of a ship’s company in action would be recognised by all aboard as notice by the highest of their striving.

It would be difficult to pick out the deserving. Where did extraordinary exertion shade into discharging one’s duty? He rather thought Clinton’s calm and deliberate deploying ashore, which had rolled back the defenders so briskly, and his early bringing forward of the boat mortars to effect a final surrender bore recounting. But was not that which a soldier should be doing?

On the other hand, there would be nothing in the dispatch concerning the motions of Riposte frigate. What amounted to the ignoring of his signal was perilously close to mutiny – at the least a disobedience that imperilled the whole operation. There would be no criticism in the dispatches as this would damn the man’s career but, by God, there would be a reckoning later.

‘Concerning the Action resulting in the success of His Majesty’s Arms in the taking of the Danish island of Bornholt in the Kattegat.’

Over the years he, like every naval officer, had read published dispatches zealously with not a little envy and knew the phrases, which now rolled forth easily. Clinton was named, as was Bray leading the boats in unhesitatingly while the gunboats massed, then the two killed, the three wounded, the rank and names of the Danish principals and, finally, the readying of the lighthouse to resume its duty.

He sealed the packet and sat back. He rather thought young Garland in Snipe would have the honour of conveying the victorious dispatch to Saumarez. And it would take both Riposte and Tyger to lift the prisoners under guard to Keats in Gothenburg, requesting a formal garrison and commandant be sent to relieve them. They should be quite safe for the few days this would take.

Meanwhile prudence dictated that some form of defence be arranged and Clinton was happy to oblige, suggesting an earthworks and guns over to the other side of the lighthouse and that a small division of seamen for general deployment would be a wise precaution.

After that was put in train, Kydd enjoyed dinner and a convivial evening with Dillon and Clinton.

The next day, their small defences were complete, the Union flag flew high and there was nothing to do but wait for their relief.

As evening drew in, there was a flurry of excitement.

Out of the setting sun sail was sighted, a trim cutter with the typical double-ended hull of the Baltic – bearing a white flag. At first it headed for the landing pier and village but changed its mind on sighting colours near the light and slowly sailed along the coast to it, where it anchored. Under the eyes of the defenders, its boat and white flag made its way inshore with but one passenger in the sternsheets. It was met by a squad of marines in a hollow square while the occupant stepped out and approached. Clinton pushed through and advanced to meet him.

‘Premierlojtnant Holstein.’ It was a young, intense naval officer who stood rigid and tight-faced. ‘Of His Danish Majesty’s navy.’

‘Captain Clinton of His Britannic Majesty’s Royal Marines.’

‘I claim cartel under the white flag, sir.’

‘For what purpose, er, Lieutenant?’

‘To parley concerning the disposition of the island of Bornholt, Captain. Are you the commandant, pray?’

‘I am not. That honour belongs to Captain Sir Thomas Kydd. Your English is excellent, sir.’

‘Thank you. If you would take me to him …?’

A pair of marines discreetly marching behind, they set off across the uneven sandy scrub. ‘Not as if this were a rich kingdom that we must contend,’ Holstein said, pirouetting curiously on his fine-worked boots and gesticulating grandly out to the side.

‘As it must bear the fortunes of war, as do we all,’ Clinton said stolidly. They continued on towards the fort, faded plots of worked land pointed out as being where attempts at vegetables for the previous occupants had failed, the land being so poor.

It was odd behaviour for a clearly well-turned-out officer but Clinton put that down to the young man’s nerves.

Kydd was sitting at his desk, having discreetly seen the whole through his pocket telescope. He looked up politely as the envoy was shown in. ‘I would know your principals, Lieutenant,’ he said.

‘Kapteinloitnant Steen Bille of the Stationen ved Hvaloerne og Gr?ndsen, Sir Thomas.’

‘Who wishes to parley with me. I cannot imagine for what purpose. As you can see, we have full and complete possession of Bornholt and do not choose to relinquish it.’

‘I understand, sir. Yet I come with a proposal that may be of utility to both sides in this rencontre.’

‘I’d be happy to hear it, sir, but be aware that I will not feel bound to accept it.’

‘Sir. It is known that the British have taken this island for the purpose of restoring the light that has for so long guided mariners through this treacherous passage. My principal now recognises this as a worthy and humane object and is prepared to let this conviction stand for all of time. Sir, he proposes that the lighthouse be internationally regarded as a safeguard for all ships as pass this way, irrespective of flag. To this end he offers a treaty of maritime reconciliation. To the cost of the Danish government and the benefit of all, he will maintain the Bornholt light in perpetuity for all nations, should you allow him to do so.’

Kydd paused. ‘A fine and noble purpose, Lieutenant. And handsomely received.’ He paused pointedly. ‘But unhappily one I cannot accede to.’

The man’s face showed little disappointment and Kydd had a fair idea why.

‘Sir, do consider-’ he tried.

‘Sir, the quartering of Danish nationals beyond the natural inhabitants is not to be countenanced by us. This proposition cannot be entertained. Is there anything further you wish to treat, pray?’

Without expression Holstein snapped to attention, his heels clicking. ‘Since you choose not to avail yourself of our generosity, I fear there is not, sir.’

‘Very well. Escort the lieutenant back to his boat, Captain Clinton. And I bid you good evening, sir,’ he said, rising to his feet.

‘You did not accept his offer, sir?’ Dillon asked. ‘In the saving of expenses in the maintaining of our own occupation alone, it would be worth considering.’

‘There was no offer to accept,’ Kydd said grimly.

‘I do not understand, sir.’

‘A courageous but entirely unscrupulous act.’

‘Sir? It was offered with a generosity of spirit in a foe that I find wholly admirable.’

‘He was here in the character of a spy, Edward. Using the sanctity of the white flag to have a good look round, the villain, contrary to the usages of war.’

‘Ah.’

‘There was never to be an offer. We shall see him again, but with friends, now he knows we are so few. Ask Mr Clinton to step in, if you please.’

Clinton was adamant that any attempt to establish posts down the length of the island would risk having them cut off if there were multiple landings and with only some two hundred at their command it would mean the end for them all.

That left as the only option the concentration of their forces at the lighthouse and fort – but Kydd felt a premonition that this would not see them through a determined attack. He had been forced to send away the frigates: the prisoners had had to be removed and fresh troops and defensive armaments brought in, but he hadn’t bargained on this swift reaction. The earliest they could expect relief would be some four or more days ahead and the Danes had every incentive to make their move swiftly. Kydd would have to manage with what he had.

A defensive line was paced out across the width of the island, a joining of the crests of sand hills behind which the defenders might lie, and at two places a rough-hewn platform for their little two-pounders.

The last redoubt would be the fort, which was only a timbered building surrounded by earthworks. It was little enough: how long they could expect to hold out would depend entirely on how many troops the Danes threw into the assault.

Kydd ordered, ‘I want to see every man armed – you, the cooks and idlers. And the gun-crews, all of you.’ His sweeping gesture included the handful of lowly cooper’s mates, carpenter’s crew and armourer’s sidesmen, who had managed to be left behind when Tyger had sailed.

‘A cutlass you’d recommend, sir?’ Dillon asked brightly.

‘If you must, Edward,’ Kydd answered, with transparent reservation. His confidential secretary’s learning and intelligence were not matched by a warrior’s skill at arms. ‘There may be a Viking or two who’d yield just at the sight of you,’ he added, with a forced laugh.

At the evening meal talk was low and guarded.

‘There’s always the chance that they’ll think this scrap not worth the taking,’ Dillon said hopefully, delicately fishing out a stringy chicken leg from the stew pot. He swayed back in his chair as Tysoe leaned over to do the same, elegantly transferring the meat to a dish he bore to Kydd. The big pistol thrust into his belt in no way discommoded this gentleman’s gentleman.

‘I’d rather believe the Danish to be a more determined crew,’ Clinton said soberly. ‘As this island is the only piece of Denmark we’ve ever seized, they’ll want it back, if only to restore their honour.’

The wind soughed mournfully in the outer blackness and Kydd shivered. ‘Leave us hope that Tyger is not delayed in her returning,’ he said, with a silent prayer, rubbing his hands before the fire.

A faint cry came out of the night. ‘All’s well, the fellow says,’ Clinton said drily. ‘I hope he’s in the truth of it.’