The Baltic Prize

Chapter 55

Before the sun had set the small detachment sailed into the central Baltic.

Rounding the tip of Sweden, course was set for the maze of islands to seaward of Stockholm where the Swedish fleet lay. Two days of calm sailing under grey, troublous skies, heading for a destiny that was unknowable but the gravest yet confronted by the Baltic Fleet. Towards evening of the second day Daphne, ranging ahead and to larboard, signalled the fleet in sight and within hours they were hove to in the midst of a widely spaced mass of ships with no pretence at a formation.

‘I counts eleven o’ the line,’ murmured Bray, surveying the broad spectacle. ‘Few enough if the Ivans are out in strength.’

‘An unlucky thirteen all told?’ said Brice, lightly, his telescope trained on the Swedish flagship.

‘It’s the fight in ’em that counts, not numbers!’ Bray rumbled.

Admiral Hood wasted no time in putting off in his barge and making for the Swedish flagship. He was as quickly back aboard Centaur and summoned his captains.

‘I’ll be very brief, gentlemen. We are as of this moment under the tactical command of Admiral Nauckhoff. We sail at dawn to find the Russians, who are known to have positioned themselves in the Gulf of Finland in support of their invasion troops, and with a view to moving into the central Baltic in direct challenge of our allied control of the sea.’

He paused to look about the half-dozen captains facing him.

Hood was a strong-faced individual and Kydd knew that his audacious service, beginning with the American war, included Toulon with Sidney Smith, Algeciras with Saumarez and the Nile under Nelson. An empty sleeve was evidence of a hard-fought encounter off Rochefort two years before in this same Centaur – he was a fighting admiral.

‘I won’t complicate matters. There will be a lieutenant with the lingo embarked in their flagship to render the admiral’s wishes into our signals, to be repeated to us by Falcon sloop. Any further signals will be made by me in the usual manner.’

‘Sir, do you have knowledge of how the Swedish will conduct the action?’ Implacable’s grim-visaged Byam Martin wanted to know. Placing their ships in line of battle against the enemy in a pounding match or an advance by column into the enemy’s centre, much would depend on the decision and the consequences to the British ships.

An odd lop-sided smile appeared briefly. ‘I really cannot say, sir. I rather think that will depend on the result of our reconnaissance of the Russian force, which I have undertaken to conduct.’

This would be done by frigates and there were only two. It would be Tyger making first contact with the Russians in this climactic contest.

‘Shall we know what force the Swedes will bring to the action, sir?’ Martin’s long face gave nothing away.

Hood’s smile slipped. ‘Ah. You should understand that Admiral Nauckhoff and his fleet have been on station at the entrance to the Gulf of Finland since the ice fell back. Some months now.’

This was met by puzzled looks. It was trivial compared to what was endured by those in close blockade of Brest.

‘A long time, I’m given to understand.’

‘So what you are saying, sir, is-’

‘Is that the Swedish Navy is not to be looked upon necessarily as on a level of fitness for battle as our own.’

Blank looks obliged him to continue. ‘In fine, they have scurvy in their fleet. Above two thousand cases of which four hundred have proved fatal.’

Scurvy – in this day and age? It was beyond belief!

‘The Swedish admiral assures me that most of his ships will sail but he cannot answer to their effectiveness when confronted by the enemy.’

In a cold shock of unreality it sank in. They were being expected to sail against the Russian host among those they could not trust, whose numbers must be counted as nothing. Was it that they were to be sacrificed to buy time?

‘I shall be doing my duty, and I’m sure you’ll be performing yours, gentlemen. I won’t keep you for, as I said, we sail at first light.’

Kydd returned to his ship, his orders for a fleet battle a mere single page. His to be lead scouting frigate and in action to remain within sight of Centaur, nominally flag of the admiral of the van but for Tyger no duties as repeating frigate.

As he stepped back aboard his ship there was no avoiding the anxious faces that awaited him. They had every right to know what they were facing but would it be merciful to pass on the appalling news of the condition of the Swedish fleet?

‘We sail to meet the Russians at dawn,’ he muttered. ‘On reconnaissance.’ He pushed past to the sanctuary of his cabin.

A dreary morning broke with fitful westerlies and a doom-laden leaden sky. The two frigates loosed sail and set out on their mission – alone, the Swedish frigates remaining with their fleet for reasons that Kydd didn’t want to know.

As they left, his last sight of the fleet was of a dense mass of ships milling about in no discernible formation, Centaur and Implacable attempting to establish a van, so noble in their purpose but, pitifully, only the two.

The last known position of the Russians had had them proceeding leisurely down the Gulf of Finland from Kronstadt, heading for the three-way crossroads that to starboard led up into the frozen wastes of the Gulf of Bothnia, to larboard down to the Gulf of Riga and the busy southern Baltic shore, or straight ahead across open sea to Stockholm itself. It didn’t need much to see that if there was no interception before the crossing point their search would be impossible.

Daphne gamely followed in Tyger’s wake, at twenty-eight guns the smallest class of frigate but in Gower having a captain of the very best kind – thrusting, imaginative and a gifted seaman. She would be tested to the limit as he would be, for in this madness of a confrontation there was every chance that as a last desperate measure they would both be thrown in against ships-of-the-line.

Astern of Daphne was Wrangler sloop, then Charger and finally Bazely in Fenella. These three would not face fire – their task was more important. As the frigates made discovery of the enemy, one of them would be sent back to the Swedes with the intelligence. Tyger and Daphne would stay by the Russians and relay back any developments with the other two until the two fleets came together in the clash of combat.

As they stretched out over an empty sea Kydd wondered what Bazely was feeling at this moment. What was at the root of his bitter talk of Kydd’s ambition for a flag and glory? Or was it just the perceived loss of Kydd’s friendship as it had been in the past? He would probably never find out now and he put it out of his mind. As long as the man obeyed his orders he must be satisfied with that.

There were lookouts not only in the tops but at the masthead, their arcs of attention including ahead and astern, for who knew where the enemy might appear?

They were approaching the entrance to the Gulf of Finland where the seas narrowed considerably. Now was the time the search sweep must begin in earnest, with the two frigates abreast placed such that they could keep each other in sight as they progressed; on the outer sides they would be enabled to observe even as far as the shore, the three sloops to keep station with them in the centre ready for their rapid dash back.

When the first Finnish island was sighted, Kydd gave the orders that had them take up their stations for search, and the nerve-racking tracking began.

Extraordinarily, within an hour Daphne streamed the heart-stopping signal, ‘enemy in sight’.

Tyger put over her helm and closed with the little frigate to starboard, watching the southern shore.

A hail from the masthead confirmed it, and as they neared the distant coast they spotted the Russians. Stark against the far milky-grey of the coastline, two lines of ships abreast – all heavy, powerful, ominous – the enemy, now made real and fateful, stretching out well over a mile.

Kydd’s signal went up and was crisply acknowledged. The sloops to lie to weather of the enemy, the frigates to close in.

There were no orders Kydd could give Gower, for the whole thing was too fluid to predict, but he knew he could rely on the man’s nerve and practical good sense. The only direction was for Tyger to observe the van, Daphne the rear.

Coming from up-wind they could choose their approach, Daphne sensibly sailing wide to curve in later and follow in their wake.

Tyger went straight for the oncoming armada, the twin lines coming on inexorably. It was minutes only now but how the devil should he go about it? Heave to and count as they sailed past? Lay off at a distance and rely on telescopes – or do it right and tuck in close enough to make out details?

The decision was taken out of his hands.

From the far side, to weather, first one then several smaller vessels emerged.

In an instant Kydd understood. These were signal repeating frigates doing duty as escort, not one but five – and sheeting in to take Tyger together in an inescapable trap.

His thoughts raced: in any other circumstance the obvious course was to retreat immediately, but that was not open to him. He had to get the vital intelligence that would enable a decision to be made by the Swedes – to fight or to withdraw. That they were in a poor condition was not for Kydd to judge: his duty was to bring the information.

Forcing his mind to icy concentration a memory came to him. Years before, the Mediterranean, Corfu – and a jovial Russian commander called Greig.

‘Starboard two points,’ he ordered.

Tyger’s head fell away. The Russian frigates, hard by the wind on the starboard tack, gratefully eased to leeward as they cut across before the bows of the two oncoming lines, the white in their teeth heaping up in their eagerness.

Kydd judged carefully and, at the right point, gave his order. ‘Larboard three points. Take us in, Mr Joyce.’

‘S-sir?’ gasped the startled sailing master, eyeing the grim lines with trepidation.

‘Just so. I’m to make inspection of the Russkies, I believe.’

Their course was now squarely for the middle of the two lines – it would take them into the heart of the enemy, down between the two lines.

The Russian frigates were fairly caught: laid comfortably over on the wrong tack and, taken by surprise, they could not put about in time to prevent Tyger’s apparently suicidal plunge into the line. Apart from the odd report there was no firing at the British frigate as it passed, their men frantic at the rigging. Tyger swashed past in style, Kydd oddly reluctant to fire into them.

‘Sir – this is lunacy!’ Bray hissed urgently, watching the black upperworks of the onrushing ship after ship, the figures now visible crowding on to their foredecks, so alien, intimidating, portentous. ‘We can’t-’

‘We have to.’ Kydd gave a tight smile. Since the days of Catherine the Great, lieutenants of the Royal Navy had sought service in the Imperial Russian Navy as a means to advancement. Many had gained it, including Grand Admiral Greig, flag officer of the Ionian Squadron, whom he’d met. And they’d brought with them the traditions and practices of their native service, duly welcomed by the Russians as a royal road to the top table. The Imperial Russian Navy was iron-bound in discipline and conformity, each officer personally responsible to the Tsar, and that was what he was counting on.

And it was working. In accordance with the last signal, the two columns were coming on in line ahead, unwavering and true, with a precision that could only have been seen in the Channel Squadron under the eye of the Earl St Vincent – and Tyger slipped unerringly between them.

The formation could not change without orders and Tyger stolidly kept her course as they swept past first one then the second Russian, close enough to count the men on deck, to see in every detail the double-headed eagle of their colours, the lines of gun-ports, the blocky, squared-off poop and fo’c’sle.

‘Get on with it, then!’ Kydd chided, as they slashed on, and Tyger’s officers, stupefied at the turn of events, hastily pulled out their notebooks and began listing what they’d seen.

Bowden tore his gaze from the sight and, catching Kydd’s eye, slowly shook his head in wonderment.

Kydd allowed himself a fleeting moment of satisfaction. It wasn’t such a miraculous thing that had them perfectly safe where they were, in all truth. He was relying on the traditions of the Royal Navy being carried over in their entirety and one of these was that, at a fleet-level engagement, frigates were never fired upon unless they fired first. This was how it had been at Trafalgar and every other action Kydd had been in, and this was how it was now.

Perhaps even more importantly was the fact that Tyger was inside the two lines – if one or the other line opened up with their great guns it would be at the cost of smashing fire and ruin into the other. For as long as she stayed within the two lines she could not be touched.

And finally: the Russian commander must have known what Tyger was about, a full reconnaissance, but it was in his interest to allow news of the precise strength of his majestic force to be taken back to the Swedish admiral to cause consternation and panic among his opponents.

Barrelling along downwind at a closing speed of near a horse’s gallop, it wasn’t long before Tyger emerged from the last of the Russian fleet and lay over to windward to come up with the sloops to pass the intelligence. In a fine show Wrangler, under full sail, set off for the Swedish fleet, leaving the remaining British ships to keep watch on the Russians.

It was now a matter of tense waiting until the fleets came in sight of each other and then their job was done. They would lay off while the great spectacle of a bloody clash unfolded before them.

Before midday thrilling news was yelled down from the masthead. The western horizon was filling with topsails – the Swedish fleet was on its way!

The Russians saw it at the same time, for Khanykov began manoeuvring his fleet from the order of sailing into the order of battle – in disciplined progression the columns in line ahead opened up, peeling off one to each side to form a formidable single line of guns to confront the advancing fleet. Just as at Trafalgar, the Swedes would have to endure the concentrated fire of the entire Russian fleet before they could pierce the line and loose their own broadsides.

Kydd stood with his officers on the quarterdeck, silently watching.

Then Bray, intently observing the Swedes, burst out, ‘Be damned to it, but they’re a lubberly crew if they think to make advance on the enemy like that!’

Instead of the twin divisions of Nelson and Collingwood standing out towards the enemy line there was nothing but a vague mass on the horizon that seemed hardly to be advancing at all. Was this a reluctance to join battle or just disgracefully poor manoeuvring in the face of the enemy?

The Russians shortened sail, barely under way as they patiently awaited the onslaught, a long line of men-o’-war, their guns run out, colours aloft, ready, waiting.

‘I see there’s some who’ve fire in their belly,’ grunted Bray at last.

From the distant throng of ships, two were becoming more distinct, standing out from the others. And indisputably making for the Russian fleet.

They came on, all plain sail abroad, one in the lead and both relentlessly on course for the precise centre of the Russian line.

Too far off to make out details, Brice picked up on it first. ‘We’re seeing Centaur and Implacable showing the way,’ he said quietly.

Bray confirmed the British colours, huge war ensigns that proclaimed to all the world that, in accordance with its enduring traditions, the Royal Navy was joining battle whatever the odds.

It was an impossible, glorious sight: Hood was leading his only two battleships into the heart of the foe and nothing would stand in his way.

The mesmerising vision lasted for a short time only – and then in a sudden flurry of activity everything changed.

At Khanykov’s main-mast a signal hoist jerked up urgently, emphasised by the thud of a gun.

Mystified, Kydd watched it play out.

As if one, the entire Russian line fell off the wind and wore around, picking up speed to pay off to leeward and away.

Incomprehensibly they were in retreat, headed back the way they’d come.

Dumbfounded, it took Kydd a minute or two before he tumbled to it.

‘Ha!’ he cried gleefully. ‘The Russkies have mistook the Swedish fleet for ours – they think Implacable has got off before the others to snatch early glory! Be damned to it – they thought they’d be up against the Swedes alone and now they see it’s Nelson’s fleet bearing down on ’em instead!’

Whoops erupted up and down Tyger’s deck as it became clear what was happening, but Kydd cut it short. ‘Our duty is to stay with ’em until they’re safely back in Kronstadt,’ he said shortly. ‘We’ll take station to weather, Mr Joyce.’

The two British 74s were not to be cheated of their prey, however, and clapped on more sail in furious pursuit. From Centaur’s mizzen peak halliards flew the ‘general chase’ signal, a brazen impudence, given the odds, but it served to spur on the Russians in their undignified retreat, the smart line-of-battle now a straggling huddle.

It was preposterous but it was happening before their eyes. Their imperishable reputation, won after years of victorious struggle at sea, had now apparently won for them a bloodless victory.

‘Centaur is not about to lose ’em,’ Bray said happily, watching the two sail-of-the-line do their utmost to close with the Russians. Every wrinkle of deep-water seamanship, every trick gained from years at sea, all were deployed in the chase, a show of skills that could not be matched by any without the experiences that service in all the seven seas could bring.

To starboard the low misty blue-grey of a coastline firmed. This must be the entrance to the Gulf of Finland at the end of which were St Petersburg and Kronstadt. They must be not far from Reval, Kydd estimated, a port for valuable Baltic oak and hemp but now in Russian hands.

‘We’re gaining,’ Bray chortled. Implacable was now closing with the last of the fleeing Russians, a heavy 74. Straining every rope-yarn she laid her bowsprit level with the ornate stern-gallery and then, by inches, overhauled the unfortunate ship and, in a thunder of guns, the first shots of the battle were fired.

As the ships sped along together firing became general, powder-smoke rising in ragged clouds as the two hammered at each other. For the first time in history a Russian and English battleship fought together on the high seas and the stakes could not have been higher.

Implacable was gaining, and for every foot clawed in, more guns came into play in a furious cannonade. Shamefully, none of the Russian ships next ahead turned to give help and eventually the hapless victim slowed, then stopped, Implacable manoeuvring to place it to best advantage under her guns, then pounding away.

It couldn’t last: the Russian’s guns one by one fell silent, and with Centaur now on the scene her colours slowly fell in submission.

Boats put off from the victorious British ship to take possession but Kydd, keeping with the Russian main fleet, sensed a change of mood. The last half-dozen of the fleeing ships were now slowing, hauling their wind and giving every indication that they regretted abandoning the 74.

First one, then several veered about. The Swedish fleet had been left behind, a mass of ships on the horizon, and was not in any position to turn the fighting into a general engagement as the Russians at last took the opportunity to come to the aid of their stricken compatriot.

Centaur signalled Implacable to leave her prize and retire and the two hauled off as the Russians came up and resumed command of the 74, now not much better than a wreck.

There would be fuming and cursing on Centaur’s quarterdeck, thought Kydd, grimly, for there were hopeless odds now in which to re-start a fight.

Preparations for a tow could be made out but with the Russian fleet regrouping there was no chance to interfere and they were obliged to watch helplessly as the crippled ship got under way.

‘The Swedes, sir,’ Bowden said quietly, touching Kydd’s arm.

Agonisingly slowly, they had brought themselves to some degree of recognisable order – their lateness in joining battle down to their abysmal skills at fleet manoeuvre, which only now were bringing about a two-column advance.

The Russians saw it, too. Once more they turned bows eastward to Kronstadt and shook out sail for the utmost speed in withdrawing.

The 74 was abandoned, the tow cast off and this time Centaur came up to slam in her broadsides – but the Russian had been massively reinforced and there was ferocious return fire from fresh gun-crews. It was a heroic contest, the two big ships within thirty yards of each other and locked in combat.

Then Kydd spotted that Centaur did not seem to be in control, under topsails slowly but surely drifting into the Russians’ quarter. Her bowsprit speared out over the others’ main deck and then with a sickening crunch the two came together. Horrified, he saw that in the Russian, crowds of seamen were swarming up on deck – they were massing to board Hood’s flagship!

At the last minute Implacable reached them and, heaving to off the Russian’s bow, began a raking fire into the bowels of the ship. Under the massive assault, resistance wilted. For a second time the colours tumbled down and the ship was theirs.

Kydd watched long enough to see figures leaping into the sea, striking out for the coast two or three miles distant, even as boats began crossing to them.

He tore his eyes away – his duty was to keep with the Russians until they’d quit the field.

By now the Swedes had been making fair progress but not enough to come up with the enemy, even if they made a fearsome sight against the late-afternoon sun. He knew that there was little chance they would be in any position foreseeably to engage but would need to know their location from time to time and therefore Tyger must keep her station to weather while the fleet sailed on.

Strangely, the Russians kept close into the land and, in the last of the light, it became clear why. At a striking peninsula of white cliffs, with two offshore islands some miles long, the Imperial Russian Navy put their helm over and, in a stream of ships, disappeared into the bay beyond.

‘What’s this, Mr Joyce?’ Kydd asked quickly.

‘It’s the port o’ Ragervik, where those bound for Reval makes landfall, sir. And in my time ’twas a Swedish Navy dockyard an’ secure anchorage.’

‘Secure?’

‘Forts wi’ quantities of heavy guns defending on the island an’ the headland. Snug mooring inside as no one gets in ’less they says so. I’d say the Russkies are looking to bide there a while till they knows where they stands.’

Tyger’s duty was plain, to keep tight vigilance for two things: that the enemy stayed until a decision could be made, and to watch for reserves slipping in during the night.

The entrance was easy enough, between the peninsula and the first massive island, but the chart revealed a southern exit beyond the island. At some point the Russians would discover that the fleet that had dogged them was not Nelson’s and they might well feel emboldened enough to use this route to make sally behind them.

When he reported to Admiral Hood, Kydd had his plans made: Tyger and Fenella at the main entrance, Daphne and Wrangler at the southern exit.

Spies and simple observation would soon tell Khanykov the truth and then he would have every reason to issue out and confront the weakened, demoralised allied fleet. To wrest a victory on such a scale would resound about the world, which of course would never know of or care about the true conditions. And then the Baltic would be Russian.

Hood was courteous enough but Kydd could see the ravages of battle in Centaur. If the Russians made a determined attack the brave ship would have little chance of survival. As he left, he tried not to notice the still, sad forms of seamen being sewn into their hammocks and the silent, automaton-like movements of men at the edge of exhaustion as they did all they could to bring their ship back to fighting readiness.

He left with no specific orders for the morrow; he didn’t expect any for this was like no other fleet engagement he’d ever been in. As a frigate the fight wasn’t his, and without a grand fleet to repeat signals to, there wasn’t further purpose, but he knew that this was not what his men would expect. They would despise him for ever if, while the Russians fell on Centaur and Implacable, like a pack of wolves, he hung back. They would want him to lay Tyger alongside the nearest enemy and sell their lives dearly in a final encounter.

The right thing to do was a hard consideration, and he spent sleepless hours contemplating alternatives. And when a dull grey morning broke, he had no convincing answer.

At first light he went on deck, as was his usual custom, and began a pace about the quarterdeck, seeing the night pale and retreat, the wan grey seascape firm. And there was Fenella, criss-crossing their course, as she’d done for countless times during the long dark hours. He knew Bazely would do his duty, in detail and to the letter.

As would he. If a mortally wounded Centaur signalled for assistance he would gladly go – but if she ordered Tyger to lay off and return to the commander-in-chief that was what he would do.

He watched the brig-sloop fondly, bringing back memories of the bluff, old-fashioned cove, who had once been his friend and step-ashore companion …

‘S-sir! Am I pixie-led? What do I see at the point?’ Bowden gasped, gesturing.

It was a mirage. It had to be: one after another, in grand succession, colours aloft for all to see, it was Victory, others – the Baltic Fleet, all of it. Saumarez had shaken off that which had held him and now was here with them!

It was wonderful, glorious, a giddy relief. Up and down the deck heartfelt cheers resounded. What could not happen now?