Julian Stockwin - 19 The Baltic Prize (Thomas Kydd #19)

‘Yes, sir.’

So Parker was taking the more direct route into the Sound, presumably in the expectation he would converge on the battleship somewhere off Copenhagen. This meant Tyger would not be faced with a wild fight to bar the big 74 from entering.

But there was an even chance that the canny Danish captain would take advantage of his local knowledge to go by the longer route, out of sight via the Great Belt, and if that happened in those confined waters, Tyger would be in a perilous position.

Now, her yards braced around, Stately got under way without further ado.

Damn this General Moore, Kydd cursed. But for his peacocking they’d have with them at least another pair of first-rank men-o’-war and frigates to match. As it was, there would be a close-fought and bloody action where there should have been a clean and overwhelming crushing.

Tyger paid off to leeward and took up on a broader tack for the Sjælland coast in the gathering dusk, preparing for the coming encounter.

Chapter 16

Night drew in. It was calm and tranquil but, with the moonless dark, few conditions were worse in approaching a low sea-coast at night. Sailors took a brisk wind as welcome, for a line of startling white breakers was fair warning of a nearby shoreline and the same winds were useful in hauling off quickly. Now there was nothing but clamping gloom and from the deck all that could be seen was an impenetrable blackness with an occasional white wave lop flicking into existence and disappearing as quickly.

‘Shorten sail, sir?’ queried the first lieutenant.

‘No need, Mr Bray. Ease to starboard a point and we’ll crack on.’

That brought frowns of apprehension but few dared object and, under full sail, Tyger sped on into the night on a direct course for the Danish shore.

‘Sir, I really—’

‘Keep on, if you please.’

Kydd knew there was really no danger, and before midnight, first one, then several points of light glimmered into existence, spreading miles up and down the coast, an unmissable show.

Bowden caught on first. ‘Ah. Of course – the Bight, I should have smoked it!

‘Where all the merchant vessels go to anchor who mean to take passage through the Sound but must remain for a fair wind. It’s not foul for the south so they must be waiting for our Baltic Fleet to take ’em through.’

Even in the dim light of the binnacle Kydd could catch the man’s admiring look and he smiled to himself. ‘Yes, Mr Bowden, and I shall have intelligence from them.’ The scattered points of light came from the cabins and stern windows of anchored ships and Kydd could take his pick.

Bowden was boarding officer and returned in a short time. ‘They’ve been here these four days and have seen no ship-of-the-line of any kind.’

Kydd nodded his thanks. It only meant that the 74 had not passed this way, not proof that it had taken the other route into the Sound. The search must go on.

It would be much more difficult now. They had reached the north coast of Sjælland as per orders. From here on they must turn west to edge along the coastline, knowing that at any time – around the next point or deep into a bay – they could be flushing out a dangerous opponent and be forced into a critical decision.

There was no point in continuing in the darkness: he was in position, and could make the sweep along the forty-odd miles to the entrance of the Great Belt in a morning; to overlook the menace they were all seeking was out of the question.

At first light they secured for sea and, with the brig-sloop Falcon dutifully taking post astern, they slipped away from the scores of huddled merchant ships to begin their search.

Lookouts in the tops and crosstrees scanned ahead and to the low, smooth coastline, splotched with the dark green of vegetation and an occasional settlement or windmill.

Quite soon the sandy hillock of Gilbjerg Head came into view, the chart importantly noting that, as the northernmost point of Sjælland, it marked the boundary between the Sound and the outer Kattegat. It was the first substantial land with height sufficient to hide a large man-o’-war on the other side. If the 74 was beyond it, guns would be in play in a very short time.

Kydd couldn’t take the risk. ‘To quarters, Mr Bray.’

Steadily, with practised movements, Tyger cleared for action.

The ship quietened as they neared the cliffs, with the light breeze fair on the beam and every man at his station. Kydd paced slowly, Dillon at his side, notebook in hand, a study of indifference.

‘Sir, purely out of interest, if the beast be lying in wait beyond, what will be your motions?’ he enquired.

‘Should he be at anchor, I shall lie off while Falcon brings up our big brothers, in course.’

‘And if at liberty to sail?’

‘Why, then …’ This would be the moment when life and death hung in the balance, depending on his decisions in the face of the enemy. Kydd paused, then continued strongly, ‘If the enemy is a-sail, we shall do all we can to delay or disable him.’ By manoeuvre, stratagem and cold-blooded courage in closing with a battleship.

They swept around the point but beyond it was only the sandy shoreline, falling away to the south-west in an unbroken line. Nowhere the shocking sight of a ship-of-the-line.

‘Sir, stand down from quarters?’ Bray asked. Balked of action he looked crestfallen. Custom dictated that after a famous battle a first lieutenant stood to get his own ship. ‘No, we’ve a deal of searching still to do – the brute could be anywhere. Do stand down the men at the guns for now.’ In his bones Kydd had the uncanny feeling that in a short time there would be a reckoning.

The shoreline was featureless, low and sandy for miles, but the chart showed a large inland stretch of water not so far ahead, marked as Isefjord. The hydrographicals with Keats the previous year had not had time to survey it but at six or seven miles across inside, if there were depth of water, it was an obvious haven for the big ship.

Well before noon they were up with the mile or so gap in the endless tedium of vegetation-topped dunes and were looking into Isefjord. Kydd’s heart sank – it was a broad stretch of inland water that extended way beyond any sighting from the masthead. The Dane could be anywhere within.

Should he send Falcon in? How long would it take to cover the area? If they flushed it out, was this any place to clash in battle with such an adversary? The questions hammered at him.

Then he had it. If this same entrance did not have depth of water enough for a ship-of-the-line, without any doubt it could not be anywhere inside.

‘State o’ tide, Mr Joyce.’

‘Not t’ worry of in these parts, sir.’ Therefore no allowance needed for high or low water.

‘Mr Brice, Mr Bowden. Take a good man with a hand lead and I’ll have soundings out from each side to midway as soon as you may.’

The boats put off and stroked strongly inshore on their mission and sensibly began work with the lead where the water deepened towards the middle of the entrance.

The two warships hove to were attracting attention, however. There was a small hamlet on one side with a prominent church and windmill, and on the foreshore figures were gathering.

‘Ha! They’s sore puzzled what we’re doing,’ chuckled the master.

It would be a dismaying sight – out of the blue two enemy warships appear to launch boats, then engage in menacing and baffling activity close to their homes.

The boats were back quickly, reporting no depths beyond three fathoms – so Prinds could not be anywhere in Isefjord.