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

The last stretch of coast before the turn south into the Great Belt was going to be the worst.

The island of Sjælland came to an end in a slender finger of land hooking around in a wicked finality at the notorious Sjællands reef. In a series of invisible rock ledges and treacherous sand shoals it extended more than five miles out into the open waters of the Kattegat – and the Danes had removed the light at its tip.

To keep in with the shore in search would be hazardous in the extreme, but Kydd spotted that the charts revealed just one little fishing harbour of note, Havnebyen, in its entire length, and thus no hiding place would be possible until the swing down into the Great Belt, so Tyger was free to give the reef a wide berth.

In the early afternoon, with men still at quarters, the helm went over and, with a gentle northerly breeze, they entered the Great Belt proper.

This was well surveyed by now, and it wasn’t the first time Tyger had been through. But the detailed charting only served to throw up the uncountable number of islands and headlands, any one of which could be concealing the 74.

Kydd took stock. The big ship was presumably on its way to the other end of the Sound, then to the south part of Sweden, where at the choke-point of shipping entering the Baltic it would set about the slaughter of the trading fleet. It was consequently not interested in hiding or delaying its arrival there, so if Tyger did not overhaul it in the Belt, he could be certain it had made passage to the open sea and would then be a concern for the 64s.

He ordered course to be set for mid-channel and the frigate drove on under full sail, alert for the sudden cry of discovery at any moment. On each side islets and shoals sprawled, their names alien and incomprehensible, Gniben, Samsoe, Vollerup, some with a scattering of red houses and a small, austere church. One or two fishing boats dared the inshore waters but in the main it was a passing series of endless low islands in an ominous placid grey-blue sea.

By mid-afternoon they were approaching the middle section of the Great Belt and still no sign of the battleship. A long, sinuous peninsula lay across their path and Tyger eased to starboard to round it – and directly ahead, at less than a mile distant, a full-rigged ship was under comfortable sail.

In an instant Kydd had his glass up – but this was no 74. In a surge of relief he realised he was looking at Sybille , one of Keats’s frigates of the previous year, part of the squadron patrolling the Belt, evidently still on station.

That would be Jonas Upton in command, older than Kydd but junior to him on the captain’s list. He gave orders that had Tyger heave to, secure from quarters and a signal made requiring Upton to report on board.

‘Sir Thomas, I hadn’t heard you’re back with us,’ he began, seemingly put out by Kydd’s abrupt summons.

Kydd lost no time in setting out the situation. ‘So you haven’t sighted a Danish 74.’

‘I didn’t know such still existed.’

With relief, Kydd accepted that, with Tyger coming from the north, Sybille the south, between them they would have seen Prinds if it’d been in the Belt. They hadn’t and therefore it must have gone the other way.

There would be no desperate delaying action.

Night was not far off but there was no great haste that demanded he hazarded his ship in the maze of skerries and sandbars about Sjælland reef in the darkness.

‘I shall anchor until morning, Jonas. I should be glad of your company at dinner.’

The man looked mollified. ‘If I should be so bold, Sir Thomas – this is the southern end of my patrol and marks the northern point of Tribune ’s.’ Hesitating, he went on, ‘Sir, we’re accustomed to …’

‘Then we shall be a threesome. At seven?’ Kydd would not be the one to set aside the comfortable practice of these frigate captains chained to the monotony of patrol and finding ways to deal with it. And with Tribune ’s Saunders junior by a year as well he could afford to be magnanimous.

Tribune appeared later, under lazy topsails, effortlessly taking advantage of the swift currents to make progress and no doubt startled to see two frigates at anchor.

The captains were piped aboard, the men cheerfully at their grog below. In the great cabin Tysoe saw to the table silver and the officers’ wine, and a hearty evening promised.

The two had been on station since the ice had retreated, their continuing task, as with the other three around the island, preventing, by their very presence, any communication or reinforcement of Sjælland. In their lonely vigil they’d had no recent word of developments and were grateful to hear of them along with any news Kydd could tell them about England and home.

Not long into the first remove the conviviality was abruptly cut short.

Muffled cries from on deck stilled their conversation and froze the motion of their glasses. Their eyes met in apprehension.

An indistinct order roared out. Running feet were followed by the clatter of steps on the after hatchway and a breathless figure appeared at the cabin door. ‘Respects from Mr Brice an’ the Dansker’s sighted above the point!’

With an appalling crash of crockery all three shot to their feet and bolted for the upper deck.

In the gathering dusk above the Røsnæs peninsula they saw the unquestionable top-hamper of a ship-of-the-line slowly moving along and about to appear in full view before them.

They were caught in the worst possible situation: they could either man the guns or win the anchor, not both – and well before either, the 74 would be on them.

As if mesmerised they saw the big ship pass beyond the wooded tip of the point and burst into sight, a chilling menace in the last of the light.

Rowan was at his place by the deserted helm as part of the watch-on-deck at relaxed readiness. In one moment the seamen were idly dismissing the Dane as a shab, frightened of a single frigate, and the next it was there before their eyes, soon to fall on them with death and destruction … a terrifying reality, which he must now face like a man. His heart thudded painfully.

‘To quarters, Mr Bray,’ Kydd blurted.

From Sibylle and Tribune came an answering thunder of drums, the two stranded captains shouting maniacally for their boats.

It was the Danish 74 right enough, and the question now was, how would the destruction begin?

The answer was not what Kydd expected.

Trimming sails, the battleship put over its helm and came into the wind, hanging there as if considering its next move.

And then an utter surprise. Squarely across the mid-point of the channel Prinds struck sail and anchored.

Open-mouthed in astonishment, Upton gasped, ‘He’s moon-struck! Why doesn’t he go at us before—’

In a gust of relief, Kydd answered him. ‘Not so, Jonas. Can’t you see? He doesn’t care for a fight in the darkness among these shoals and reefs. He’ll wait for daybreak because he knows we won’t run.’

For the moment it was a stalemate. There would be no night action in these treacherous waters, and a cutting-out expedition against an alerted battleship was an absurd notion. Falcon had already been sent flying off with the news. What more could they do?

‘So, gentlemen. We’ll stand down from quarters and wait for the morning. I see no reason why we shouldn’t finish our dinner.’

The meal resumed, the enemy – no less than a full-sized ship-of-the-line – anchored peacefully over in the shadows beyond the point, manned by sailors who were sworn to destroy them, no doubt sitting down to dinner in much the same way.