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

‘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.