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

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.