Tyger (30 page)

“Can’t take you on here, m’ friend,” a jolly staff sergeant told him. “It’s a tidy trot to Headquarters for you.”

“Kind sir, have you a crust and a taste of wine first? It’s cruel hard times I’ve had and …”

The corporal was sent to get some small victuals and Gürsten wolfed them.

When he had finished, he looked up with gratitude. “What corps should I join, do you think?” he asked eagerly. “I’m rare skilled on breads—pumpernickel, Bauernbrot, Zwieback and similar.”

It caused spirited discussion between the two, and by the time they’d concluded, Gürsten had a considerable appreciation of the quality and reliability of Bonaparte’s troops, quite unmatchable by the most meticulous observations.

A paper was made out: a pass for one Höpfner to travel to Saaldenz, Marshal Ney’s headquarters, to join up as an auxiliary. He was given a simple knapsack with basic rations and a blanket, and two discontented soldiers were told to escort him there.

Against all the odds it was working!

They set off on the march: thirty-five miles along badly rutted roads and bare tracks over marshy, directionless moorland and heath.

Gürsten had no intention of completing it for he had what he wanted: a legitimate paper accounting for his presence. He slipped away at the first opportunity and made off at a sharp angle to the north—towards the Russians.

He skirted one village and unexpectedly found himself in an apple orchard. So close to the front line it was doing service as an under-cover artillery park. He turned to go but found his way blocked by a fiercely grinning gunner who held a heavy sword to his throat. Others approached to see the fun.

“A poxy spy!” he growled, flicking the tip of the sword under Gürsten’s throat. “As will be strung up when we find a tree!”

An officer in a gold-laced shako came up, knocking aside the man’s sword. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” he demanded.

“Oh, s-sir,” Gürsten stammered, “I—I think I’m lost.” He rummaged about in his undeniably French-issue knapsack and produced his paper. “It says here I’m t-to join Marshal Ney’s German auxiliary.”

The officer took it suspiciously. “Where’s your escort?”

Gürsten looked down, shamefaced. “We were at an inn and, er, they didn’t wake up in the morning, and I thought I’d better—”

“They got drunk,” the officer sneered. “Not your fault. You did right—but Ney’s over there, not here. You go any further in this direction and the Russkies will have your hide on a fence.”

The gunners about him chortled.

“Get going.” He thrust the paper at him. “It’s not safe to be so near the fighting. On your way, little man!”

With profuse thanks, Gürsten scuttled off.

He had to think—and quickly. No carefully laid plan could get him through the terrible danger of the opposing lines this time.

At some distance from the village there were the shattered ruins of a farmyard. It would give shelter until night fell when he could move under cover of darkness. But before he could slip away from his hideout there was the flash of guns and horses galloping past, other noises. It would be lunacy to go out but he would not get a second chance—and the value of his information was fading with every hour he was delayed.

The confusion and disorder had still not settled as the cold light of a new day appeared. He was now in very considerable danger and had to make a move.

He peered through the splintered timbers of the barn into the meadow. All the farm animals had been carried off for food but a stolid, hairy-footed old plough-horse remained, calmly snatching at tufts of overgrown grass.

For some reason his heart went out to the loyal creature in a world of madness caused by men—and he was struck by a thought equally as crazy.

In the strengthening light he scrabbled around in the rubbish of the barn until he found what he was looking for: a dusty grey farming smock and hat, even trousers still hanging on the hook where their owner had left them.

With rising hope he pulled aside the fallen beams and saw in the dark end of the barn a wondrous sight: a cart with a load of hay. It was rank-smelling but it was all he needed.

He drew on the ancient clothing and trudged out to the horse, lumbering, head down and with the pain of age.

The beast looked up at him mildly, tossing its head as he secured the straps but obediently followed him to the barn. Gürsten used it to haul away an exit for the cart, then backed it into the shafts and finished the job with bumping heart, expecting a sharp challenge at any moment.

He heaved himself into the rickety seat and clicked the horse into motion. A scene from earlier times drew into the daylight—an old farmer taking hay out to his animals as he’d done every new morning of his life. No war was going to stop him. That he was bent and his head drooping, his track an aimless meander, clearly pointed to the loss of his wits in this murderous war: he was piteously taking refuge in doing what he had always done for his creatures.

Gürsten’s hands on the traces were slack, letting the horse choose his way. A subtle tug every now and then pointed the nodding head resolutely towards the lines and they continued on, the wobbling wheels complaining loudly.

There was no challenge, even as he could see the emplacements with their troops lying at the ready, some staring at him as if at a ghost.

There was now a spectral quiet as he rattled on; no musket fired on him, no shouts or warnings. A tranquil vision of another age had entered their existence of blood and struggle and nobody had the heart to disturb it by harming the old man.

Steadily they progressed over the gently undulating hillocks, the horse knowing to avoid the muddy hollows, patiently plodding on.

Incredibly this must be the open country between the lines—and still nothing.

His flesh crawled with anticipation of a suspicious volley but in the unnatural quiet he shambled on and on. There were other men now, staring out at him but in a different dress, which he recognised—Uvarov’s Smolensk Grenadiers.

Keeping up his pretence he let the horse amble on until a kindly Jaeger sergeant took the bridle. “You can rest now, old man, you’re safe with us,” he said, holding out an arm to help him.

Briskly, he threw aside his smock and slid down.

“Take me to your officer,” he demanded in perfect Russian.

He had done it.

“His Majesty is dining and may not be disturbed on any account,” the haughty major-domo said icily.

The politesse of the Hohenzollern court-in-exile was not about to be put aside for an unannounced arrival, no matter the gravity of his news, and Gürsten was taken to a reception room. He fumed. It had already taken three hours to find and borrow the required dress uniform, and now this!

He had reported to Bennigsen, his headquarters lying on the way to Königsberg, and then with a courier’s warrant had galloped madly to the Pregel river and the city. Blücher, the military aide-de-camp, had been grateful for his report but all decisions lay with His Imperial Majesty King Friedrich Wilhelm, Elector of Brandenburg, and nothing could be done until his pleasure was known.

“Flügelleutnant Klaus Gürsten,” the equerry intoned at last.

He entered with every expression of respect—whatever his faults, his sovereign was heir to Frederick the Great.

“Your Majesty,” he murmured, from the depths of an elaborate bow. He straightened and made an elegant but lesser bow to the Queen, the much-admired Luise of Mecklenburg-Strelitz.

Friedrich frowned, but then his noble brow cleared. “We are always minded to hear from our loyal officers, Leutnant. Do you have news for us at all?”

“Majesty, I’m to report from Generalleutnant von Hohenlau with much urgency. He is at present under siege from the French and—”

“Siege? How can this be?”

“Sire, we were ordered to extend our lines to the sea and while so extended Marshal Soult pierced our flank and, with superior forces, continued on to encircle us. We are now beleaguered.”

“And you crossed the lines to tell us so?”

“Sire.”

“A brave and entirely meritorious act. Be assured I shall remember this at the next levée, which I believe shall be no later than—”

“Majesty, the Generalleutnant is desiring to know your wishes in respect of his position. Should he fall back on Heilungen or stand as ordered?”

“Ah, Leutnant Gürsten, I know von Hohenlau well, the stubborn old fellow, and if it is a question of orders he would as soon die as yield. He will stand and I honour him for it.”

“Sire, it’s an entire division and more he has with him that—”

“Leutnant! You have done your duty in reporting. Leave us to the strategicals. Right, Blücher?”

“Your Majesty, the leutnant is no doubt alluding to the parlous situation of any army left to its own devices. If it’s not supplied it must fall, no matter what heights of courage are shown.

“I put it to you, sire, that if we cannot supply he must necessarily break out, and at immeasurable cost. I cannot at all see how it is possible to divert a sizeable portion of our remaining troops to force a corridor through to von Hohenlau.”

“Good God, Blücher! First you say that he cannot retire without ruinous loss, now you say he cannot be supplied! Are you seriously demanding I order a capitulation?” The King’s pale face reddened.

The bluff general stood erect, splendid in his dark blue full-dress uniform and silver epaulettes, his eyes fierce, and said nothing.

“Sire, there may be an alternative,” dared Gürsten.

“What did you say?”

“Sire, Generalleutnant von Hohenlau has extended to the sea. Cannot we make supply with boats?”

“Ha!” spat Blücher. “You’ve forgotten something. The Prussian Navy in Rostock was trapped when Bernadotte took Pomerania. We’ve nothing left will protect your boats, sir!”

“We have nothing, but our allies have, sir.”

“Who?”

“The English are masters of the seas. Cannot we ask them to—”

“It’ll be too late. By the time we get word to London …”

“I wasn’t thinking of such, sir.”

“Then what?”

“They trade much in the Baltic, and guard their ships well. Should we request a service of their men-o’-war, I’m certain they’ll come to the aid of an ally.”

“A fine idea,” Friedrich said, looking relieved. “As may well prevent a regrettable humiliation.”

Blücher glowered. “And just how do you propose to ask ’em? Wave some sort of flag as they go past? Do you know where they are?”

“Sire,” Gürsten said stiffly, “I request permission to requisition a vessel to sail out and find the nearest English ship of war to aid us.”

“Granted.”

There was no shortage of vessels. Coastwise trade had been paralysed and he was able to choose a fast-looking two-master.

“Where do you wish to go, Leutnant?” the captain asked respectfully.

“Why, out to meet an English cruiser!”

A
T PRECISELY THE RIGHT POSITION
in the middle of the Baltic Sea,
Lively
struck her foremast pennant and the convoy ceased to be. They had reached the dispersal point and the merchantmen quickly clapped on sail and made for their various destinations, with their cargoes of cheap muslins, quiltings, dimities and crockery, tinware, machinery, boots and woollens. They were headed to Memel in the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, Riga in Livonia and Reval—old Hanseatic ports trading freely and profitably with Britain in defiance of Bonaparte.

Lively
and her escorts, however, lay to, for their job was not yet done. There would be a returning Baltic convoy. The ancient medieval towns were trading timber, hemp, iron and tallow, vital supplies in keeping the Royal Navy defiantly at sea, England’s wooden walls and the last defence of the islands.

For
Tyger
it had been an uneventful five days on passage. Kydd had exercised the men but with a regular honing, not a harsh forging. While there was clear improvement there had been no real challenges in the Baltic.

There was little to do as they lay comfortably a-weather. It was the smaller cutters and brigs that did the hard work, bustling about to shepherd their charges, issue upcoming sailing-order instructions and see to convoy details while the two frigates remained as the unmoving visible centre of preparations.

The convoy was shaping up well in assembly when, one morning,
Lively
hung out
Tyger
’s pennants. This was unusual: the two frigate captains had taken to dining each other out alternately, exchanging whatever news there was at that time.

Aboard
Lively
Hozier greeted Kydd warmly, then went on, “Dear fellow, I’ve been handed something of a puzzler. I’ve a German cove come aboard from a merchantman—all in the right rig, as far as I can tell—who claims he’s an emissary of the King of Prussia and is in a bit of a heat over some army they seem to have stranded. Not much English, but demanding our assistance as an ally. They are, aren’t they?”

“Didn’t they stay out of Pitt’s coalition? If so, they’re not.”

“Ah, but recollect, the new one we started last year?”

“I’m no lawyer, David, but I’d wager a coalition is not an alliance anyway. We’re not bound to get tangled in their problems—and, besides, what the devil can we do to save an army? I’d say we send the beggar away with our warmest regrets and stay with our main duty.”

“They’re fighting the French, and must tie down an awful lot of Boney’s best. Seems a pity we can’t do something for ’em.”

“What? We’re a navy the last time I looked, not an army.”

Hozier fiddled with his pen. “At least let’s hear the chap. I’ll send for him.”

The young man was arrayed in dark blue with silver facings and red trim, his plumed shako under his arm in deference to the low deckhead. “Lieutenant Gürsten of the Prussian Army.”

His intense gaze passed from one man to the other as he pleaded in painfully slow English: “Honoured sirs. Ze tyrant Napoleon, he crush all of Europe! We cannot stand against him alone. If—”

“Avez-vous le français, Lieutenant?”
Kydd broke in.

Relieved, Gürsten answered in a fluent stream that left Hozier, who had no French, blinking and Kydd frowning.