Tyger (34 page)

Tyger
would have a role: in the minutes before they clashed at the crossing the frigate would close with the shore and smash in a broadside at the French positions, go about and hammer them with the opposite side of guns, then keeping up a withering fire until the French had been driven clear and a line of defence for the crossing established.

This was the point where the transports would come in to take the first wave of troops that had been brought across on rafts.

It would be decided by the timings. The Prussian force would land on the spit in darkness and aim to begin their assault with the dawn at precisely the time
Tyger
opened fire and the first of the besieged put off in their rafts. The French at the crossing could not count on reinforcements down the far length of the spit for some time but if there were delays they could be expected to enter the battle decisively. There was every need for a smooth operation at the transports.

It would be a bloody affair—but, one way or the other, by the end of the next day it would be over, and
Tyger
could be quit of this unnatural existence.

Kydd had last words with Blücher, who was dismissive of his sincere wishes for good fortune, coldly dictating orders to his staff officers and neatly pencilling in marks on his battle-plan.

Gürsten had no further part to play, but when Kydd found him to say his farewell he insisted that they go to a private room.

In broken but passionate English, he thanked Kydd for his services to the Prussian nation and assured him that His Majesty would never forget such. He reached into his military satchel and drew out two glasses and a wicker-covered brown bottle. “I am grateful, we toast to our tomorrow,” he said, with disturbing intensity. “Pliss.”

Kydd held out his glass, which was filled with a light golden liquor.

“To the new day, and may it go down in history as a glorious occasion for the Prussian military.”

Kydd went to raise his glass but stopped when he saw Gürsten hesitate.

“Sir, I cannot. This is retreat, not victory. No one remember glorious retreat.”

“Then—”

“Sir Thomas, can we drink to we both spared, do all our duty to the end, and then meet again.”

“I gladly toast to that, Klaus,” he said, and drank deeply.

It was a mistake—the thick liqueur nearly took his breath away with its potency.

“You’re not liking?” Gürsten asked in concern. “It is our
Bärenfang
from here in Königsberg, much esteem in East Prussia. A vodka liqueur of honey. The bear-trapper,” he explained, pointing to the illustration on the label.

“Oh, it was … delightful—I was not ready for it.”

Kydd had to accept another but then made his excuses, pleading his need to return on board his ship without delay.

Almost shyly, Gürsten felt in his satchel and pressed a different bottle on him. “Sir, when all is over, whatever fortune bring, I beg you will drink with your officers to our fighting, we together.”

“That’s so kind in you, Klaus,” Kydd said, touched. “And what is this, pray?”

“A fine
Kopskiekelwein
, much loved in Königsberg.”

“Which means?”

“Sir, pardon the Low German. They make with redcurrant, and its meaning, that you’re too fond of it, you fall down head over …”

“I do promise on my honour we shall raise a glass to you, my friend.”

It started well. At dusk the troopers and their equipment were transported over from Pillau to the end of the spit, despite a four knot cross-current set up by an increasingly brisk southwesterly.

Tyger
lay offshore, and Kydd watched developments through a night-glass.

He could make out where they assembled together, in every kind of uniform in a brave show—these were volunteers from every regiment, united in one heroic purpose. Cuirassiers in mustard with the white slash of baldrics and magnificently plumed helmets; hussars in elaborately frogged chests and a shako in silver; among them, too, the darker and more utilitarian garb of artillerymen.

One stood out. On a white horse and in full dress uniform he was everywhere, imperiously commanding, gesturing: the captain of this gallant band—whose bold appearance would hearten his men but would inevitably ensure he could not survive.

Formed up, they marched off, the dragoons walking beside their horses, sparing them for the last wild ride, the infantry in column, the field pieces and limbers following behind. Almost immediately they entered woodland and were lost to view. The next act would be when all the players came together at dawn.

During the night
Tyger
stood out to sea, lying with the transports to avoid giving the alarm.

Their task now was to rendezvous off the crossing at dawn. Kydd had been careful to reach an understanding for, while the military regarded it light enough for operations at anything up to half an hour before the sun rose, the navy’s definition was the point at which the horizon itself could be distinguished.

Thus when the stars paled and visibility began to extend over a colourless sea, course was shaped inshore.

Even as the grey low-lying land firmed ahead, the masthead lookouts, then the quarterdeck, saw that the encounter had begun. The livid flash of guns and musketry had already started about the crossing and nothing would be gained by a stealthy approach.

With
Tyger
in the lead, the armada made directly for the firing. There was every hope that the French would see the approaching transports and assume that they were landing an overwhelming force and fall back, but as they sailed closer in the growing light there was no sign that this was the case.

Rounding to, with two leadsmen in the chains chanting soundings, the frigate steadied and ran down on her target.

It was easy to see the line of division between the opposing sides by the furious musket fire and the dead ground in between, and Kydd sent a message to the gun-captains that this would be their mark.

Coming up slowly on the French lines he waited for the right moment.

“Open fire, if you please.”

With a bellowing crash the double-shotted eighteen-pounders spoke as one, powder-smoke driven away downwind in time for the gunners to see the result. Hidden by the trees a storm of fragments and darker objects was flung into the air as the shot tore into the French positions in a rage of pitiless death.

Nothing could stand against it, and as it subsided, Kydd could see the fire had slackened significantly.

Tyger
put about for her other broadside but from the absence of firing it was clear their quarry had taken heed of what was coming and fled their ground.

Shivering sail he slowed his approach in time for messengers to warn off the gun-captains to shift their aim to allow the Prussians to move forward. Then he moved in and
Tyger
’s guns blasted out in another smashing rampage of destruction.

There were no individual targets, for the enemy was concealed in the woods—but if they thought that would protect them they were sadly mistaken. The spit was only a few hundred yards across, perfectly flat, and at a low trajectory the heavy-calibre battering would be causing untold carnage.

Even as the sun began tentatively peeping above the flat land it appeared that the French had been beaten back.

But little could really be seen of what was going on—gun-smoke wreathing up through the evenly spaced tree-tops, occasional flashes and a faint but continuous din of battle, leaving the imagination to picture the hand-to-hand savagery that was taking place within the woodlands.

The first transport nosed in, kedges streamed, inclined ramps already lowering down its side. Men and horses began moving out to it in an orderly procession while the second transport prepared to go in.

It was all going to plan! This was what it was to have domination of the sea, to know its freedoms and power. In fact—

“
Deck hooo!
Sail to suth’ard, standing toward!”

It was not yet in sight from the deck but almost certainly it was his relief from the North Sea squadron attracted by the firing, and now there was really nothing for it to do.

Kydd turned back to see if there was need for a follow-up cannonade. The firing had died a little, which made it difficult to—

“Another sail astern of ’un!”

“What d’ye see?” Kydd hailed back.

“Both are ships!” Nothing below a frigate.

“An’ one more!”
The lookout’s voice cracked with urgency.

“Take us out, Mr Joyce,” Kydd ordered. “Quick as you like—I need to speak with those ships.”

They were coming on from the southwest with the wind that was paralleling the coast and were soon in sight from the deck.

Certainly frigates, but end-on it was difficult to make out who they were. Two respectably sized ones and a lighter vessel.

“Don’t say as I knows ’em a-tall,” Joyce said, peering through the officer-of-the-watch’s telescope. “Smaller t’gallants, as is usual, less goring in the topsails, like.”

Uneasiness pricked at Kydd. There were no French frigates in the Baltic, or Dutch for that matter. He’d been assured that the only countries with ships of size in these waters were Russia and Sweden. After his time with the Russian Navy he knew what to look for but these were not at all similar: besides, the master had been struck by the marked rectangular shape of their sail, blocky and quite at variance with their own.

Swedes, come to look after their own transports? He doubted it. The Swedes had the gifted Fredrik af Chapman as naval architect in Karlskrona and his designs were sleek and smooth, unlike these more stern and frowning forequarters.

Tyger
was close-hauled and necessarily crossing their bows, if at a distance, but something made him rap, “Private signals!”

The confidential fleet challenge soared up, snapping in the increasingly boisterous winds.

There was no response. Neither were any colours aloft that could be seen.

Yet this was not necessarily an enemy—unless they were North Sea squadron, they wouldn’t have access to the signal of the day and colours were not usually flown at sea out of sight of others to save wear and tear on expensive bunting.

Still, they were taking their time replying and getting closer all the time. If in the next few minutes—

“Sir? I’ve a man wishes to speak to you, urgently.” Brice stepped aside to let a seaman come forward.

“Able Seaman Haffner, sir.” He was one of the German seamen fleeing before Bonaparte’s advance, taken on as a volunteer in Königsberg.

“What is it, Haffner? Smartly now.”

In broken English the story was quickly told. These frigates were Prussian. They had been taken with the rest of the small navy when the French had overrun the main naval ports of Wismar and Rostock. It was likely that they were manned by sending seamen overland from the idle blockaded fleets in French ports—which implied they had picked crews and men to spare.

The smaller one was
Albatros
, a light frigate similar to
L’Aurore
; the one with the dark patched foresail was
Odin
and the other
Preussen
. The lighter had twenty-eight twelve-pounders but the larger two had thirty-eight guns of eighteen-pounder equivalent each.

They had clearly been dispatched as a squadron to fall on and destroy the transports, evidence that the thwarting of the relief of von Hohenlau’s army was a major concern: a force had been sent that could be relied upon to sweep aside the single frigate standing in their way.

Tyger
was hopelessly out-classed: over a hundred guns to his twenty-six eighteen-pounders and six nines. It would be no dishonour to stand aside before this foe and simply harry where he could as they got on with their butchery.

There was nothing in his orders or implied by his agreement that he should sacrifice his ship in the face of such odds and, indeed, if he did and survived, he would then have to explain why he had robbed the Royal Navy of one of their most valuable assets in a hopeless confrontation.

On the other hand if he withdrew he would be condemning thousands to certain death or capture.

Yet if he stood fast, every soul in
Tyger
would be pitched into a mortal fight with no certain outcome.

Where did his duty lie? To the Prussians or his own men?

Kydd forced his mind to a deadly coolness. The answer must be at the higher level—the strategics of the situation. Which course would accomplish the greater goal?

He knew so little about this continental struggle but if the desperate stand against Bonaparte failed for lack of this army it would be England itself that would end the loser. His duty was therefore clear: to oppose the squadron by whatever means he could.

“Mr Bray, I believe we cannot run. We must stand and fight.”

There was no reaction at first. Then the hard features were split by a tight smile, which widened. “Aye aye, sir!” he growled happily. “We’ll give the beggars such a drubbing as will have ’em yowling for their mothers!”

Those who overheard it spread the news and in a very short time muffled cheers could be heard breaking out over the ship. It swelled to a roar, and Kydd realised that the deadly peril was achieving what he had not: the Tygers were coming together as a true ship’s company to take up the monstrous challenge.

T
HE SHIP WAS ALREADY CLEARED
for action, the men at quarters and guns run out. Even if he desired it, there was no time for Kydd to call the men aft for a rousing speech and the martial thunder of the drums had long since ceased. His Majesty’s Ship
Tyger
was about to sail into her greatest time of trial without the smallest ceremony.

Should he go below and put on his sash and star to be like Nelson at Trafalgar? It would hearten the men at the guns but single him out to the enemy sharpshooters in the tops in just the same way. Then he recalled that the great admiral had only worn them because there had not been time to go below and shift into something else.

This was going to be a ferocious struggle and he needed every advantage he could contrive.