by Jens Kuhn
“Do you know what these despatches say, Winther?” he asked.
Winther cleared his throat. “Not exactly, sir.”
Trolle raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean, sub-lieutenant - not exactly?”
“Well, sir; I know what it says about the political situation in Stockholm. But I don’t know what your orders are.”
“Ah.” Trolle nodded. “Let’s see then.” He broke the seal, pulled out several sheets of paper and started to read.
The wine came and both men raised their glasses for a toast. Suddenly Trolle laughed. “So, sub-lieutenant, whom are we to toast do you think?”
Winther looked bewildered into his glass. It was usual to toast the king on those occasions, but perhaps there already wasn’t a king anymore. Or at least not the same.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly.
“I hear the British have this toast they use in their gunrooms...” Trolle said, still chuckling. Raising his glass he continued: “To wives and sweethearts – may they never meet.”
Chapter 19 – Confrontation
Captain Baker looked at the rigging of HMS Tartar, observing every detail and finding nothing to complain about. It was time. “Mr. Reeman,” he called. “Weigh anchor if you please.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Reeman replied and walked forward. The bosun’s pipe started to shrill, sending men running to their stations for weighing anchor. The big capstan was manned and on the given order, the men started to walk, leaning their bodies against the bars, turning the big drum slowly. Inch by inch the dripping wet anchor cable was hauled inboard, slowly first, then a little faster as the ship gained momentum.
“Up and down!” A man called from the bows. He was leaning over the side of the ship, observing the anchor cable which now pointed straight down into the water. Then: “Anchor aweigh!”
“Hoist inner and outer jib, prepare to let fall topsails,” Baker ordered.
On the bowsprit two white triangular sails rose, filled with wind and started to push the bows of the frigate around. As she slowly began to point northwest, Baker ordered the topsails to be let fall and sheeted in. The ship was under way.
On the poop, the aftermost end of the ship’s deck, Anna leaned against the rail, watching the spectacle. When they had first left Dalarö she had been below, mostly because of the cold, but also from exhaustion after the arduous work of getting the ship through the ice. And perhaps a little sore after having gotten Baker to do it in the first place. She smiled. The captain had been a bit of a surprise in that respect, letting her find some undisclosed desires he probably didn’t even know he had.
But now she reveled in the sight. There was something magical over how this big a contraption could be moved by the wind alone, silently and gracefully, yet so powerful a vessel. She thought of the 32 heavy guns on the main deck and wondered if they would need to use them. She had witnessed big guns being fired before of course, last summer during the gunboat campaign. But that had been single guns on small boats. Powerful enough, to be sure. But Baker had explained to her that on a frigate, all guns on one side could be fired simultaneously, that in fact this was how it was done regularly, at least in the beginning of a battle. Anna tried to imagine the sound, the smell of gunpowder and the smoke, enveloping everything, making eyes tear and breathing hard.
As the ship settled on a steady course to the northwest, Baker ordered extra lookouts to be posted in the bows.
“Let them watch the water close ahead for signs of rocks or shoals, Mr. Reeman. Also, keep sounding the depth continuously. Oh, and please send word for the master.”
The sailing master, Pope, arrived shortly, a rolled chart tucked under his arm.
“Ah, Mr. Pope,” Baker said. “Now, what do you make of these waters?”
“They are evil, frankly, sir, “Pope replied, wiping his forehead with his free hand, sweating, despite the cold. “I really would want to have a pilot aboard, sir.”
“A pilot, eh? In the middle of a war? Rubbish. We will have to do our own piloting, Mr. Pope. As we have done many times before.”
“Of course, sir.” Pope unrolled the chart and put it on the railing between the quarterdeck and the waist of the ship, holding it spread out with his hands.
“Now, as you can see, there are, well...there is an uncountable number of islands and skerries. However, there seem to be two channels that might be usable, sir.”
Baker nodded, studying the chart. “Do you think they might be marked?”
“I have no idea. I would not expect them to be marked by buoys, like they would be at home, but there might be some signs painted on rocks or the like, sir.”
Baker grunted. He had seen those markings before, in the Finnish archipelago. They were almost never shown on the chart and their value was doubtable in the least. Unless one had a pilot who knew the waters.
Hearing the rustling of skirts, he turned around and smiled at Anna who had left her place at the aft railing in order to join the men. Anna, returning his smile, put her hand softly on his arm. “Have you found a way to sail us into Norrköping at last?”
“I trust so,” Baker replied. “At least the wind is right for it and there are three channels which should be deep enough.”
Anna took a look at the chart. “How far is it, then?”
“Mr. Pope?” Baker relayed the question.
“We could be there before dark. If the wind holds, if there is no ice in the inlet and if...”
Baker laughed. “Come, Mr. Pope, don’t sound so despairing. At least there are no tides.”
“I wish there were...,” the sailing master muttered into his beard.
Commander Kuhlin stood on the beach of the small island, stretching his frozen limbs. They had extended their rest to a full eight hours after finally having put ashore, gathered firewood and, with the help of some oil from the boat, got the cold and damp wood to burn. They even had caught some fish, or the fishermen had, miraculously, during the last hours of daylight. Fed and comparatively warm, they had fallen asleep instantly.
At first light, however, the fire had been out for several hours and they were once again cold to the bone. Kuhlin walked along the beach in order to get warm. This was really a desperate mission, he thought. At least, last time they rescued Anna it had been summer. He and af Klint had used a fishing smack as well then, quite similar this one in fact. But then, they had sneaked into a town, not tried to keep pace with a frigate at sea. Kuhlin frowned. Even if they could keep up and find the British frigate in the end, what were they supposed to do? How were they supposed to persuade Anna to abandon her mission and come with them? How were they even to stop a British frigate, or signal her they wanted to talk to their passenger – or her captain?
Kuhlin turned back towards the camp when a blur on the horizon caught his eye. “Tapper!” he shouted. “My glass – quickly!”
The bosun appeared, still sleepy-looking, and handed him the telescope. Kuhlin extended it and raised it to his eye, slowly sweeping the horizon.
“Sir?” Tapper asked curiously.
“A ship, Tapper,” Kuhlin replied. “I think it’s a frigate.”
“Our friend the Englishman?”
Kuhlin put down the glass and shook his head. “I don’t think so, bosun. She seems to have too many gunports...have a look yourself.” He handed Tapper the telescope.
The bosun raised it carefully. “Where away, sir?”
Kuhlin pointed with his arm.
“Ah, got her...”
“What do you make of her, bosun?”
“Wait a second, sir....you’re right, it’s not Tartar, she’s supposed to be a 32, yes?”
“Aye.”
“This one has 19 gunports...doesn’t she? A 38?”
“That was what I thought as well,” Kuhlin said. “Great. Two frigates around. In the middle of the winter...”
“Sir, there’s something odd about her quarterdeck...looks a little like a merchantman...”
“A m
erchantman? With all those guns?”
“No, not a merchantman, just looks like one...you know with the great cabin like...misplaced...”
“Like on Bellona?” Kuhlin exclaimed”
“Yes! Or Camilla! It’s a Chapman frigate, sir: I’m sure of it.” He put the glass down and gave it back to Kuhlin who immediately raised it again and studied the ship.
“You might be right, bosun. But what is she doing here? They are all supposed to be laid up in Carlskrona over the winter.”
“There’s only one reasonable answer,” af Klint said. He had been sneaking up on the pair and was now standing beside them.
“Ah, Eric,” Kuhlin smiled. “And that answer would be?”
“To stop Tartar. Or get the king themselves.”
Kuhlin nodded. “Perhaps. But that would imply the king is no longer in charge. How would the captain of that frigate be able to know that. And whose orders would he be following?”
“In any case, I think we need to get going,” Eric pointed out.
“You’re right. Let’s get under way.”
Camilla was creaming along under full plain sail, precariously close to skerries and rocks, much smaller ships would be weary of. But the frigate was built for this, and her captain had sailed these waters all his life. He also was in a hurry. It was absolutely essential to reach the narrows first. Once past them, there was too much open water and too many people in sight of what could occur. Not that Trolle really thought there was any risk of a serious confrontation. He had met the Englishman during the blockade of Estonia last summer and he had seemed to him like a typical English gentleman. Polite, pleasant and eager to do his duty. The question now was, why he regarded this mission as his duty in the first place. Baker had no official orders. Britain had not offered any help to the overthrown king either. On the contrary, after his seizing the British merchant ships on the West coast, one would expect them to be happy with a new Swedish government.
This had all thoroughly been discussed in his despatches. Not that Trolle cared. As most Swedish naval officers he hated politics. This coup d’etat business was entirely an army thing, what with generals and field marshals always being so deeply involved in politics. Still, he had his orders and would carry them out – of course. And he had the perfect vessel for it. Camilla was better suited for close quarter navigation in shallow waters. She even carried more guns than Tartar, 40 against 32, even though two of his guns were mounted in the stern, so it was really 38 against 32. On the other hand, the English ship might be a tad faster with his own not being copper coated and probably slowed down by marine growth on the bottom. Also the British were darned good at fighting. There were numerous stories of far inferior British ships having taken much stronger enemies in close battle at sea.
Of course there could never be a real battle, could there? The two nations were still officially allies after all. And Baker must finally realize that his mission did not have official support?
He turned to sub-lieutenant Winther who stood at the leeward railing, slightly green in his face.
“Are you not well, soldier?” Trolle chuckled. This served the boy right, he thought. There was something with the officer he did not like. It was hard to put a finger on it really, perhaps it was only because he wasn’t navy. One could never really trust these mud-and-forest people. Too many places to hide, too many distractions from duty – too much politics in their ranks.
“I’m all right, sir, thank you, sir,” Winther managed before he spun around, leaned over the rail and retched.
“Sail ho!” the outlook cried from the masthead. HMS Tartar was still on a northwesterly course between the islands off the mouth of Bråviken. They had entered the southern channel and passed through it about halfway. It had been an interesting exercise in piloting, with the channel partly being very narrow between a bigger island and the mainland. Fortunately there had been some markers, whose purpose they had been able to guess correctly. Now, the channel turned more northerly and leaving the big island to their right behind, a stretch of comparatively open water emerged ahead. And on the far side of this stretch of water, against the northern shore of the inlet, there was a ship.
“Ship on the starboard bow!” the lookout cried.
“What kind of ship?” Captain Baker demanded.
“Looks like a frigate, sir!”
“Mr. Reeman, take a glass aloft and have a look, if you please.”
“Aye, aye, sir”. The first lieutenant started to climb the mizzen shrouds, telescope slung across his back like an archer’s quiver. A moment later he was on the mizzen fighting top, telescope raised.
“Deck there,” he called.
“Go ahead!”
“It’s a frigate, sir alright. Looks like one of the Swedish ones we met off Estonia.”
Baker grunted. What was a Swedish frigate doing here? “What’s her course?”
“Converging, sir. She seems to be inbound like us, but through the northern channel.”
Baker felt a hand on his arm. Anna. He turned towards her, concern on his face.
“A Swedish frigate?” she asked.
“Yes. There is really only one reason for her to be here, you know...”
“Two, in fact my dear captain. To get the king themselves, or to stop me from doing it.”
Baker smiled. “Yes. But that’s really one and the same isn’t it?”
“Perhaps.” Anna narrowed her eyes. “What are you going to do about this frigate?”
“That depends on what she is going to do about us, doesn’t it?” Baker looked towards the distant vessel. Then he made up his mind.
“There’s no reason not to expect the worst, however,” he said. “Mr. Reeman! Come down if you please.”
With the first officer standing on deck once again, Baker took at deep breath. Exhaling slowly, he turned his gaze on the lieutenant. “Well, Mr. Reeman, if you’d be so kind as to have the ship cleared for action.”
Bosun’s pipes shrilled and the ship came alive with men running to their stations, tearing down canvas walls in the great and officer’s cabins and carrying furniture and carpets into the hold below. Others were wetting and sanding the deck in order to make it less prone to catch fire and less slippery in case of extensive bloodshed. Ship’s boys were hauling canvas cartridges filled with gunpowder on deck and gun crews were stacking cannon balls and grape shot next to their guns.
Aloft, spars were secured with chains in order to not have them fall on deck if shot away. Marines in red coats loaded and primed their muskets, waiting to be deployed in the fighting tops and along the railing.
“We’ll have the marines out of the way, for now,” Baker told his first lieutenant. “Won’t want to look too eager to fight, will we?” He grinned. They also would not open the gun ports or show any other apparent sign of being cleared for action. After all, Britain wasn’t at war with Sweden.
Chapter 20 – Consequences
Commander Kuhlin stared towards the hazy horizon. Well, it wasn’t really the horizon, it was just the visibility being limited to only a few miles. He swore. If it only wouldn’t start snowing, he thought. Then they would not have a chance to find the frigate. They barely had now.
“What are we going to do?” Eric af Klint asked, stepping up besides him.
Kuhlin sighed. “In this weather, there’s really only one thing we can do. Carry on as before and hope that frigate hasn’t anything to do with this.”
“Do you really think she might not?”
“No. I think she’s after the Tartar. Or Anna.”
Eric swallowed. “How could they know about her plans?”
“It’s not really necessary for them to know. The fact that she’s missing and the Tartar has sailed might be enough to look for them...”
Erik frowned. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? There’s nothing else we can do, except continue.”
Kuhlin nodded. “If only this haze would lift.”
They sailed on. Shortly
after noon the haze did lift, at least partly, as a bleak sun burned away the moisture in the air. They changed course to the southwest, following the northern shore of Bråviken. As soon as they were past the last two islands on their starboard side they would have a much better view of the narrows. And hopefully, one or two frigates would be there.
Bosun Tapper stood in the bows of the fishing smack, keeping lookout to starboard, watching the first of the two islands draw closer when he heard a distant rumbling sound.
“Did you hear that?” he shouted aft.
“Aye,” af Klint replied. “Gunfire.”
Kuhlin opened his mouth to say something when there was another rumble. He swore.
Captain Baker couldn’t believe it. Not only had Camilla signaled them to heave-to for the captain to repair aboard, but upon his slight hesitation she even had fired a gun to emphasize her point. A signal gun, not loaded thank God, but a gun nonetheless.
“I can’t believe it. The impertinent dog,” he said to Anna who stood next to him comforting him with a small hand on his arm. “No-one orders a British warship to heave-to. It’s just not done.”
He looked at his first officer, who stood crestfallen, looking at the Swedish frigate, about two cables away on their starboard bow, slowly moving under topsails alone, across their course.
“Do not stand there like a sheep,” Baker told him. “Hold that course of yours and be prepared to follow my orders quickly and efficiently.”
Reeman straightened his back. “Aye aye, sir.”
“What are you going to do,” Anna asked, her hand on the captain’s arm tightening its grip.
Baker smiled at her, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “Stand on. Whatever the circumstances, a British ship cannot be subdued.”
A minute passed. Then smoke erupted from Camilla’s forecastle again, another bang, and this time there was a spout of water twenty yards in front of HMS Tartar’s bows.
“The devil take you, Trolle,” Baker muttered. Loudly he said: “Keep going, Mr. Reeman.”
