They passed another tongue of scrubby land but just beyond, as it deepened again, Kydd picked up on a flaw in the water. Years before in his first command he had been stationed in the Channel Islands, probably the most treacherous sea in the world, with its myriad reefs and islets, and he knew instantly what it was: an overfall. Somewhere in the depths not far below there was a jagged shelf of rock or reef edge over which the water was crowding, and it was directly in their path.
‘Bear up!’ Kydd roared at the helm. ‘Lay off two points to starb’d.’ That was another thing he’d learned in Guernsey: the fuss and bother in the water was not the real location of the rock’s teeth – it was upstream, in the deceptive smooth water before it.
It was not a place for strangers, still less great ships-of-the-line, but they sailed on.
The passage widened and they made good progress, the squadron in a loose line ahead as they approached the most important point in the entire Great Belt – the closest the coast of Sj?lland would come to the island of Fyn where the highway from the mainland to Copenhagen led across the water to Korsor on the Sj?lland side and, therefore, where any reinforcements could be expected to mass.
This was now the most crucial point and Kydd doubled lookouts watching over Mosquito as she patiently neared the six-mile constriction, a large island neatly at the halfway mark, with a low foreland extending from the left and hiding what lay beyond; their chart told them it was the small harbour of Korsor.
There was no sign of military transports or any kind of shipping. The formidable sight of the line of men-o’-war must have driven them off.
Vanguard turned ponderously and her anchor plunged down. She was going no further: her station was to lie at this crossing point, a floating fortress to challenge anything that moved. Their notes and chart were unanimous that this side of the channel was to be preferred and Mosquito disappeared behind the foreland with her boats.
Tyger hove to and waited, but when sails reappeared it was not what anyone was expecting: a sizeable packet boat burst into view under a press of sail with Mosquito in hot pursuit. Too late, it saw Tyger and slowly rounded to in defeat.
Kydd looked at Bray. ‘A guilty conscience. This rascal’s up to no good or I’m a Dutchman!’
He looked around for Bowden. ‘We’ve no time for a full rummaging. Board him. Any sign that makes you suspicious, throw out a signal. Clear?’
‘Aye aye, sir.’
Kydd waited impatiently, watching the young officer board and disappear below. It wasn’t long, however, before he took boat back to Tyger.
‘Anything?’
‘Naught as would interest you, sir. An ailing Swedish baron of sorts on his way to take the waters in Baden, a quantity of his household and all the comforts is all.’
There was no point in detaining the packet and Kydd let it go: the squadron could not be delayed in its vital task.
Eight miles further on, as monotonous flat islands began increasing to the left, they sighted the long, low tip of Langeland. From now on, the narrow length of the island would stay to their starboard for the thirty-odd miles to the end of the Belt and the open sea. It would act as a funnel through which all shipping must pass. Nassau 64 and the frigate Sibylle took position there.
It was the last part of the transit and it would be a relief to win through to the unbounded expanse of ocean, but before they were quit of this place of sea perils it had one more surprise.
Mosquito had found that the dybe rende had narrowed to little more than a cable wide – two hundred yards only – and through its undersea ramparts the water of the Great Belt whirled along at an astonishing speed. With the north-westerly veering to a brisk northerly the two remaining battleships, Orion and Ganges, found their eight knots by the wind increased to twelve and thirteen by the current – a speed over the ground of which a flying frigate would be well proud.
Their emergence from the Great Belt was something of an anti-climax. Without fuss, on both sides the low coast fell away until they were left in a calm grey sea with nothing to disturb the placid horizon.
The passage was complete. Ahead some thirty miles was Kiel but the squadron put over the helm and bore away eastward, to pass the three big islands marking the southern bounds of Denmark: Lolland, Falster and Mon.
At one point the low dark of land to starboard became visible. Kydd stared at it with his memories. This was Prussia where, only months ago, he’d been caught up in Bonaparte’s unstoppable rolling conquests that now included the entire south shore of the Baltic, save the territory of his new ally, Russia. Over there, just hours’ sail away, were the ancient Hansa cities of Rostock, Lubeck and Wismar, all in thrall to the conqueror.
Now, for Tyger, it was a broad reach to the north until the rumpled white cliffs of Mon were in sight.
Keats had carried out his orders to the letter. This would be their station while the drama of the landing and what followed took place, clamping an iron hold on Sj?lland while it played out. Kydd felt a wash of pride. This was the reality of command of the seas: ships at sea far out of sight of armies but directly affecting the strategics of their battle and its eventual outcome.
Chapter 61
At sea, southern Baltic between Denmark and Pomerania
It was not long before Tyger and Lapwing sloop received orders for further duty.
Just weeks ago, the last piece of the old Swedish empire had fallen, the island of Rugen sheltering the medieval town of Stralsund in Pomerania. The Swedes had put up a desperate resistance but had now pulled out, leaving the large port in the hands of the French.
This was now a direct threat. Less than fifty miles from Denmark, Marshal Bernadotte with his vast army was in a position to menace the landing and Kydd’s duty was plain: to discourage any adventuring or, if necessary, to bring Keats’s squadron down on them.
Kydd studied his charts, which for once were recent and well produced, obviously of Swedish origin. The task would not be difficult: Stralsund was tucked away in the channel between the large island of Rugen and the mainland, well protected from the outside world. It was approached only by either of two entrances through shoals and wicked reefs, which, of course, meant that any ships leaving must necessarily emerge from them.
Kydd sent Lapwing to patrol the northern entrance while Tyger would take the south or, more accurately, the south-east, between the craggy tip of Rugen and the bleak marshes of Peenemunde. Given the seaways threading for those miles through shallows and mud-banks, there would be no fear of a night sailing so they could take their ease lying off during the hours of darkness.
Tyger took up her station and began patrolling under small sail along the five-fathom line, which curved across the six-mile entrance. Sailing around Rugen, there had been a prospect of cliffs and rumpled coastline with not a sign of humanity. No fortifications or vessels disputed their presence.
At dusk they put out to sea and settled for the night. After supper Dillon brought in the backgammon board while the faint strains of the practising foremast choir lay on the air as they set to. Kydd told Tysoe to open a promising brandy he’d been recommended and had the stern windows set ajar to allow in the gentle airs of the evening.