That only increased Kydd’s feeling of helplessness: this was no quaint medieval town or decayed magnificence, such as Naples, but the capital of a great power. The legend of the invincible Royal Navy had led this nation to seek him out for its deliverance.
He was ushered into the presence of King Friedrich Wilhelm of Prussia, Elector of Brandenburg, in the imperial reception chamber. A tall, reserved figure, the monarch was arrayed in military full dress, dark blue with a red blaze and massive silver epaulettes. His sword was an imposing cavalry sabre.
Gursten introduced him-it sounded suspiciously like “Tamas von Kydd”-and he managed as elegant a leg as he could muster.
Once again Kydd was grateful to Renzi’s tutelage in French. He’d learned the language in the tedium of the blockade of Toulon those distant years ago and remembered Renzi saying that all the crowned heads of Europe spoke French to each other.
“I’m honoured indeed to be welcomed by Your Majesty into his palace,” he tried.
“The honour is all mine,” Friedrich replied easily, in the language, “as providing me with the opportunity of making the acquaintance of a very gallant officer …”
Kydd bowed wordlessly. What did “gallant” imply?
“… who comes to succour us in these harrowing times.”
“Your Majesty, I will endeavour to render such service as my ship can provide.”
“Ah. As it happens, there is a measure of assistance that we would be grateful should you perform for us, a mere trifle I’m sure to one of Nelson’s tribe.”
“Sir?”
“Time presses-it were better you hear it directly from our distinguished servant, Generalleutnant von Blucher.”
The stern and moustachioed figure in the background stamped forward and, with a click of his heels, bowed jerkily. “Just so, Kapitan,” he said, in heavily accented French.
He backed away from the presence, bowing, and led Kydd down a richly ornamented hallway until he came to a guarded door.
“The war room,” he snapped, as a young officer hastily flung wide the door.
Inside a vast table bore a single map, tended by staff officers who crashed to attention. At barked words in German they resumed their business.
Blucher went immediately to one side and peered down at the complexity of lines and pointers. An officer obligingly pulled down a lamp cluster cunningly suspended with counter-weights.
“There!” He gestured.
Kydd moved forward and studied it, his first sight of the real situation, aware of the steely eyes of the Prussian on him.
It was a military map, the hachures and topography unfamiliar and the names unpronounceable. It meant nothing to him.
He nodded, with what he hoped was a wise expression, and asked if a smaller-scale map was available to place it in context.
One was brought and Blucher stood back with folded arms as Gursten nervously explained it.
Kydd began to take it in: this was central Europe and, with the Baltic to anchor his position, he looked on while Gursten talked.
Prussia, it seemed, extended right from the borders of the Batavian Republic-Holland-beneath the peninsula of Denmark, on to two-thirds the extent of the Baltic to the border with the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. To the south Gursten pointed out countries whose names meant little to Kydd: Saxony, Bohemia, Bavaria, others, all of which were apparently important to know.
He snatched a glance at Blucher. The general was impassive but his thin lips were beginning to curl in disdain at the incredible ignorance of the English officer, and Kydd reddened.
“Thank you, Mr Gursten. Now be so good as to show me how much of Prussia is at present occupied by the French.”
The young officer slowly drew a finger from the Batavian Republic in the west on and on, through proud and ancient provinces to the east, Hanover, Brandenburg and Pomerania. Over rivers: the Rhine, the Elbe and the Oder. And cities: Hamburg, Berlin and Warsaw.
It did not cease until there remained only a small margin far up against the border to the east. It was then that Kydd understood.
Unless a miracle occurred they were facing extinction as a nation at the hands of Bonaparte. And they had come to him for help-in this grand scheme it was little enough to ask, and in that moment he resolved to do what he could for them.
“Thank you,” he said briskly. “May we see the present situation again?”
They returned to the big map and Gursten studied it for a moment. “All of Pomerania has fallen and here we have the Vistula, which was crossed by the French some weeks ago. Our lines at the moment are so.” With the sea barely visible along the north edge he traced a line from it across to the southeast. “In the centre is Feldmarschall Count von Bennigsen, our joint commander with the Russian forces, say ninety thousand only. He faces Ney, Victor, Grouchy and Lannes each with an entire corps, some hundred and fifty thousand. There is-”
“Where’s Bonaparte?” Kydd said, fascinated by the gigantic scale of this picture of armies locked together in mortal striving.
Gursten looked up in surprise. “Sir, the imperial headquarters would be here, close to the rear where his lines of communication-”
“Yes, of course. Pray do continue.” Kydd’s eyes, however, lingered on the place indicated, his imagination gripped by a vision of the tyrant emperor who held all Europe in thrall now from that little village with tentacles of command connecting him with his marshals and armies, invincible and ruthless.
“Konigsberg lies here on the Pregel.” Gursten pointed to the eastern edge of the map, almost to the last extremity before the border and uncomfortably close-by eye no more than forty miles from the fighting.
“And your trapped army?”
“Here.” He tapped at a point well within the advancing French lines. But it was on the coast in the north-next to the sea.
“Hmm. I see. Unless you are supplied you must capitulate.” Kydd stroked his chin. The distance to cover was not great, even if boats gave a wide berth to French guns before they swung inshore, and providing the weather held, there should be no difficulty in maintaining a continuous flow. There could be contrary currents or shoals but with local charts there should be no difficulty.
Then he recalled the suspicious absence of shipping and asked, “When we arrived I saw all your vessels idle in port. What must this mean?”
“Oh. First, I could say that without our navy they’re worried about privateers but mainly, well, there’s no trade possible when every supply and market is in the hands of the enemy.”
It would be a rash privateer to try conclusions with Tyger, and a resupply would be a straightforward enough matter, with so many unused hulls to call upon.
Straightening with a smile, he said, with what he hoped was winning confidence, “Very well, gentlemen, I shall help you. Your army will be relieved by boat, safely guarded by the Royal Navy.”
“Gott in Himmel!” Blucher spluttered. “Have you any idea of the size of a supply column? For a division of ten thousand-and we have one and a half with von Hohenlau-it’s two hundred wagons, five hundred men and a thousand horses, miles long. And how many more thousands to guard them? Pah! You’ll never do that with rowing boats, Mr Sailor!”
Kydd kept his temper. If nothing else, this army general was going to learn what it was to have command of the sea. “Sir, this we will do.” He bit his lip, then said firmly, “And you have my word on it.”
Kydd collected a wide-eyed Dillon from outside, and they were given a small room to work in where Kydd sat, letting his thoughts focus.
Time was criticaclass="underline" Heaven knew how long it would take to get a system in place and, from what Gursten had told him, the army would by now be on its last rations.
First things first. “Mr Dillon, my compliments to Mr Bray and he is to detach a boat’s crew in my service, as I shall be staying here for a while to set up the resupply. As well, I shall require the master and the purser to attend on me.”
“The purser?”
“Is what I said.”