Kydd was taken aback. This was an entirely different proposition from a resupply exercise, and even with his limited military experience he knew that a successful formal withdrawal involved great complexities and risks-flanks and rear shortening lines in a co-ordinated sequence to prevent a retreat turning into a rout, the gradual taking up of field guns in such a way that the enemy could not gain advantage, the preserving of as much impedimenta as could be retrieved. It was a dangerous and fraught time.
As if answering Kydd’s unspoken questions, Blucher growled, “I undertake to bring our army to the edge of the sea, no worry to you, Kapitan. Then you-your ships-will take them on board and away. Can you do it?”
This was far more than a handful of coastal brigs could handle. And when the French saw what was going on they would throw everything at them …
Kydd’s expression was grave. “I can-but only if we have regular military transports. They have the right gear and capacity to take men, horses and guns aboard in a short time.” Where the devil these could be found short of Portsmouth or Plymouth he had no idea, or whether they could be released, and on whose authority.
“I understand you,” Blucher responded crisply. “We ask Sweden. I know they have these at Stralsund and more at Karlskrona. It is a matter for diplomats. You will leave this with me. Do maintain your resupply until the transports arrive, four, five days.”
In a way it was a relief for Kydd, for now the end was in sight. This mass continental butchery was not to his liking and it would be good to get back to the blessed reassurance of sea routine.
Tyger, in her slow offshore cruising, had been able to put the time to good use. The new boatswain had tut-tutted about the condition of some of the rigging and fittings and set to with his mates to bring her to rights. Bray had made sure of an unvarying hour at the guns every morning and, on Kydd’s instructions, this was followed by sail-handling.
Kydd had allowed his officers leave in pairs to Konigsberg, as much to see something of what lay behind the strategics of the armies that were deciding Europe’s fate as to make acquaintance of the ancient city.
But two days later catastrophe struck. The plan for taking off von Hohenlau’s troops was uncovered, and before the transports could arrive, the French made their move in an intelligent and daring expedition.
A force of dragoons dragging field pieces had crossed the marshy flatlands at the far end of the Frisches Haff on to the Vistula Spit. Now, along unused trails of the old native peoples, they were advancing rapidly up its length, followed by reinforcements of regular troops.
They would be at the resupply crossing in little more than a day.
The move was well thought-out and in keeping with the main outflanking thrust-it was in Bonaparte’s interest to keep a full corps of his enemy in idle helplessness while he brought the Russians to battle.
At the council-of-war that evening it quickly became clear that to counter the manoeuvre in a formal way would be impossible. In the time they had, it would be hopeless to attempt to effect fortified works on the sandy terrain and therefore it would descend into a brutal hacking match, which, without cavalry, the Prussians would certainly lose. Besides, Blucher was bleakly insistent that the Prussian Army should be preserved for the cataclysmic battle at the gates of Konigsberg, which was still to come.
The occupation of the spit would therefore not be contested. The army would once again be left isolated and under siege.
Blucher turned to Kydd. “We don’t know when the transports arrive. Can you maintain resupply along the Frisches Haff?”
He had been dreading the question. The shallows couldn’t take a reasonable-sized ship, and now that both sides of the lagoon were occupied by the French with guns, any attempt by boats would make them sitting ducks.
But somehow it had to be done.
“I’ll think on it, General,” he murmured, feeling eyes on him from around the room. It was no use giving false hope with impossible promises and he left quickly.
The French dragoons made good time and were in position opposite before the next morning was out. Now even communications with von Hohenlau were severed.
Kydd ordered Stoat, his armed ketch, to be readied.
Taken up by the Royal Navy desperate for anything that sailed, she was as elderly as her commander, her sharp stern giving her away as a native of the Baltic. A relic of the far-off days of peace, the varnish of her upper-works hardly concealed the dark weathering of her timbers underneath.
Rogers, an elderly master’s mate, was her captain.
“I shall want to wake up the French guns, see where they’re positioned, how many and so forth.”
“Aye aye, Sir Thomas.”
“No heroics, in and out only.”
“Sir. How long should I-”
“I shall be the judge of that, Mr Rogers, as I’ll be aboard with you.”
They put out from Pillau and passed into the lagoon. Stoat glided slowly along.
There was no gunfire: to the right there would be no point in the French occupying any of the spit past the crossing point, and the left was still Prussian-held. It was calm and the watery expanse glittered in the sun, ruffled here and there by small flaws in the breeze.
It couldn’t last. Well before they were anywhere near the besieged Prussians the shoreline to the south sprouted puffs of white. The thud and rumble of the guns followed soon after. It was at long range but, even so, balls skipped and flew, some of respectable size, eight-pounders, Kydd surmised. He smiled grimly. It would have been better for the French gunners to hold their fire and trap the little vessel.
He spotted the far-off besieged encampment well down the lagoon. His heart sank with the realisation that as the range closed they would not survive: the French would undoubtedly have worked out that this was the only way to relieve the army and brought up many more guns to make it impossible.
“Take us back, Mr Rogers,” he muttered.
The idea came to him as they went about to go alongside the jetty at Konigsberg harbour, where the ships lay together in idleness. On the short walk to the Grand Palace it took form and detail. There was great risk. But it could work …
“The relief will resume in a day, General,” he said flatly, “provided I shall have what I desire.”
It all depended on his observation that both sides of the lagoon were completely flat, no high ground of any sort. This had one priceless consequence: at night even in moonlight the width of reflecting water between the shores would appear narrow, and targeting an object with the majority of its silhouette invisible against the darkness of the opposite shore would be damned difficult.
The other part of his plan was to use harbour lighters for the cargo-carrying. These were simple hollow craft brought up to a merchant ship at anchor offshore to allow discharge of cargo into them. Fully laden, only a foot or two of their gunwales would show above water, a near-impossible target compared with anything carrying sail.
Finally he had to find an alternative to boats in towing them. His solution was simple but back-breaking. The boats would tow the lighters as far as they could, then cast off. Aboard each one, they would have two grapnels on a line. The idea was to cast them ahead as far as possible and on the little after-deck a makeshift windlass would haul in on the line, propelling the lighter ahead for the distance of the cast and length of the lighter. To keep a steady momentum, there would be one line on each side, out of sequence with each other.
That was the best he could do. Their silhouette would be very low but this was achingly slow work and it was to be expected that they’d be under fire most of the time. And without doubt they would take casualties.
The first four harbour lighters were fitted out and the next night they were loaded, the tow-lines passed. When all was in darkness they set off into the gloom.