A Baltic Affair

Chapter 1 EncountersLieutenant and Commander Petroc Gray drew his cloak closer and glanced about the deck of his ship. After almost two years together, the crew worked with practiced familiarity and assurance in every task.Yet, my officers apart, there is hardly an English sailor among them, he reflected as a large blond man responded to some joke from the Master’s Mate supervising a group about the foremast with a loud guffaw and a thick accent. The man in question claimed to be a Swede, but his language when ashore in the islands of the Swedish archipelago seemed to confuse the native speakers, who clearly seemed barely able to understand him. He glanced across to where the First had the watch, keeping carefully to the leeside while his commander was on deck, and clearly not in a mood for conversation. Benjamin Curran was a good officer, though sometimes given to strange ideas on the nature of the Divine and scripture. It led to some lively debates over a glass or a meal shared in the tiny cabin that was Petroc Gray’s private space. Standing next to the lieutenant, Midshipman Trewellyn tried to stifle a yawn; the watch seemed to be dragging, the sea devoid of anything other than fishing smacks at present – and these, at this late season, were few enough as well. HMS Kestrel, twenty-two guns, a ship-rigged sloop, was Petroc’s second command; the first, a brig of almost the same size, had been an elderly ship, but a useful one in the watching of the shallow harbours of the Dutch Coast and the Heligoland Bight (Helgoland to its inhabitants). But a winter gale three years earlier had all but sunk her beneath them. When the ship was declared unsound on their return under jury rig to the Medway, he had been lucky enough to be given the Kestrel, the construction of which had just completed, and orders to join Admiral Saumarez in the Baltic. She was a good ship, modern, a good sailor and well armed for her task. Napoleon’s Continental Blockade was hurting the British economy, though it had been in place only a year. Ships like the little Kestrel were vital to the effort to protect the Baltic trade, and they had more than proved their worth thus far. Petroc lifted his spyglass and focused it on the hazy outline of the island of Rügen away to starboard. “Mister Curran,” he called across to the Lieutenant. “I wish to stand a little closer to the sound between the island and the shore, please. A closer look at the shipping there may be informative.” “Aye, aye, sir. Hands to braces, lively now!” When the crew were ready, Curran gave the order: “Bear up, steer south-south-east and a half south.” Petroc Gray watched as the ship responded, and, satisfied the course would take them to a position from which the masthead would see the anchorage, he said, “We shall see what is afoot there. The admiral will wish to know when we meet him tomorrow.” He sniffed the air. “The winter cannot be far behind us now; there is a chill in the wind.” “Aye, sir.” Ben joined his friend and commander. “The French seem to be causing a great stirring ashore – the fishing boat we spoke to yesterday talked of an increase in their troops in Pomerania and the states of Mecklenburg and Prussia. Do you think they will be mad enough to attempt a campaign here in the winter?” “Unlikely,” Petroc replied with a glimmer of merriment in his eyes.“But if they do we could be in for some interesting times. The Danes are building gunboats, and their successes against our convoys in the Belt and the Sound are worrying. Our merchants must leave the northern Gulfs before the sea here freezes and the winter storms make the North Sea too dangerous. A few years ago, a ship was taken by soldiers in the Gulf of Finland – cavalry I believe – as she lay frozen into her anchorage.” Petroc laughed. “I’d not wish to have to explain that to our Admiral!” Ben smiled. “Nor I, sir.” He knew the story. A small Danish frigate had been trapped by ice near the Russian border. Mindful of Danish claims to Sweden and the Province of Finland, the Russians had not hesitated. Riding out onto the ice, they had stormed the ship and taken it before the Danes could clear her to defend themselves. In the end, it had been an academic victory, since the ship was subsequently destroyed by fire resulting from the assault. Ben frowned. “Do you think the admiral will withdraw completely for the winter?” “I should think it likely he will withdraw as far as the Skagerrak, at least. There are some anchorages there that do not freeze, and which we can use by treaty. I doubt we will all be sent back to England, Ben; there is too much at stake at present.” “Deck there! Boat signalling, sir. There looks to be ladies aboard.” “Where away,” called Petroc, raising his glass. A small coasting barge more suited to the inshore leads sprang into focus. He could just make out a figure standing at its stern, waving a hat. “Close with him and let’s see what he wants,” Petroc ordered, adding to no one in particular, “He does have ladies aboard. What the devil is he about?” Half an hour later, Kestrel hove-to and waited while the fishing smack drew alongside. A stocky man in a black uniform coat trimmed with red cuffs and facings and gold lace and buttons stood and doffed his hat to Petroc, who was now in his own uniform coat and hat. He returned the salute and asked, “How may we assist you, sir?” The short, stocky man carried himself well, though Petroc suspected he’d be more at home on horseback than on the deck of the small inshore trader he now travelled on. Four ladies were huddled at the transom, staying clear of the sailors bringing their craft alongside the sloop. One was apparently the man’s wife, and the others, Petroc assumed by their ages, were probably daughters and a governess. The newcomer indicated the ladies and replied in German, a language that Petroc had not managed to fully grasp as yet. He had caught a title,Freiherr, and a name, Rheinhard von Dieffenbach, but not much more. Though he had a passable command of German as spoken in these parts, he preferred to use an interpreter until he’d determined whether he understood a new acquaintance’s dialect. He looked about and spotted the big Swede near the mainchains. “Jorgenson, attend me here.” The big man moved quickly, a broad grin on his face as he touched his knuckles to his forehead, “Ja, Herr Kapitän?” “Ask the gentleman to repeat his request, please.” The seaman acknowledged the order and engaged in a rapid-fire exchange with the gentleman in the boat. Then he turned again to Petroc and said, “He ask, mein Kapitän, if we can take his familie with us to Svenska. He says the French have taken his Schloss and left zem with nottink.” Petroc nodded. That was what he thought had been said. “Very well, have them come aboard, Mister Curran. You never know; we may learn something of Bonaparte’s intentions for the coming months.” He watched as the Master’s Mate and the seamen prepared a suitable hoist and means of bringing the ladies aboard, noting that the younger ladies seemed to be enjoying the excitement of their sea voyage, though their mother seemed more resigned than eager for it. One by one, beginning with the older woman, the ladies were swung aboard, decorum maintained by the use of guidelines, a canvas sling seat and careful control of the hoisting and lowering inboard. Petroc could now greet his guests with a courteous bow and raised hat, noting that the older lady, who presumably was the Feifrau von Dieffenbach, was quite dignified and of obvious breeding. Her daughters, he noted, were evidently some years apart in age, the older being near marriageable age and the younger clearly still in the schoolroom. Petroc raised his hat as the Freiherr clambered through the entry port unaided and looking smart despite the spray now soaking into his coat. In his halting German he said, “Welcome aboard my ship, Graf von Dieffenbach. I hope you will forgive my poor command of your language. Please address your wishes to my man, Jorgensen.” Jorgensen smiled broadly at the mention of his name. He was proud to serve as Petroc’s interpreter if the need arose. The Freiherr’s face lit in pleasure and relief, but he addressed Petroc directly, beginning in his native language sprinkled with a smattering of heavily accented English. “Danke schön, Kapitän; permit I introduce meine Frau, die Freifrau, Grafin Hannelore von Dieffenbach, and meine Tochters…uh, daughters, I think you say, Silke and Wiebke, and Jungfer Carrington-Carr aus London. We are in your Schuld.” Petroc bowed, acknowledging the introductions and thinking fast. “My pleasure, sir. Now I shall ask Midshipman Trewellyn to escort your wife and daughters to my quarters while we resume our course.” He glanced at where several trunks and bags had been deposited on the deck and asked, “Is this all your baggage, sir?” The Freiherr nodded, “Das ist alles, Kapitän.” Turning to his wife, he spoke quickly in German and she responded briefly, and then she smiled at the anxiously hovering Midshipman and ushered her daughters toward the companionway that the youth indicated. “Get the ship underway if you please, Mister Curran. You know my intentions, I think? Good, see what you may discover.” Turning to his guest, Petroc said, “Let us join your ladies, sir.” He signalled the large Swede. “I will send for you if we have need of your translation, Jorgenson.” The Freiherr seemed reluctant to leave the deck, watching in fascination as the crew reset the sails to get the ship underway; the main topsails and topgallants were drawn around to fill once more from their ‘backed’ position. The ship heeled further as the sails filled and gathered way; she responded like the thoroughbred she was. Turning to Petroc, he declared, “Your Schiff, it is very gut sailing..” “They are, sir,” Petroc agreed. “And she is a fine little ship, ideal for working these waters. Shall we join your ladies?” He indicated the companionway leading below. “I shall arrange some refreshment for them and for us while we discuss your situation.”