Kydd was in the first boat and kept them together as they passed across the entrance by Pillau, only too conscious that tonight moonrise was scheduled for ten.
In the boats a heavy silence was broken only by the slither and thump of oars-no one was in doubt about what lay ahead for the lighter crews who squatted in readiness.
“Put some heavy in it, then!” Kydd growled. The men at the oars wouldn’t understand a word of what he was saying but the deep-laden craft were going agonisingly slowly through the calm waters.
They would eventually be seen. The French would be expecting some sort of attempt and would be looking out for it. The only question was when.
The camp fires of the friendly Prussians fell away abruptly to an unrelieved darkness. This was the forbidden ground between the two armies.
On they crept, into the blackness and silence.
More camp fires. With a prickle of tension Kydd knew that these were enemy positions now and at any moment …
The moon emerged above low cloud and, although only quartering, the night had lost its cloak of anonymity. It bathed the tops of the woodland in silver and laid a sheen on the Haff that could only reveal the intrusion.
Feeling exposed in the unearthly shimmer, Kydd tensed.
First one gun, then several-and the whole shore burst into life with the thunder of cannon fire.
The boats could go no further. “Cast off the tow. Good luck, you men!” he roared at the lighters.
He watched as they began their furious work with the grapnels, slow at first, then increasing to one or two knots as they found their rhythm.
As they moved away Kydd saw that gun-flash at the emplacements was making nonsense of aimed fire. The low shapes would thus not have to suffer a concentrated barrage directed on them. On the other hand the scene was alive with the crash and skitter of shot, some of which must find a target.
His instructions were to advance the lighters together to minimise time of exposure but stagger them in order that one shot striking would not take another beyond. It was all very well in theory but these were desperate men who would care little about formation once the guns opened up on them.
Straining his eyes, he followed the creeping shadows until they faded into the dimness among the leaping splashes and skipping of ricochets. If they succeeded, the army was safe for another two days on iron rationing.
“Return,” he snapped, gesturing back. The men and lighters would stay with von Hohenlau: there was little point in braving the holocaust again to bring back the empties. With luck, there would be just one or two more of these heroic sallies before the transports came.
Next day word was returned that three of the four lighters had got through, the fourth taking a hit and sinking quickly. There had been no survivors.
Another gallant sortie had been completed when Dart came streaming in from seaward with signals flying. The transports!
Heaving to well out of sight of the enemy, as instructed, it was at last time to put the grand plan into operation.
“We move tonight!” grated Blucher, unrolling a map.
The general had kept his preparations a close secret but had promised to bring his army to the water’s edge.
The plan was outlined with an economy of words. It was simple and brutaclass="underline" a suicide battalion. A picked body of troopers with light guns would be landed at the unoccupied opposite tip of the spit. Their mission was to ride down its length until they met the French and by any means to drive them clear of Kydd’s crossing point, then keep them back, whatever the cost.
Tyger would have a role: in the minutes before they clashed at the crossing the frigate would close with the shore and smash in a broadside at the French positions, go about and hammer them with the opposite side of guns, then keeping up a withering fire until the French had been driven clear and a line of defence for the crossing established.
This was the point where the transports would come in to take the first wave of troops that had been brought across on rafts.
It would be decided by the timings. The Prussian force would land on the spit in darkness and aim to begin their assault with the dawn at precisely the time Tyger opened fire and the first of the besieged put off in their rafts. The French at the crossing could not count on reinforcements down the far length of the spit for some time but if there were delays they could be expected to enter the battle decisively. There was every need for a smooth operation at the transports.
It would be a bloody affair-but, one way or the other, by the end of the next day it would be over, and Tyger could be quit of this unnatural existence.
Kydd had last words with Blucher, who was dismissive of his sincere wishes for good fortune, coldly dictating orders to his staff officers and neatly pencilling in marks on his battle-plan.
Gursten had no further part to play, but when Kydd found him to say his farewell he insisted that they go to a private room.
In broken but passionate English, he thanked Kydd for his services to the Prussian nation and assured him that His Majesty would never forget such. He reached into his military satchel and drew out two glasses and a wicker-covered brown bottle. “I am grateful, we toast to our tomorrow,” he said, with disturbing intensity. “Pliss.”
Kydd held out his glass, which was filled with a light golden liquor.
“To the new day, and may it go down in history as a glorious occasion for the Prussian military.”
Kydd went to raise his glass but stopped when he saw Gursten hesitate.
“Sir, I cannot. This is retreat, not victory. No one remember glorious retreat.”
“Then-”
“Sir Thomas, can we drink to we both spared, do all our duty to the end, and then meet again.”
“I gladly toast to that, Klaus,” he said, and drank deeply.
It was a mistake-the thick liqueur nearly took his breath away with its potency.
“You’re not liking?” Gursten asked in concern. “It is our Barenfang from here in Konigsberg, much esteem in East Prussia. A vodka liqueur of honey. The bear-trapper,” he explained, pointing to the illustration on the label.
“Oh, it was … delightful-I was not ready for it.”
Kydd had to accept another but then made his excuses, pleading his need to return on board his ship without delay.
Almost shyly, Gursten felt in his satchel and pressed a different bottle on him. “Sir, when all is over, whatever fortune bring, I beg you will drink with your officers to our fighting, we together.”
“That’s so kind in you, Klaus,” Kydd said, touched. “And what is this, pray?”
“A fine Kopskiekelwein, much loved in Konigsberg.”
“Which means?”
“Sir, pardon the Low German. They make with redcurrant, and its meaning, that you’re too fond of it, you fall down head over …”
“I do promise on my honour we shall raise a glass to you, my friend.”
It started well. At dusk the troopers and their equipment were transported over from Pillau to the end of the spit, despite a four knot cross-current set up by an increasingly brisk southwesterly.
Tyger lay offshore, and Kydd watched developments through a night-glass.
He could make out where they assembled together, in every kind of uniform in a brave show-these were volunteers from every regiment, united in one heroic purpose. Cuirassiers in mustard with the white slash of baldrics and magnificently plumed helmets; hussars in elaborately frogged chests and a shako in silver; among them, too, the darker and more utilitarian garb of artillerymen.
One stood out. On a white horse and in full dress uniform he was everywhere, imperiously commanding, gesturing: the captain of this gallant band-whose bold appearance would hearten his men but would inevitably ensure he could not survive.
Formed up, they marched off, the dragoons walking beside their horses, sparing them for the last wild ride, the infantry in column, the field pieces and limbers following behind. Almost immediately they entered woodland and were lost to view. The next act would be when all the players came together at dawn.