Inferno (51 page)

A
t the gates of the Citadel, close to the scene of the hardest-fought encounters, instruments of ratification for an armistice were exchanged by a small group of officers. Then, without ceremony, the Danish guard marched away. The rest of the garrison left the Citadel, an empty fortification, for the British to take possession.

It was agreed that the Citadel and dockyard alone were to be occupied and only for the period needed to fit out the Danish fleet for sea, after which the British would leave for ever. The commanders took up their temporary residence and the last details could be put into train.

‘Maynard!'

Jolted by the adjutant's irritable shout he presented himself.

‘A task for yourself, a sergeant and six. Here's a list of the last-known addresses of British citizens, merchants and such in Copenhagen. Visit each and see if they're about, then offer them escort back. Clear?'

A tight-faced interpreter consulted the list and suggested a route. They set off into the city.

At first there were no signs that war had visited; they passed grand squares and avenues, statues and churches. People watched them with differing emotions: from cautious and respectful to naked hatred. Many more were shattered, blank-faced and staring.

After a mile or so the first damage appeared – a house with one half of it in a fallen ruin. As they reached deeper into the suburbs it was a different matter. Ruins and desolation became common, the stink of fire-gutted old buildings drifted about with wisps of dust and smoke.

The landscape was now a hideous travesty of what it had been, the interpreter often finding himself disoriented and having to ask one of the shuffling passers-by where he was.

It beat in on Maynard. Here were homes and lives of ordinary folk, those near the same as might be found in Bath or Oxford. Events far away, over which they hadn't the slightest control, had put in train a sequence that had climaxed with a ferocious hail of death. There was a catch in his throat at the injustice of it – was it hundreds or thousands that had paid with their lives for the failings of their leaders?

War had come to Copenhagen and he himself was one of its agents.

An ugly fire still smouldered in a collapsed apartment building. In front of it were corpses in a neat line and several kneeling figures, some weeping.

As they passed, he broke away and went to the bodies – they'd been burned alive and their last agonised expressions were still in place in seared flesh, eyes staring up through unendurable pain, a final accusing of the world that had condemned them to such a death.

A torrent of emotion flooded him, sweeping away his pretence of manly indifference. In that moment he knew that he'd failed. He couldn't go on. As a soldier and officer, he was not fit to lead men. He'd joined for glory and honour and had found that he couldn't face the reality of war.

He fell to a broken weeping.

‘'Ere, sir, don't take on so.' Sergeant Heyer took him by the arm and spoke in urgent, embarrassed tones. ‘Please, sir – it's unsettlin' the men.'

With a heroic effort Maynard forced himself to a brittle calm. ‘S-sorry, Sar'nt,' he said, in a small voice, keeping his face averted. ‘I – I forgot myself.'

One thing was certain: when they returned to England he would hand in his commission.

‘Not in front o' the enemy as was,' Sergeant Heyer added.

Enemy? This nearly brought on another bout – these pitiable creatures, the enemy?

Then a picture of his brother came into his mind. What would David think of him? He'd been in worse battles and had never once spoken of the other side of his war. By some means, he'd found a way to overcome his feelings and continue to do his duty. The image of his grave and upright older brother steadied him, and as they marched away, Francis felt the beginnings of an understanding.

Was not this part of the profession of arms? Not the central purpose but the regrettable outcome of a higher duty. Just as a physician must find ways to shut out the sounds of pain and sight of sawn limbs so he must strengthen his resolve and determination.

The sights he had seen that day were piteous and brutal, but if he was to be numbered as a king's officer, charged with the urgent task of defending the realm against the tyrant
emperor now towering above Europe, it was his duty to rise above his natural feelings.

A flood of release entered him and he straightened as he marched. Yes, this was how it was and had to be.

And one guilty but gratifying thought came to him: he had been blooded in battle, he'd seen the worst – just like his brother, whom at last he could stand next to.

I
t was a deep shock for Kydd. The Danish capital had surrendered – but at what cost? Its inhabitants must have held on to the end with their dogged courage, much as they'd done against Nelson, but what a price to pay for their honour.

Gambier was apparently ashore in offices in the Citadel and in a sombre mood Kydd took boat for the fortress. An all-pervading reek of burned decay hung over the city and the effect of the ordeal was on every face he saw.

‘Thank you, Sir Thomas,' the admiral said, distracted, as Kydd handed him Keats's dispatches. Nothing significant had happened in the Great Belt command to stand with events here except one thing.

‘Ah, Sir James. I have to acquaint you that, for his safety, I've lately conveyed the King of France to Sweden. King Louis the Eighteenth that is,' he added, when Gambier showed little interest.

‘Did you indeed.'

‘He's alone, but with a duke of sorts. Sir, do you think we should allow him passage or some such at all?'

‘I wouldn't have thought so. He's safe with the Swedes, isn't he? We've got enough work here to concern us at the moment. Oh, do make your number with our captain-of-the-fleet, will you? He's much pressed, I've heard.'

Kydd paused outside the door. It had been only a year or so but much had happened since those dog days off Cape Town when he and Popham had faced a future rotting in a backwater together and joined in a desperate enterprise to break out of the situation. Then there'd been Popham's court-martial at which Kydd's evidence had not gone to his aid.

As soon as he entered, Popham was on his feet in a warm welcome. If he bore Kydd any grudge there was no evidence of it. ‘Well, now, and how is the gallant Sir Thomas taking to his laurels?' he teased.

‘As were dearly won, Dasher,' Kydd said, calling him by his nickname as he'd done in the past, and easing into a chair.

‘I've no doubt, old fellow. I heard of your splendid rencontre.'

‘Not the enemy, is my meaning. The ship was in a state of mutiny, which sorely distracted me, I'm bound to say.'

‘Then we'll dine together on the strength of it, just as soon as I can get out from under this raffle.' He gestured grandly at a startling overflow of papers and folios.

‘Can I help at all, Dasher?'

‘The very man. We've got the fleet, glory be. Now we've the task of getting it to England. It means stripping our ships of skilled hands and putting 'em to work in their dockyard fitting out for sea. I'd take it kindly if you'd accept the
post of regulating captain there, see all goes smoothly, that sort of thing. Will you, old bean?'

‘Very well.'

‘Splendid! You'll have an office there – Nyholm, I think they call it. Now I want you to be especially vigilant. See they render up their ships in good order, holding none back, no vandalism or such-like mischief.'

‘Do we have a list of what we're taking?'

Popham gave a satisfied smile. ‘Ah, as to that, I can say to you plainly that we most strictly only take that which is specified in the Articles of Capitulation.'

‘Being?'

‘Which were drawn up by a parcel of landlubbers. They conceive the Danish fleet to be their sail-of-the-line, the battle fleet. To any right-thinking sailor a fleet is all ships that fly the naval ensign.'

‘You mean …?'

‘Yes! Everything that floats is ours by right. Battleships to gunboats, frigates to dispatch cutters. We take the lot.'

‘This is hard medicine, Dasher. After we're gone, they're going to have to defend themselves in the usual way – but without any kind of navy at all? Can we not at least leave them a ship-of-the-line, a couple of frigates?'

‘No. Everything goes.'

Kydd felt resentment flare. These were a brave people who had resisted with what they had. Did they not deserve a little to be retrieved from the wreckage of surrender?

‘And I'll have their stores.'

‘You can't—'

‘I can and I will. Those same lubberly articles specify we might take any surplus stores. Now, if they haven't any ships how can they need sea supplies? All sea stores, timber,
rope and so forth are therefore surplus. Get it all, old fellow!'

‘I'll have you know, sir, that I mislike topping it the plunderer. This is nothing but bare-faced thievery.'

Popham's smile slipped. ‘Call it what you will but you'll do it. They turned down a perfectly good arrangement when we first arrived and put us to much bother and expense, not to say blood, to come to the same end. All their fault, therefore.'

K
ydd sat in his office, depressed and moody. As well as the cloying fetor of smouldering debris desolation and bleakness lay over the city, impossible to ignore. The sooner they were quit of the place the better.

He turned to his lists. There was no option but to fall in with Popham's demands. He was the designated naval representative under the Articles.

Was the man still a friend? He rather doubted it.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come in,' he called heavily.

Dillon entered with a lopsided grin. ‘Um, I've two persons desiring passage to England, should you be kind enough.'

‘No, by God!' Kydd blazed. ‘Not even if they're the King and Queen of Lilliput! Tell 'em to go to the army transports or other –
Tyger
's not a convenience for fallen travellers.'

‘Sir, if you'd be good enough to tell them yourself.' He stood aside.

‘What – who the devil …?' Kydd spluttered, as two apparitions came in, stopping before his desk. Ragged, caked in
pale dust and with eyes bright but red-rimmed, they waited respectfully.

‘Nicholas? Cecilia?' Kydd gasped, unable to believe what he was seeing.

‘The same,' croaked Renzi. ‘Lately delivered from durance vile.'

‘And … and Cecilia?'

‘Your sister, Thomas,' she managed quietly.

It was too much and she threw herself on him, sobbing with a deep, wrenching relief.

It took some time for order and naval discipline to be restored before Kydd could indicate that, as of that moment, HMS
Tyger
should be entirely at their service, the great cabin of her captain their especial residence.