The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (63 page)

Messengers arrive in carriages from the royal household's summer residence at Frederiksberg, where the sight of such ominous plumes above the city rooftops seems to have given rise to concern. But late in the afternoon the smoke subsides, and with a sense of disappointment and anti-climax Falck supposes the blaze to be extinguished. The crowds disperse, strolling at a time of day at which strolling does not occur; Vimmelskaftet and Amager Torv are cauldrons of people like himself, who feel displaced from their usual rhythm and faintly hope that some­thing will still happen.

And yet an indistinct inkling, or perhaps the persistent flow of uni ­formed men towards the Holmen, prompts him to go back to the palace square. He sees that the smoke has not diminished at all, on the contrary, it has spread, though now much lighter in colour than before and thereby from a distance all but invisible in the sun. Nearly all the windows and roof hatches of the Admiralty are wide open; rope and canvas are thrown from them and carried down to boats moored at the quay. Papers scatter into the air, naval documents to be saved from the flames, but the wind stirs them up and casts them about, while the heat causes them to combust and burn up in mid-flight; they dance in the air like flaming butterflies and are snatched by the easterly wind to drift in across the city. From the Admiral of the Fleet's residence furniture is lowered to the street and ferried away in boats by the canal. Falck sees able seamen and soldiers forming human chains, passing along leather buckets filled with water, while others struggle in vain to make an old fire hydrant work. And then, for the first time, he sees flames. On top of one of the buildings of the main store a wooden statue of Neptune flares. Within minutes most of the store is engulfed and the men on the ground beat a hasty retreat. Falck is aware of a low and disquieting rumble, like the rolling of thunder, and feels a rush of wild excitement as he realizes that the fire is anything but under control. He senses a quite identical sentiment ripple through the crowd that surrounds him: laughter, tears and curses. Imagine if the whole city were to burn!

A careening carriage comes clattering at speed along Gammel Strand. It pulls in and draws to a halt in front of the church, where rescued rope and canvas lie piled in colossal, untidy heaps. Four footmen leap to the ground, the door is opened and a murmur of excitement runs through the crowd, followed by cheers as a slender, uniformed figure steps from the vehicle. Falck recognizes Denmark's regent, the Crown Prince Frederik, and feels the same surge of elation as the rest of the onlookers. He joins in the cheering.

The Crown Prince hesitates, seemingly in doubt as to whether to direct his attention to the fire on one side or to his jubilant subjects on the other. A man comes running, halts abruptly and salutes. The Crown Prince follows on his heels; they disappear behind the church. The roar of the blaze intensifies. Falck hears the unambiguous, irascible crackle of burning wood. Narrowing his eyes, he sees the rain of sparks. All around him, talk is of the wind. It is brisk and from the south-east. The blaze may jump!

When the Crown Prince returns, now at a trot, he is again met by a clamour of cheers. Falck's voice is among them. Without pause, the regent climbs into the carriage, which takes off at a gallop along Holmens Kanal in the direction of Amalienborg Palace.

So much for his holiday, someone comments.

Those overfed privy councillors had best get their fat bellies moving and do something! another says.

What, those lackeys of the Germans? They'd rather see the city burn than neglect their puddings and pies.

Our beloved Crown Prince will know what to do. We must trust in him.

The blaze spreads quickly across Gammelholm. Roofs collapse, causing a build-up of pressure inside the buildings that blows the windows from their frames; shards of glass rain down, sparks fountain over the rooftops, house by house bursting into flames, combusting either spontaneously or by contact. Falck realizes it is but a matter of time before Skvaldergården's surrounding district will be consumed. He hurries home across Holmens Bro to find the street engulfed by smoke, its inhabitants in the process of rescuing furniture and belongings. It dawns on him that a number of the adjacent houses are already aflame. The blinding sun has obscured the fact.

The house in which he lodges is in turmoil. Outside number twelve the engraver stands directing men who are busy carrying out furniture and loading it on to a farmer's cart. A message has been sent to the magis­trate at his country home.

You'd better hurry! Buntzen says. Grab your things and get to safety! Falck sees that his friend, too, is in the grip of the general frenzied derangement. He speaks animatedly to the driver, an Amager peasant, slaps him chummily on the back, echoes the man's dialect and instructs him to hasten to the agreed place and then come back immediately. The man demands payment in advance; Buntzen produces a leather purse and tosses it to him. Its coins are examined one by one. Eventually, the man climbs up on to the box and shows his worn-out horses the whip.

Buntzen, who besides his work as an engraver is also a correspondent of the
Kjøbenhavns Danske Posttidende
, is well-informed as to what is happening; he has boys running messages for him; they appear continu­ally with reports of new developments. The blaze is under control on the Holmen and now confined to the main store, he says, an impressive feat indeed for a band of drunken soldiers. But the fire has jumped, disaster is imminent and the wind only makes matters worse. The Crown Prince has convened a meeting of his cabinet to consider which way the flames will be blown. Buntzen laughs frantically and looks at Falck with a fixed smile on his face. This will be bad, Magister.

But the fire brigade, Falck says. Surely they will be able to carry out their work here?

Let us hope for the best, says Buntzen. The city is as dry as straw, it won't take much. He puts a friendly hand on Falck's shoulder. Let us place our faith in God!

He climbs the stairs to collect his belongings. The smoke is hardly visible and yet his eyes smart. Entering his small chamber, he hears cries from further up, followed by the sound of running footsteps echoing round the staircase. He pokes his head out to see what is going on.

The house is on fire! cries a man coming down the stairs with a pair of boots in his hands and the front flap of his breeches hanging down. Hurry, man! The roof is ablaze!

He leaves his chest where it is, finds his sack, fills it hastily with whatever is within reach, swings it over his shoulder and lugs it down to the street. The houses of Skvaldergården have regurgitated their inhab­itants. They stand with heads leaned back, staring up. The flames are easily seen now. A deep, angry rumble has filled the air and seems to be approaching. It feels like the city's whole foundation trembles.

He looks around for Monsieur Buntzen, but cannot see him anywhere. He runs down to Gammel Strand and is almost struck by a cart laden with bundles of documents and stuffed animals. The whole of Copenhagen is on the streets. People lugging chairs, chests, hatboxes, dressmaking dummies clad in finery, busts, cats, clocks, porcelain bowls. Shouts rain down upon hackney carriages that clatter by without stop­ping. He goes back to number twelve and sees Buntzen emerge on to the street.

Mr Falck, would you do me a great favour?

Of course, Monsieur Buntzen.

Take this painting and look after it for me. He gestures towards a full-sized portrait leaning against the wall. Allow me to introduce the Duke of Augustenborg.

Where should I take it? Falck asks.

Oh, where indeed? Somewhere not on fire. To the palace square, perhaps. I hear it is safe there, the palace having burned down last year. I'll come and look for you later this evening and relieve you of it.

Falck considers the canvas. It depicts a man in dress uniform, staring at the beholder with the full disdain of authority, one hand resting on his sabre, in the other a Bible.

The painting belongs to His Grace himself, Buntzen explains. He has already paid me a considerable sum to produce an engraving of it in copper. I should rather not see it lost.

But the cart? Would that not be better?

The cart will not be back. I was only lucky to get the most valuable items away. Unfortunately, I forgot all about the Duke's portrait here. Perhaps secretly I wish it to be lost. The engraver laughs hysterically again.

I shall take care of it, Falck promises.

Excellent. And now you must go. May God be with you! See you later!

The smoke from the rooftops settles, dense and suffocating, seeping towards the canal. The street is filled with stacked furniture and house­hold items waiting to be removed to safety, and Falck cannot help but think of the inferno of burning bureaus, settees, chests of drawers, clavi­chords, eiderdowns and linen to which the street will be reduced by evening, if it is not all gone. The residents continue to carry things out of their buildings, though it is clearer now that their efforts are in vain. The gentlemen of the houses amble back and forth and converse with one another, smoking on their long-stemmed pipes. The women scold their children, who chase barrel hoops across the cobblestones with long sticks. Each time a hoop is about to lose momentum, a child's stick whips it on again. There is no despair, no weeping, only this strangely hectic and high-spirited excitement that Falck also feels.

He lifts up the sack by its strap and swings it over his shoulder again, picks up the Duke of Augustenborg and carries him off in the direction of Gammel Strand. Here the crowds are much greater than only an hour ago. A deluge of lost souls, forced to acknowledge they are homeless, moves towards Holmens Bro to cross to the safety of the palace square. Falck keeps the Duke to the inside on his left, but is constantly shoved from the pavement by people jostling past, the canvas obscuring his view; and it seems that the further one gets from the house fronts, the greater the risk of being mangled beneath the thundering, iron-bound wheels of the horse-drawn vehicles. A hackney carriage comes hurtling towards the flow of refugees. They shout out to the driver, endeavour to stop the horses by snatching at their bridles, but at least two men are dragged under the vehicle. Falck cannot see what becomes of them. The carriage is halted, the horses rear up, whinnying and kicking their hooves wildly in the air, foam slobbering from their muzzles. The crowd that surrounds the carriage clamours at the box, setting about the driver, who flails his whip to no avail. The rabble drag him on to the cobbles. He vanishes in the throng. Falck hears him cry out and then cease. The horses rear up again, two by two, they roll their eyes, the carriage overturns and is dragged along. Someone is inside. Whoever it is screams heart-rendingly, a woman. Falck recognizes Abelone Schultz. Her dress is in tatters, her hair pulled loose; she resembles a lunatic. People point and snigger at her exposed crinoline, her soiled underskirts and distorted face. Falck wants to help her, but is hampered by the Duke. After a moment he sees her carried helplessly away by the current of the crowd. I can do nothing, he tells himself. He ducks behind his painting, peeps out over the Duke and sees Abelone flapping her arms and wailing. On the corner ahead of her a carriage pulls up with armed guards at its rear. The door is flung open with a bang and a voice calls out: Miss Schultz! She staggers towards it; a hand is extended and she is pulled inside. There is a spatter of applause, then booing and a hail of caustic oaths as the vehicle draws away. Shaken, yet relieved, Falck continues his crablike passage along the house fronts towards Holmens Bro, accompanied by the Duke.

On Gammel Strand the smoke is oppressive. Above him the rooftops are ablaze and he is frightened that timber beams or roofing tiles will fall on his head. But he remains calm, pressing ahead, step by step, and when the crush becomes too great he stands still and waits. Eventually he reaches the bridge. He can see that the church is as yet untouched, although the Admiralty facade is on fire and engulfed by flames. Even the bulwark of Holmens Kanal burns right down to the water. But it is clear that the wind carries the fire and its sparks away from the church and to the city. Soldiers and able seamen are still organized in human chains; tall ladders have been leaned against the walls of the church; the brigades pass along leather buckets filled with water from the canal, which are then emptied from the ladders on to the church roof and cast down to be returned to the beginning of the line. Some harangue them angrily and say they should look after people's homes instead. God can take care of His own house! Others more faithful shout down the protesters or else attack them with sticks or bare knuckles. Falck sees a gaggle of fishwives chase a man into the canal; they stand mocking him as he drowns, only then to see him hauled into a passing boat.

Falck lifts the Duke above his head and pushes along through the crowd as it makes its way across the bridge. He barely avoids collision with two men carrying a steaming pot of soup between them. Many have food with them, which would seem to be the most sensible thing to salvage from the flames. A wife carries a roast goose in her apron; a baker lugs along a sack of freshly baked
kringler
and offers them for sale at twice the normal price. He is ridiculed for it by the throng; they threaten to throw his pastries in the canal and send him the same way if he cannot show some public spirit. Halfway across the bridge he notices a procurer, easily recognizable in foppish garb, driving a flock of grotesquely painted women in front of him, some of them bearing furniture, others great bundles of linen, one with a slopping bowl of punch. The man, who would seem to be in his fifties, looks pleased with himself; he walks with a steaming cup of punch in his hand and lifts his tricorne hat right and left in greeting. Around him, people snigger and pass derisive comment. They call him
Professor
. Will the learned professor now deliver his lectures in God's open air? Is the professor driving his cattle to pasture? The ‘professor' grins and nods.