In Northern Seas

by Philip K Allan

  ‘Aye aye, sir.’ The lieutenant touched his hat, and then hurried away. The first gun of the salute was returned from the fortress wall, the puff of smoke visible long before the sound of the cannon reached them. Clay breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Secure the guns, and dismiss the watch below,’ ordered Clay, as the salute continued to bang to and fro between the ship and the fortress. Then he turned to the man standing next to him. ‘From the courtesies being exchanged, it would seem that we are not at war yet, Mr Vansittart,’ he observed. But before the diplomat could answer, a hail came from the masthead.

  ‘Deck there! Boat putting out and heading this way! Danish colours!’ Clay looked towards the city. Sailing out from the shore was a large gaff-rigged cutter.

  ‘That vessel seems a little grand for a harbour pilot,’ he observed. ‘I suspect we are going to have a visitor. Man the entry port, if you please, Mr Taylor.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the first lieutenant.

  Clay’s hunch proved correct. The cutter swept up alongside in smart fashion, dropping its main sail at the last moment. The first man up the ship’s side, dressed in a simple blue coat and sea boots, was obviously the pilot, but he was followed by a naval captain in full dress uniform. A white ribbon edged in red lay across his chest and he had a glittering order at his throat. He paused in the entry port, with one gloved hand touching his hat to acknowledge the trilling boatswain’s calls and line of saluting marines that greeted him, before approaching Clay.

  ‘Welcome aboard, sir,’ said the frigate’s captain. ‘My name is Alexander Clay, in command of His Britannic Majesty’s ship Griffin. May I name the Honourable Nicholas Vansittart, Member of Parliament, who is here on behalf of his Majesty’s government?’

  ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said the officer, his English excellent, with only the faintest of accents. ‘I am Captain Anders Holst of the Danish Royal Navy. I am charged with ascertaining your intentions in visiting Copenhagen, gentlemen.’

  ‘My orders were to bring Mr Vansittart here,’ explained Clay.

  ‘My credentials, Captain,’ said the diplomat, pulling some folded documents from the inner pocket of his coat and holding them out. ‘You will find I have a letter of introduction from the Court of St James to your Crown Prince, together with confirmation that I have been given full powers from His Majesty’s government to treat on their behalf.’

  Holst brought the heels of his shoes together with a click, bowed his head for a moment and accepted the documents. After a brief viewing he returned them.

  ‘I take it from your presence that we are not yet at war?’ he asked.

  ‘We are not, Captain,’ said Vansittart. ‘That would be a very melancholy prospect between such friends. Denmark and Britain have always been neighbours and allies. It is only the meddling of that damned Corsican tyrant in Paris that has brought us to this sorry pass.’

  ‘Yet we hear rumours of a large armada under your Admirals Parker and Nelson gathering on the other side of the German Sea,’ said Holst. ‘Hardly the action of a friend, but as you will have noticed, we are not wholly unprepared on our own part.’

  ‘The state of preparedness for war on both sides gives urgency to my mission,’ said the diplomat. ‘When can I meet with the Crown Prince?’

  ‘Alas, he is indisposed at present,’ explained the Danish captain. ‘But your ambassador warned us you would be coming. I am instructed to invite you to meet with his Chief Minister. I will return for you this afternoon.’

  A slight frown of annoyance played across Vansittart’s face, but he smoothed it away with a smile. ‘Until later, then,’ he replied.

  ‘What of my ship, Captain?’ asked Clay. ‘I would like to replenish my water and firewood, and perhaps allow some of my men to go ashore.’

  ‘As you are a neutral vessel visiting in time of peace, there can be no objection to that, Captain,’ said Holst. He indicated the pilot, who was still waiting by the entry port. ‘Give your requirements to my colleague, and he will make the arrangements. He will also guide you to the moorings for visiting warships. You have been allocated a place, next to the Liberté.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ queried Clay. ‘What was the name of that ship?’

  ‘The Liberté, Captain,’ repeated Holst. ‘She is a French National frigate of forty-four guns, so rather larger than your fine command. Of course, as Denmark is neutral, there can be no question of any conflict between you while you are both guests in Copenhagen.’ The Danish captain held Clay’s eyes for a long moment.

  ‘Be assured we shall ignore them, like duelling rivals who chance to encounter at a ball,’ said Vansittart.

  ‘That is good to hear,’ said Holst. ‘Two ships, both here on diplomatic missions. I can scarce remember when so many of our friends wanted to visit us. Until later this afternoon then, Mr Vansittart.’

  ******

  News that the frigate would stay in Copenhagen for a few days, and that shore leave might be granted, spread quickly across the lower deck. Soon a harassed Lieutenant Taylor was besieged by requests to go and sample what delights the city had to offer. Most he was able to grant. Once an anchor watch had been set, all but the most notorious deserters amongst the crew were allowed ashore. From their place by the forecastle rail, Edward Preston and Sarah Hockley watched the last of the boats pull across the choppy water to the stone quayside, full of noisy sailors all dressed in their shore-going finery.

  ‘It is a pleasing prospect, seen from here, is it not?’ said Preston, meaning the city, with its colourfully painted buildings, rather than the departing crew. ‘Lieutenant Blake was sketching it earlier, with a view to producing a painting.’

  ‘Is it the diverting architecture that is sending the crew ashore with such enthusiasm, then, Mr Preston?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ he said. ‘They will run past any number of splendours to be first through the door of the nearest grog shop.’

  ‘Were you not tempted by the city, Mr Preston?’ she asked. ‘Some of your fellow officers have gone. I was surprised to find you were not amongst the party.’ He glanced at his companion. The wind had tugged streamers of rich brown hair free from under her bonnet, and was making her eyes sparkle with life.

  ‘I find the company left onboard perfectly to my liking, Miss Hockley,’ he said, and was rewarded by another smile. ‘What progress has your father made with securing your passage home?’

  ‘He will go ashore tomorrow morning and visit a shipping agent he has done business with in the past,’ she said. ‘I imagine we will leave the Griffin shortly thereafter.’ Preston felt chilled at the thought of her departure. He looked across at her and sensed that she felt it too. The sound of the ship seemed to fade around them, as his hand crept along the rail towards hers.

  ‘I would regret that very much, Miss Hockley,’ he said. ‘Although our acquaintance has only been brief, I feel as if I have known you much longer.’

  ‘Ah, there you are, Sarah,’ exclaimed Mr Hockley, striding along the starboard gangway. They separated with a start as her father came up.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Hockley,’ said Preston, touching his hat.

  ‘And to you, young man,’ said Hockley, without returning the salute. ‘Now Sarah, I am quite certain that the lieutenant will have matters he needs to attend to.’

  ‘As it happens I am not required to be on duty before the end of the second dog watch,’ explained the young officer.

  ‘How fortunate,’ said Hockley. ‘In that case, perhaps you would walk with me a while, Mr Preston? There is something I wish to discuss with you.’ Without waiting for a reply, he turned to his daughter. ‘I need to speak with the lieutenant, Sarah. Perhaps you could go below, and pack your things for tomorrow.’

  ‘I have so few possessions, father, that will hardly detain me long,’ she said. ‘Could I not stay on deck a little longer?’

  ‘Do not defy me, girl!’ barked her father. ‘Go below, I sa
y.’ Sarah’s face coloured at the rasp in his tone, but she dropped her eyes, bobbed a quick curtsey, and made her way towards the aft of the ship. Hockley started pacing along the gangway, gesturing for Preston to walk with him.

  ‘I can assure you that nothing of an inappropriate nature was taking place, Mr Hockley,’ said Preston, as he fell in step beside the older man.

  ‘And can you also assure me where matters might have ended if I had not happened upon you?’ demanded Hockley. ‘I am not generally thought of as a fool, young man. I have seen how you have attended to my daughter this last week. Mooning around her, every idle hour of the day.’

  ‘I will not deny that I enjoy her society,’ said the lieutenant. ‘But what is so strange in that? Your daughter is a very accomplished young lady.’

  ‘Aye, she is an exceptional lass,’ said Hockley with pride. ‘Which is why I need to have a care as to who she is associating with. You know of what I speak, Mr Preston. The reputation of a young lady can be lost in an instant.’

  ‘But I would never do such a thing!’ protested the lieutenant. ‘I have sisters of my own. I very much admire Miss Hockley, but in a natural and honourable way.’

  ‘And do you suppose that she returns your admiration?’ said Hockley. ‘My daughter has a very caring nature, sir. Pray do not mistake her sympathy for your condition for something more.’

  ‘My condition?’ said Preston, bridling. ‘What has that damn well got to do with it?’

  ‘Pray do not blaspheme in my presence, sir,’ warned Hockley. ‘Damnation is a punishment meted out by our Saviour, not by the likes of you.’

  ‘The likes of me?’ spluttered Preston. ‘What do you mean by that? I am an officer and a gentleman!’

  ‘I do not wish to quarrel with you, Lieutenant, but you must understand how precious my daughter is to me. When she came into this world, it was at the cost of my darling wife, and I prize her above everything.’

  ‘That I can quite understand,’ said Preston. ‘But surely a father’s love does not preclude her placing her affection elsewhere?

  ‘What has happened, sir?’ demanded Hockley, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. ‘Have you reached some understanding with my daughter behind my back?’

  ‘No, in truth I have not, Mr Hockley,’ said Preston. ‘My comments were of a general character.’

  ‘Good, because tomorrow Sarah and I shall leave this ship and return home, and that will be an end to it.’

  ‘I would still wish to maintain you and your daughter’s acquaintance, when I am next in Yorkshire,’ said Preston. ‘May I have your permission to at least do that?’

  ‘Let me be frank with you, Mr Preston,’ said Hockley. ‘I know my Sarah will leave me one day and that on that day I shall gain a son. But I have decided views about the person best suited to that role. Probably he will be another merchant captain, or the like. Someone skilled in business, able to take over my affairs when my time comes.’

  ‘Would a sea officer in the King’s service not be eligible?’ asked the young lieutenant.

  ‘Not to my mind.’ There was finality in Hockley tone which made Preston smile bitterly.

  ‘Are you quite certain that you are choosing on your daughter’s part, and not your own?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t be impertinent!’ roared Hockley, white with anger. ‘I have never heard of such presumption!’ He leant towards Preston, so close that the younger man felt spittle touch his face. ‘I can tell you this much. The man she weds will be whole, not some cursed cripple!’

  ******

  At first the four sailors enjoyed the simple pleasure of being off the frigate as they walked from the quayside along the cobbled streets of the city. They were surrounded by sights that was quite new to them. Arched stone openings led off into courtyards lined with workshops, where the sound of hammering rang out, or saws rasped through wood. Copenhagen was laid out in a grid pattern, but occasionally the streets opened up into little squares, some dominated by a church, others with a fountain or a bronze statue at their hearts. Tall buildings lined the roads, some of plain stone or half timber, just like home, but many were more exotic. At first they had laughed and pointed at the coloured walls, painted with trailing leaves or lines of flowers across their render. But as they penetrated deeper into the city, they began to notice the stares that were directed towards them. There were soldiers grouped at most intersections, their blood-red coats a deeper shade than British scarlet, who eyed them with suspicion as they approached. Then there were the citizens who stepped from their path and then stared after them, some with folded arms, while others shook their heads. Behind them they began to hear the occasional call in Danish, few of which sounded welcoming.

  ‘Surely any bleeding grog shop will do us, Able,’ urged Evans, as the coxswain paused at the intersection of two streets and looked up at the road names painted on the wall.

  ‘Afraid not, Sam,’ replied Sedgwick. ‘It has to be the one as Pipe said. Why does every street in this cursed place end with bloody “gade”?’

  ‘These here Danes be an inquisitive lot, and no mistake,’ observed Trevan. ‘I never seen such a deal of staring.’

  ‘Perhaps they ain’t never seen a negro before,’ offered Evans. ‘No offence, Able, but we’ve not passed a soul as weren’t pale as a sheet. Not so much as a mulatto.’

  ‘Or could be that we’re keeping company with a giant,’ suggested Sedgwick, looking up at the tall Londoner.

  ‘Nah, ’tis scorn in their eyes I am after seeing,’ announced O’Malley, with satisfaction. ‘I am telling yous, it’s not just the Irish as hates the fecking English. Any right-thinking foreigner does the same.’

  ‘I reckon the tavern could be this way,’ said Sedgwick, pointing down a street. ‘Let’s push off sharpish, before them lads over there summon up the pluck to start a mill.’ The others looked at the shadowy group that had formed in a doorway a few houses down, one of whom had a club and seemed to be urging the others on.

  The sun was sinking lower now, and all around them people were hurrying past, while the soft light of candles and oil lamps began to spill out from windows. Several intersections farther, Sedgwick looked up at the road names, and let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘Rosengade,’ he said. ‘Not afore time, neither. Now, the tavern we’re after has a fish with a crown on its head painted over the door.’

  Once they had found the right street, it was easy to locate their destination; an old half-timbered building three stories high that leaned out over the pavement. The sailors pushed open a studded wooden door, black with age, and found themselves in a large, stone-flagged room. Above their heads the beams had been painted burnt ochre, which contrasted pleasantly with the strips of yellow plaster ceiling between them. At one end of the room a cheerful blaze of logs filled a substantial fireplace, above which hung a row of polished copper pots. Wooden booths lined the walls, each equipped with a table and benches and lit by oil lamps. Several were occupied, and the buzz of conversation mingled with trailing wisps of pipe smoke that drifted through the air. Directly opposite the door a lively card game was in progress, while from somewhere deeper in the room came the sound of a German flute being played.

  ‘My, this is a bit bleeding grander than your regular grog shop,’ exclaimed Evans, hurrying forward into the warmth. His words might have been the incantation of some powerful spell, so rapid was the change that followed them. The flute stopped mid-note, the conversation ceased, the card players turned to stare at the newcomers, while more faces appeared around the other wooden partitions. The dry crackle of the fire was all that could be heard in the silence of the room.

  ‘Evening, lads,’ said Trevan with a friendly wave of his hand. No reaction.

  ‘This one here is empty,’ said Sedgwick, pushing his friends towards the nearest booth. The sailors crowded in and sat down around the table.

  ‘So why was it this bleeding tavern in particular we had to find, Able?’ asked Evans.

  �
�Was it the warmth of the fecking locals, you was after?’ added O’Malley.

  ‘Aye, we might be safer drinking with the others, down by the fish market,’ added Trevan, tamping tobacco into his pipe, and standing up to suck it alight from the lamp that hung over the table.

  ‘It were all that cursed Hollander’s fault,’ whispered Sedgwick, leaning forward. ‘When I asked Pipe for leave to go ashore, he were in the cabin too. “Do you know your letters?” says he, and when I says how I does, he got me to cast this place to memory. We’re to meet with his flunkey and smuggle him back on board.’

  ‘Josh bleeding Rankin!’ exclaimed Evans. ‘I might have know that arse would be at the bottom of all this! Why’s he so special, then?’

  Sedgwick shrugged. ‘According to the Hollander, it be proper important. He even gave me some chink, in case we needed it.’ He dredged a couple of guinea coins from his pocket.

  ‘Yellow boys!’ exclaimed O’Malley. ‘Well what are we fecking waiting for!’ He let out a piercing whistle, which silenced the room once more. After a long pause, a serving girl appeared at the end of the table. She wore a flared skirt and an embroidered linen blouse, the whole gathered in by a tight red bodice that showed off her figure well. Blonde plaits framed a heart-shaped face devoid of any welcome.

  ‘Hvad?’ she barked.

  ‘Four mugs of your best fecking ale, my pretty colleen, with more beer, bread and cheese alongside it,’ said the Irishman. ‘After which you can take your ease on my lap.’ He patted the top of his thighs in invitation, and favoured her with what he imagined was a winning smile. The girl regarded him with distain, before repeating herself.

  ‘Hvad?’

  ‘We should’ve fetched Pedersen along with us, I am after thinking,’ observed Sedgwick, while the others tried to mime what they wanted. The girl waited, her face stone, until they had exhausted their full repertoire of dumb-show. Then she turned away from the table with a shrug of her elegant shoulders.