This was grim news to the sailors, who shared Køne’s fear of being trapped on the gun-deck and smashed by enemy cannon-balls.
‘How do they seem up there on the poop? Does he seem a good fellow, the admiral?’ asked one of the men.
‘He does,’ said Mikkel, and the other boys nodded, solemn and round-eyed. ‘He is cursing the English up the mast and down again for being two-faced traitors. They are supposed to be neutral, he said, but they have let the enemy squadron sail clear up the channel, and even now have a man-o’-war off the island of Heligoland as if ready to referee a sporting match.’
‘Are there ships-of-the-line?’ This question asked with apprehension. The big seventy-gun ships with three gun-decks would be too strong for the Danish forty-four-gun frigates.
Mikkel shrugged. ‘I dunno. But he said our squadron would be about an even match, save that their guns might have the edge on ours for distance.’
‘No ships-of-the-line, then,’ said the sailor with satisfaction. ‘It’ll be frigates like us. What else then, lad? Come on, master sharp-ears, we need to know all this.’
Mikkel put on a serious frown to mimic the admiral. ‘He moved his knife and fork and his glass of port around on the table to show how our ships would lie. He said we would meet them in open sea, which should give us an advantage as they are not familiar with the North Sea’s moods. Maybe tomorrow, he said, maybe next day. He said they would be tired from their long voyage and we are fresh. He said we know the shoals and shallows and can run them aground with good planning. He said Prime Minister Monrad is counting on us to rescue the good name of the Danish military might.’ Mikkel grinned. ‘Or some fancy words like that. The admiral’s face was all solemn and the officers suddenly sobered up and frowned too.’
‘And so had we better sober up,’ said old Winther, hooking up his accordion. ‘A sea battle is no party, especially for us on the gun-deck.’
TWO days later, as they moved south under sail, Køne, up the mizzen mast securing a loose yard, heard a shout from the watch up the main. Following the midshipman’s pointing finger he caught a distant glimpse of the enemy squadron, sailing north in line ahead. The call was given and immediately all hands were running. Up the rat-lines ran the men, furling sail after sail until the Jylland was proceeding by steam alone, her funnel belching black smoke as the engineer cranked up the fires below.
‘Clear the gun-decks!’ came the order, and down below ran the men. Already their hammocks were stowed. Now tables were collapsed and everything else moveable cleared away or lashed down and the great guns rolled out to their ports. The sea rolled beneath them — not rough enough to threaten the opened gun-ports but a trial when it came to securing the guns in place. Lanterns were lit and hung from the rafters so the men could still see when gunsmoke thickened the air. Mikkel and the other boys ran back and forth over the deck scattering sand.
‘There’ll be blood,’ said the lieutenant sombrely, ‘and we must keep our firm footing. Injured men, recoiling guns, gunsmoke thick as hell — you don’t want to be slipping over when all that lot hits us.’
Køne with his thirteen-man crew primed their guns. After the first salvo the team would split — half cleaning and preparing gun three, while the other half aimed and fired gun four. Now all thirteen stood silently, peering out the gun-port. They were all afraid: you could feel it almost solid in the stuffy air. Even Mikkel’s dark skin had a greyish tinge to it. They could now see the Austrian and Prussian ships, trimmed for battle, pluming smoke, darkly sinister in the distance. They waited as the line turned in a wide curve, still in line ahead, to come up broadside against the Danes. They would fight port to port, as the admiral had planned. Køne couldn’t see the rest of his squadron, to know whether the Jylland might be first, last or whatever order in line. All he could see was the heaving foam-flecked water of the North Sea and the black shapes of the enemy ships, framed in the dark square of the gun-port, growing clearer and larger minute by minute.
Even Lieutenant Dahl stood silent. This was his first sea battle too. He waited just below the companionway, so as to hear better the order to fire and relay it to the men.
The Germans were first to fire. Still distant — well over three thousand metres, by the look of it — the frigates plumed gunsmoke. Moments later came the boom, and then a hiss and splash as the balls hit the sea, alarmingly just short of the Jylland.
‘Come on, come on,’ muttered Dahl. ‘We have the advantage now, while they reload.’ He strained upwards to hear the order, but none came.
‘God help us, we are way too short yet,’ grumbled Winther into Køne’s ear. ‘That lieutenant has no idea.’ Old Winther, the only experienced man in their crew, though no longer strong, could aim a gun with a dead eye. ‘They will get in another round before we are in range.’
True as he said. The two lines were closing fast.
‘That is their flagship, the frigate Schwarzenberg,’ said Winther. ‘I heard another sailor tell of her. She is bigger than us, and her guns fire further. She will be a hard nut to crack.’
He spoke on, calm and quiet. Perhaps to steady the men against the obvious jitters of their commanding officer, perhaps to calm himself. ‘We will aim for the water-line first,’ he said, ‘and their gun-ports. Our guns up on top deck will deal with the rigging. Schwarzenberg’s the one to take. Keep your eye on her and count the hits.’
At that moment the Germans fired their second salvo. Again the roar came a good count of five after the puff. This time the shot found its mark. Køne jumped to hear the sickening thud of metal against wood almost directly below him, and another crash up ahead. Dahl was dancing in his anxiety to give the order.
Winther smiled grimly. ‘Steady down, lad. Still too early, see? That ball was almost spent. All noise and no splinter. And now we are in range, while they must reload. Now, now the admiral will give the order. He knows what he is up to. Look to your gun.’
‘Fire!’ yelled Dahl at last. The Jylland’s fifteen port guns roared and the gun-deck filled with smoke. The lighter guns on the deck above added their higher boom. Køne hit his head on the rafters and almost went under the recoiling gun.
‘Reload, reload!’ shouted Dahl in a frenzy, as the men choked and staggered. Reloading seemed much more difficult when the war was real and the answering salvo seconds away. Winther peered through the port, directing the aim, while Køne and the others cleaned barrels and rammed home powder and ball.
As they readied to fire, the German salvo hit them squarely. Further up the deck a well-aimed ball came through a gun-port. Men and gun went sprawling amid screams and shouts.
‘Fire at will!’ shouted Dahl, and the guns belched again, this time out of unison. Fresh screams came from someone hit by the recoil.
‘Mikkel!’ shouted Køne into the black smoke, fearful that the lad had been caught. But there he was, eyes popping with fear, zigzagging up the deck with a new measure of powder.
‘There’s an arm over there all on its own and spouting red,’ he wailed, ‘and a dead man too!’
‘It’ll be over soon. Take heart,’ said Køne, the boy’s fear steadying his own.
He was wrong, though. For two hours the battle continued. Køne reloaded and fired over and over again, never knowing whether they found their mark, or indeed which ship they aimed at. For a while the Jylland changed tack and the men rushed to prime and fire the starboard guns, then it was back to port at a much closer range.
‘Ha!’ shouted Winther once. ‘We have holed her below the water-line!’ And later, ‘Her rigging’s shot to pieces. We have the better!’
But to Køne the whole two hours were nothing but pure nightmare. Again and again he hit his head; his back ached from the bending; two of his team had been felled by splintering timber and were dragged away — alive or dead Køne couldn’t tell — to the ship’s surgeon. Køne must now fetch cannon-balls, load and ram them by himself. He heard several others further up the deck screaming in the dark. Everyon
e was coughing and retching. Another salvo crashed against solid oaken timbers. Another man screamed to see his own hand shot away. No one sang at this work.
Suddenly there was an almighty explosion. Everyone stopped in fear. If the ship went up they would be trapped below. But the sound was too distant for that. Winther stuck his head out of a gaping hole where a gun-port had been and peered up the line. His blackened face came back grinning.
‘It’s Schwarzenberg! She has taken a shell amidships and is broken. She is backing off. Now we will have the run on them!’
The men were too weary even to cheer.
‘Reload! Fire!’ shouted Lieutenant Dahl, in a dancing frenzy to see his men relaxing. He rushed to the gaping hole to see for himself the lie of the battle and at that very moment a thirty-pound ball smacked into the timber above his head. The shock sent him out of the hole, one scrabbling boot catching in the crook of the split timber. There he hung, face to the water, exposed to enemy fire and screaming his head off. His flailing arms found no purchase against the ship’s side, the weight of his body slowly pulling his leg out of its boot.
Mikkel saw it and dragged Køne over. The tall Faroeman steadied himself with one hand against the broken timber. He leaned far over the foaming sea and clamped strong fingers around the dangling man’s knee above the trapped boot-top. With a grunt he drew the leg out of its boot and heaved the ashen fellow back on board.
‘Fire! Reload!’ shouted the lieutenant, out of his mind, his smart trouser fronts wet from his own fear.
‘Conrad Rasmussen,’ says Anahuia.
‘What, woman? You are interrupting a great flow here.’
‘Is this some story of your northern heroes and gods or a true battle in which you fought?’
‘A true battle, I swear it.’
‘Every word true?’
‘Ah well, sweetheart, as true as may be. A pinch of salt now and then to add flavour, you know. But true in its backbone.’
‘You bloodthirsty northern men with your big guns. You are worse than the Ngapuhi. Go on, then.’
KØNE grinned, laid the shaking lieutenant flat and went back to his gun. As did the rest. The kindness, the grin, Dahl’s own irrelevance: all this was an insult too heavy to be borne by the young officer. Up and down the deck he ran in his one black boot and one white stocking, shouting and laying about with his quirt. Completely mad he was, worse than an idiot. The men ignored him and went on with their loading. What else could they do?
Later Køne would realise — perhaps begin to understand — that his act of kindness had made an enemy, if indeed a Dahl grudge had not been festering there before. Weak men cannot bear to be shown up for what they are, especially by such casual heroism. Poor Dahl was in command over men much older and more experienced than he. Under pressure the officer showed himself to be what he was — a silly strutting boy, gone mad with fear.
But the sea battle was coming to an end. Køne took the initiative to climb to the top deck and listen for orders. It seemed that a ceasefire had already been called and another officer was on his way to see why the gun-deck was still active. Køne stood in the sweet, clear air, his head still ringing. Across the water the Schwarzenberg, blazing fire, her main mast at a crazy angle and the foremast rigging cut to ribbons, peppered with holes above and below water, had hove to, with the rest of the squadron gathered to protect her. The screams could be heard in the sudden silence. Køne watched in horror as German sailors and officers, their clothes and hair ablaze, hurled themselves overboard. Long-boats from the other ships were already in the water, but could only wait at a distance from the blaze and hope some could swim to their rescuers. Slowly, still protecting their crippled flagship, the whole German squadron began to withdraw.
Admiral Suenson on the Niels Juel gave order to give chase. If they could cut off the Germans or drive them onto the shallows, a whole squadron could be claimed for Denmark as spoils of war.
But it was not to be. Køne, now aloft to break open the main foresail, heard old Winther alongside him growl in fury.
‘Almighty bloody God, will you look at that Englishman!’
Køne, new to naval rules and to politics, had no understanding of the treacherous action, but all the Danish officers and half the men knew and understood.
The Aurora, an English man o’ war, had entered the fray. Full set, she sailed between the Danish squadron and the crippled Germans. Denmark was not at war with England: quite the reverse. The traditional expectation was that in any action England would — both diplomatically and militarily — support its northern neighbour. Admiral Suenson could not fire on the Aurora, but had to stand aboard his flagship gnawing his lip in rage, while the English ship shepherded the stricken Schwarzenberg and the other damaged ships of Austria and Prussia into the safe haven of English waters around Heligoland.
‘Damn the bloody bastards to hell and high water!’ swore old Winther, high aloft, tearing at ropes and unfurling sails with a rage that surprised Køne. ‘We have lost every battle on land and now those traitorous English are denying us a decent victory at sea. I could spit and roast the lot of them!’
Winther was a loyal Dane who had been outraged and then deeply dismayed by the retreats and defeats in Slesvig and Jutland. His own beloved ship, the Jylland, bore the name of his own province, whose sacred Danish soil was now overrun by Prussian armies. Unthinkable! And now the bloody English were protecting those same Prussians at sea.
Køne, less patriotic, thought of the dead and the dying, the bleeding and burned men on both sides, and was simply glad that the stink and the black nightmare of those hours on the gun-deck were over.
That Battle of Heligoland was in fact the end of fighting. Next day news came that a ceasefire was in place. Admiral Suenson sent words of congratulation to his men. The Danish victory at sea had forced the Prussians to stop fighting and agree to a conference. There would be an important meeting in London, he said, with the Danish prime minister, Bishop Monrad, negotiating on behalf of Denmark.
‘A conference in London!’ muttered Winther. ‘I wouldn’t trust those English to skin a fish, let alone sort out an agreement fairly. They are clearly on the Prussian side. And that Monrad! He gave the order to retreat at Dannevirke, didn’t he? What can we hope for from him? Denmark is done for, if you ask me.’
Which no one did, naturally.
The ceasefire meant that the Danish blockade was lifted. The battered ships of Suenson’s squadron were free to head back to the dockyard for much-needed repairs.
And what a sight to see so many ladies waiting on the dock, waving and smiling, dressed in their Sunday best, ready to come aboard and bring comfort to the heroic victors! Right at the front of the chattering crowd, resplendent as a peacock in feathers and ruffles, was the woman Køne had met earlier on the gangway. Boline Fomisen.
3.
BOLINE FOMISEN HAD, so she said, a husband on board — a high-ranking officer, she hinted — but none of the ratings was quite sure which one. She dined at the captain’s table, that was certain, and her screams of laughter were often heard coming from the officers’ quarters, but she seemed free enough to wander the ship and to join with the ratings ’tween decks when singing and dancing were in the air.
At first Køne thought her wonderful. She knew all the songs in the world and would pick up her skirts to dance a jig or hornpipe when the men brought out their instruments. Little Mikkel’s fiddled tunes were a particular favourite with her; she would dance around him, touching him here and there as if he were a pretty toy. Mikkel would grin and duck away. He had been warned about her and wisely took heed.
But Køne, the great fool, fell for her flattery hook, line and sinker. It was clear to all the men that Køne was her favourite. When he was up on deck, set to mending rope or repairing damaged timbers, she would seek him out, standing close by and remarking on his skill, his strength, sometimes asking for a special song. Køne would squint at her and grin his crooked grin and shake his shagg
y, stupid head, delighted that such a sophisticated lady should take a fancy to him.
Winther took him aside for a serious talk. On the pretext of showing him a damaged boom in need of repair, he walked the big man away from his admirer, then sat him firmly on a coil of rope for’ard.
‘Now cock your ear at me and listen well, lad. If I didn’t admire you for a good sailor I’d leave you to stew, you silly young calf. That woman is poison. You’ve heard us all say it and you think you know better.’
Køne looked across the bay in the morning sun. ‘It is all play, a bit of fun while we are in port,’ he muttered. ‘She likes me — where’s the harm?’
‘The harm is in what happens next. I’ve seen it happen to three ratings now — always a variation on the same evil game.’
‘She’s not so bad,’ said Køne, ready as always to argue. ‘I can handle a woman on my own, surely. She says you are all against her.’
‘For good bloody reason. She is all sugar and spice today, but wait till she has you nailed. Which she will, if you go on mooning about her. You are acting like an idiot, lad. None of us wants to see you ruined.’
‘Winther,’ said Køne, nettled now, ‘you talk of evil and ruin as if she is the goddess Hel herself. Perhaps you are jealous?’
Winther spat over the side. ‘She might well be Hel. All beauty from the waist up and pure stinking rot below. She has a passion to see a man lashed, lad. Every time she comes aboard she takes a fancy to some young fool of a rating. Once she has him hooked and in her bed, as it were, she will let fly with accusations and demands to have the man lashed or punished in some other ways that we are not privy to. It would turn your stomach to see her. At each lay of the lash her blue eyes darken and glitter. Her pretty white hand reaches for her own breast. She breathes faster and cries out. She will clutch at some officer, feigning horror, but all the time rutting against him like some dog on heat. I have seen it twice and am still sick to my stomach thinking of it.’ He spat again. ‘No, lad, no; I am not jealous.’
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