There was a murmur of agreement from the officers around the room. Anttonen regarded them with disgust, then turned his gaze back to the admiral. “Yes, sir,” he said. “But, sir, this chance you have given us is no chance at all, no chance whatsoever. You see, sir, Sweden can’t get ships here fast enough. The ice will not melt in time.”
Cronstedt ignored his words. “I gave you an order, Colonel,” he said, with iron in his voice. “Sit down!”
Anttonen stared at him coldly, his eyes burning, his hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically at his sides. There was a long moment of tense silence. Then he sat down.
Colonel Jägerhorn coughed, and rattled the sheaf of papers he was holding in his hands. “To continue with the business at hand,” he said, “we must first dispatch the messengers to Stockholm. Speed is essential here. The Russians will provide the necessary papers.”
His eyes combed the room. “If the admiral agrees,” he said, “I would suggest Lieutenant Eriksson and—and—”
He paused a second, and a slow smile spread across his features.
“—and Captain Bannersson,” he concluded.
Cronstedt nodded.
THE MORNING AIR WAS CRISP AND COLD, AND THE SUN WAS RISING IN the east. But no one watched. All eyes in Sveaborg were fixed on the dark and cloudy western horizon. For hours on end officer and soldier, Swede and Finn, sailor and artilleryman all searched the empty sea, and hoped. They looked to Sweden, and prayed for the sails they knew would never come.
And among those who prayed was Colonel Bengt Anttonen. High atop the battlements of Vargön, he scanned the seas with a small telescope, like so many others in Sveaborg. And like the others, he found nothing.
Folding his telescope, Anttonen turned from the ramparts with a frown to address the young ensign who stood by his side. “Useless,” he said. “I’m wasting valuable time.”
The ensign looked scared and nervous. “There’s always the chance, sir. Suchtelen’s deadline is not until noon. A few hours, but we can hope, can’t we?”
Anttonen was grim, sober. “I wish we could, but we’re just deluding ourselves. The armistice agreement provides that the ships must not merely be in sight by noon, but must have entered Sveaborg’s harbor.”
The ensign looked puzzled. “What of it?” he asked.
Anttonen pointed out over the walls, towards an island dimly visible in the distance. “Look there,” he said. His arm moved to indicate a second island. “And there. Russian fortifications. They’ve used the truce to gain command of the sea approaches. Any ship attempting to reach Sveaborg will come under heavy attack.”
The colonel sighed. “Besides, the sea is dogged with ice. No ship will be able to reach us for weeks. The winter and the Russians have combined to kill our hopes.”
Glumly, ensign and colonel walked from the ramparts into the interior of the fortress together. The corridors were dim and depressing; silence reigned everywhere.
At last, Anttonen spoke. “We’ve delayed long enough, Ensign. Vain hopes will no longer suffice; we must strike.” He looked into his companion’s eyes as they walked. “Gather the men. The time has come. I shall meet you near my quarters in two hours.”
The ensign hesitated. “Sir,” he asked. “Do you think we have a chance? We have so few men. We’re a handful against a fortress.”
In the dim light, Anttonen’s face was tired and troubled. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know. Captain Bannersson had contacts; if he had remained, our numbers would be greater. But I don’t know the enlisted men like Carl did. I don’t know who we can trust.”
The colonel halted, and clasped the ensign firmly on the shoulder. “But, regardless, we’ve got to try. Finland’s army has starved and been frozen and watched their homeland burn all winter. The only thing that has kept them going is the dream of winning it back. And without Sveaborg, that dream will die.” He shook his head sadly. “We can’t let that happen. With that dream dies Finland.”
The ensign nodded. “Two hours, sir. You can count on us. We’ll put some fight in Admiral Cronstedt yet.” He grinned, and hurried on his way.
Alone in the silent corridor, Colonel Bengt Anttonen drew his sword, and held it up to where the dim light played along its blade. He gazed at it sadly, and wondered in silence how many Finns he’d have to kill in order to save Finland.
But there was no answer.
THE TWO GUARDS FIDGETED UNEASILY. “I DON’T KNOW, COLONEL,” said one. “Our orders are to admit no one to the armory without authorization.”
“I should think my rank would be sufficient authorization,” snapped back Anttonen. “I am giving you a direct order to let us pass.”
The first guard looked at his companion doubtfully. “Well,” he said. “In that case perhaps we—”
“No, sir,” said the second guard. “Colonel Jägerhorn ordered us not to admit anyone without authorization from Admiral Cronstedt. I’m afraid that includes you, too, sir.”
Anttonen regarded him coldly. “Perhaps we should see Admiral Cronstedt about this,” he said. “I think he might like to hear how you disobeyed a direct order.”
The first guard winced. Both of them were squirming with unease, and had focused all their attention on the angry Finnish colonel. Anttonen scowled at them. “Come along,” he said. “Now.”
The pistol shots that rang out from the nearby corridor at that word took the guards completely by surprise. There was a cry of pain as one clutched his bleeding arm, his gun clattering to the floor. The second whirled towards the sound, and simultaneously Anttonen leaped forward to seize his musket in an iron grip. Before the guard had quite grasped what was happening, the colonel had wrenched his gun from startled fingers. From the corridor on the right issued a group of armed men, most bearing muskets, a few holding still-smoking pistols.
“What shall we do with these two?” asked a gruff, burly corporal at the head of the group. He leveled his bayonet suggestively at the chest of the guard still standing. The other had fallen to his knees, holding his wounded arm tenderly.
Handing the guard’s musket to one of the men standing beside him, Anttonen regarded his prisoners coldly. He reached forward and yanked a ring of keys from the belt of the chief guard. “Tie them up,” he said. “And watch them. We don’t want any more bloodshed than can be helped.”
The corporal nodded and, gesturing with his bayonet, herded the guards away from the door. Stepping forward with the keys, Anttonen worked intently for a moment, then opened the heavy wooden door on the fortress armory.
Instantly there was a rush of men through the doorway. They had prepared for this moment for some time, and they worked quickly and efficiently. Heavy wooden boxes creaked in protest as they were forced open, and there was the rasp of metal on metal as the muskets were lifted from the boxes and passed around.
Standing just inside the door, Anttonen surveyed the scene nervously. “Hurry up,” he ordered. “And be sure to take plenty of powder and ammunition. We’ll have to leave a good number of men to hold the armory against counterattacks, and—”
Suddenly the colonel whirled. From the hall outside came the sounds of musket fire, and the echo of running footsteps. Fingering his sword hilt apprehensively, Anttonen stepped back outside of the door.
And froze.
The guards he had posted outside of the armory were huddled against the far wall of the corridor, their weapons thrown in a heap at their feet. And facing him was a body of men twice as numerous as his insurgents, their guns trained on him and the armory door behind him. At their head, smiling confidently, was the lean, aristocratic form of Colonel F. A. Jägerhorn, a pistol cradled in his right hand.
“It’s all over, Bengt,” he said. “We figured you’d try something like this, and we’ve been watching every move you made since the armistice was signed. Your mutiny is finished.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Anttonen, shaken but still resolute. “By now a group of my men have
taken Admiral Cronstedt’s office, and with him as prisoner are fanning out to seize the main batteries.”
Jägerhorn threw back his head, and laughed. “Don’t be a fool. Our men captured the ensign and his squad before they even got near Admiral Cronstedt. You never had a chance.”
Anttonen’s face went white. Horror and despair flickered across his eyes, and were replaced by a coldly burning anger. “NO!” he cried from behind clenched teeth. “NO!” His sword leaped from its sheath and flashed silver in the light as he sprang forward towards Jägerhorn.
He had taken but three steps when the first bullet caught him in the shoulder and sent his sword skittering from his grasp. The second and third ripped into his stomach and doubled him up. He took another halting step, and sank slowly to the floor.
Jägerhorn’s eyes swept over him indifferently. “You men in the armory,” he shouted, his voice ringing clearly through the hall. “Put down your guns and come out slowly. You are outnumbered and surrounded. The revolt is over. Don’t make us spill any more blood.”
There was no answer. From the side, where he was being held under guard, the veteran corporal shouted out, “Do as he says, men. He’s got too many men to fight.” He looked towards his commander. “Sir, tell them to give up. We have no chance now. Tell them, sir.”
But the silence mocked his words, and the colonel lay quite still.
For Colonel Bengt Anttonen was dead.
A few short minutes after it had begun, the mutiny was over. And soon thereafter, the flag of Russia flew from the parapets of Vargön.
And as it flew above Sveaborg, soon it flew above Finland.
EPILOG
The old man propped himself up in the bed painfully, and stared with open curiosity at the visitor who stood in the doorway. The man was tall and powerfully built, with cold blue eyes and dirty blond hair. He wore the uniform of a major in the Swedish army, and carried himself with the confident air of a hardened warrior.
The visitor moved forward, and leaned against the foot of the old man’s bed. “So you don’t recognize me?” he said. “I can see why. I imagine that you’ve tried to forget Sveaborg and everything connected with it, Admiral Cronstedt.”
The old man coughed violently. “Sveaborg?” he said weakly, trying to place the stranger who stood before him. “Were you at Sveaborg?”
The visitor laughed. “Yes, Admiral. For a good while at any rate. My name is Bannersson, Carl Bannersson. I was a captain then.”
Cronstedt blinked. “Yes, yes. Bannersson. I remember you now. But you’ve changed since then.”
“True. You sent me back to Stockholm, and in the years that followed I fought with Carl Johan against Napoleon. I’ve seen a lot of battles and a lot of sieges since then, sir. But I never forgot Sveaborg. Never.”
The admiral doubled over suddenly with a fit of uncontrollable coughing. “W-what do you want?” he managed to gasp out at last. “I’m sorry if I’m rude, but I’m a sick man. Talking is a great strain.” He coughed again. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”
Bannersson’s eyes wandered around the small, dirty bedchamber. He straightened and reached into the breast pocket of his uniform, withdrawing a thick sealed envelope.
“Admiral,” he said, tapping the envelope gently against the palm of his hand for emphasis. “Admiral, do you know what day this is?”
Cronstedt frowned. “The sixth of April,” he replied.
“Yes. April 6, 1820. Exactly twelve years since that day you met with General Suchtelen on Lonan, and gave Sveaborg to the Russians.”
The old man shook his head slowly from side to side. “Please, Major. You’re awakening memories I had sealed up long ago. I don’t want to talk about Sveaborg.”
Bannersson’s eyes blazed, and the lines of his mouth grew hard and angry. “No? Well, that’s too bad. You’d rather talk about Ruotsinsalmi, I suppose. But we won’t. We’re going to talk about Sveaborg, old man, whether you like it or not.”
Cronstedt shuddered at the violence in his voice. “Alright, Major. I had to surrender. Once surrounded by ice, Sveaborg is very weak. Our fleet was in danger. And our powder was low.”
The Swedish officer considered him scornfully. “I have documents here,” he said, holding up the envelope, “to show just how wrong you were. Facts, Admiral. Cold historical facts.”
He ripped the end of the envelope off violently, and tossed the papers inside it onto Cronstedt’s bed. “Twelve years ago you said we were outnumbered,” he began, his voice hard and emotionless as he recited the facts. “We were not. The Russians barely had enough men to take over the fortress after it was surrendered to them. We had 7,386 enlisted men and 208 officers. Many more than the Russians.
“Twelve years ago you said Sveaborg could not be defended in winter due to the ice. That’s hogwash. I have letters from all the finest military minds of the Swedish, Finnish, and Russian armies testifying to the strength of Sveaborg, summer or winter.
“Twelve years ago you spoke of the formidable Russian artillery that ringed us. It did not exist. At no time did Suchtelen have more than forty-six pieces of cannon, sixteen of which were mortars. We had ten times that number.
“Twelve years ago you said our provisions were running low, and our store of powder was dangerously depleted. It was not so. We had 9,535 cannon cartridges, 10,000 cartouches, 2 frigates, and over 130 smaller ships, magnificent naval stores, enough food to last for months, and over 3,000 barrels of powder. We could easily have waited for Swedish relief.”
The old man shrieked. “Stop it, stop it!” He put his hands to his ears. “I won’t hear any more. Why are you torturing me? Can’t you let an old man rest in peace?”
Bannersson looked at him contemptuously. “I won’t continue,” he said. “But I’ll leave the papers. You can read it all yourself.”
Cronstedt was choking and gasping for breath. “It was a chance,” he replied. “It was a chance to save everything for Sweden.”
Bannersson laughed, a hard, cruel, bitter laugh. “A chance? I was one of your messengers, Admiral; I know what sort of a chance the Russians gave you. They detained us for weeks. You know when I got to Stockholm, Admiral? When I delivered your message?”
The old man’s head lifted slowly, and his eyes looked into Bannersson’s. His face was pale and sickly, his hands trembling.
“May 3, 1808,” said Bannersson. And Cronstedt winced as if struck.
The tall Swedish major turned and walked to the door. There, knob in hand, he turned and looked back.
“You know,” he said, “history will forget Bengt and what he tried to do, and will remember Colonel Jägerhorn only as one of the first Finnish nationalists. But you I don’t know about. You live in Russian Finland on your thirty pieces of silver, yet Bengt said you were only weak.” He shook his head. “Which is it, Admiral? What will history have to say about you?”
There was no answer. Count Carl Olof Cronstedt, Vice-Admiral of the Fleet, hero of Ruotsinsalmi, Commandant of Sveaborg, was weeping softly into his pillow.
AND A DAY LATER, HE WAS DEAD.
Call him the arm we trusted in
That shrank in time of stress,
Call him Affliction, Scorn and Sin
And Death and Bitterness
But mention not his former name,
Lest they should blush who bear the same.
Take all that’s dismal in the tomb,
Take all in life that’s base,
To form one name of guilt and gloom
For that one man’s disgrace,
Twill rouse less grief in Finland’s men
Than his at Sveaborg did them.
—The Tales of Ensign Stål,
JOHAN LUDVIG RUNEBERG
AND DEATH HIS LEGACY
THE PROPHET CAME OUT OF THE SOUTH WITH A FLAG IN HIS RIGHT hand and an ax handle in his left, to preach the creed of Americanism. He spoke to the poor and the angry, to the confused and to the fearful, and in them he woke a new determinatio
n. For his words were like a fire in the land, and wherever he stopped to speak, there the multitudes arose to march behind him.
His name was Norvel Arlington Beauregard, and he had been a governor before he became a Prophet. He was a big, stocky man, with round black eyes and a square face that flushed blood red when he got excited. His heavy, bushy eyebrows were perpetually crinkled down in suspicion, while his full lips seemed frozen in a sneering half-smile.
But his disciples did not care what he looked like. For Norvel Arlington Beauregard was a Prophet, and Prophets are not to be questioned. He did no miracles, but still they gathered to him, North and South, poor and affluent, steelworkers and factory owners. And soon their numbers were like unto an army.
And the army marched to the music of a military band.
“MAXIMILIAN DE LAURIER IS DEAD,” SAID MAXIMILIAN DE LAURIER aloud to himself as he sat alone in a darkened, book-lined study.
He laughed a low, soft laugh. A match flared briefly in the darkness, flickered momentarily as he touched it to his pipe, and winked out. Maxim de Laurier leaned back in the plush leather armchair, and puffed slowly.
No, he thought. It doesn’t work. The words just don’t sound right. They’ve got a hollow ring to them. I’m Maxim de Laurier, and I’m alive.
Yes, answered another part of him, but not for long. Quit fooling yourself. They all say the same thing now. Cancer. Terminal. A year at most. Probably not even that long.
I’m a dead man, then, he told himself. Funny. I don’t feel like a dead man. I can’t imagine being dead. Not me. Not Maxim de Laurier.
He tried it again. “Maximilian de Laurier is dead,” he said firmly to the silence.
Then he shook his head. It still doesn’t work, he thought. I’ve got everything to live for. Money. Position. Influence. All that, and more. Everything.
Dreamsongs. Volume I Page 6