Fire and Sword

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Up and at ’em!’ Arthur shouted and the charge surged forward again. This time the Danes put up more of a fight and there was a heaving scrummage as the soldiers were thrust against each other and then pressed on from behind. The war cries subsided into agonised groans and the grunts of men straining to push their foes aside. The weight of numbers was on the British side and the Danes were steadily forced back, the men striking at each other with their fists as well as their weapons as the resistance eased. Again the enemy broke and fled and Arthur and the others pursued them down the street towards the heart of the town.

  One of the redcoats stopped outside a door and kicked it in, splintering the wood around the latch.There was a female scream from within, then Arthur grabbed his arm.

  ‘Move on!’

  The man stared at him, wide-eyed and wild, his teeth bared in a snarl.

  ‘That’s an order!’ Arthur shouted into his face and thrust him away from the door. ‘Move yourself !’

  The soldier’s snarl faded as some sense returned, then he turned and ran after his comrades, and Arthur had a glimpse of a terrified young woman clutching a child before he ran on after his men. A short distance ahead the street opened out on to a large square, filled with a milling confusion of Danish soldiers.Those who had fled from Arthur’s columns had run headlong into the formed units of their comrades and caused confusion and chaos, a situation made far worse the moment the grenadiers and the men of the Thirtieth burst into the square and threw themselves on their enemies. Arthur stopped, heart pounding, gasping for breath. Seeing a supply wagon parked close by he thrust his way through his men and climbed up on to the driver’s seat for an overview of the struggle.

  Now that he could see right across the square Arthur realised that his men were hopelessly outnumbered. With surprise and shock on their side they would hold their own for a short time yet. But beyond the nearest mob of Danish soldiers stood over a thousand more men, formed up and ready to fight. In their midst Arthur could make out Schmeiler and his staff officers. He watched for a few more minutes as his men pressed the enemy back, and then the impetus of their wild charge died and the melee formed a static line across the edge of the square. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the British soldiers began to give way, forced back by weight of numbers, and they began to be cut down by the vengeful Danes. Arthur looked in the direction from which Stewart would come and prayed that the ensign he had sent had managed to get through. If the other two battalions did not appear now, the Thirtieth’s attack would fail and they would be hunted down and killed in the streets.

  Seeing that his men were now winning the fight, General Schmeiler rode through the ranks and drew his sword, bellowing encouragement to his soldiers. He looked over the heads of the combatants and for a brief instant he met Arthur’s gaze and his lips curled into a smile of triumph.

  Just then a volley crashed out to Arthur’s right, then another, as musket balls swept into the square from the side streets. The range was close and scores of Danes went down. A moment later the first of Stewart’s men surged into the square, charging home with wild abandon.

  ‘We’re saved, boys!’ a grenadier sergeant close by Arthur cried out, then his head snapped back in a welter of blood and brains as an enemy officer fired a pistol into his face at close range. But it was too late for the Danes. Those who had been facing Arthur’s men stopped moving forward and glanced over their shoulders in panic at the sound of a new threat.

  ‘Thirtieth!’ Arthur cried. ‘One more effort and the day is yours!’

  Someone cheered, the cry was taken up and the tide reversed as the men of Arthur’s column pressed forward again, thrusting the Danes back across the square. Assailed from two directions the enemy’s discipline broke and the weaker-willed were already fleeing from the redcoats, racing off down the streets that were still clear.As the panic spread more and more men turned and ran, many casting aside their weapons in a bid to escape. Jumping down from the wagon Arthur thrust his way through the ranks of his men towards General Schmeiler, who was caught in a tight press of bodies. His horse’s nostrils flared in terror at the shouts and screams that filled its ears. It lashed out with its hooves, breaking the bones of those immediately behind the general, and the Danish soldiers tried to make space for it. Ahead of Arthur a burly sergeant of grenadiers clubbed aside two Danes before grasping Schmeiler’s sleeve and hauling him bodily from the saddle.The general crashed on to the cobblestones, emitting an explosive gasp as the air was driven from his lungs.The grenadier laughed, grasped his musket tightly in both hands and raised the bayonet ready to strike.

  ‘No!’ Arthur yelled, pushing his way to the side of the sergeant and grasping the barrel of the musket with his spare hand. ‘This one lives!’

  The sergeant growled a curse and lowered his musket, then strode forward a few paces and slammed the butt into the side of an enemy officer’s head. Already the Danes were little more than a mob, each man running for his life, and the square was beginning to empty, leaving the redcoats to claim their prize and their victory. Arthur stood over General Schmeiler, who was still badly winded and dazed by his fall. Schmeiler shook his head to try to clear it, and then his hand groped for the hilt of his sword. Arthur lowered his blade and let the point rest on the Danish general’s breast.

  ‘Sir, I must ask you for your surrender.’

  Schmeiler did not reply and his lips pressed into a thin line as his hand closed round his sword hilt. Arthur applied a little pressure with the point of his blade.

  ‘General Schmeiler, I insist that you surrender.’ Arthur paused. ‘Or die.’

  Schmeiler stared back with a bitter expression, and then nodded, letting his hand slip to his side.Arthur breathed a quick sigh of relief and then leaned down, grasped his opponent’s arm and hauled the Dane to his feet. General Schmeiler bowed his head for a moment and then drew his sword and offered the hilt to Arthur. ‘I surrender. My sword is yours.’

  Arthur accepted the ornately decorated weapon with a nod and tucked it under his arm.

  ‘General Wellesley! Sir!’

  Arthur turned towards the voice and saw Stewart striding towards him. He had lost his hat and blood streaked his face from a cut in his scalp, but he was grinning like a madman. ‘We did it, sir!’ Stewart laughed self-consciously. ‘My apologies, General. You did it, sir. The town is yours.’

  ‘I thank you.’

  ‘What are your orders, sir?’

  ‘Orders?’ Arthur forced himself to calm his thoughts. ‘Right. Pass the word to all officers to continue the pursuit only as far as the limits of the town. Have the grenadiers take charge of any prisoners, and weapons collection. Find somewhere for the treatment of the wounded, and let the men know that there is to be no looting. No rape and no drunkenness. Clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Oh, and one other thing.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Send a messenger to Lord Cathcart. Tell him I have the honour to report that the brigade has taken Køge, and that the Danish relief column has been routed. Nothing can save Copenhagen now.’

  Chapter 37

  The preparations for the siege were completed shortly after Arthur’s brigade returned to the British lines outside Copenhagen. Several batteries had been constructed within range of the city, and the engineers had ensured that the guns would be well protected by great ramparts of earth, fortified with fascines and stout wooden props. Behind the defences the siege guns were hauled into place and stores of powder and shot brought forward by long lines of redcoats sweating under the late summer sun as they toiled along the trenches that zigzagged towards the Danish positions. All of which activity was scrutinised by the defenders of Copenhagen as they helplessly watched their enemies crafting their doom.

  There had been one attempt to disrupt the work when a Danish battalion had crept out from the city on a moonless night. Stealing across the open ground they had soon run into British outposts and after a brief skirmish, illuminated
by orange flashes of musket fire, the Danes had been forced back having done little more than smash a score of fascines, and inflict a handful of casualties.

  When the last of the siege guns was eased forward, and aimed at the outer works of the city, Lord Cathcart nodded with satisfaction as he inspected the biggest of the batteries in the company of his senior officers. In addition to the siege guns there were several peculiar iron contraptions that looked like cooking tripods except that one leg was longer than the others and was angled inside like a length of guttering. After a moment’s reflection Arthur realised that these must be the launch beds for the modest supply of Congreve rockets the army had brought with them from Britain. Sure enough, a small column of men approached carrying the experimental weapons, which looked to Arthur’s eye like large fireworks.

  ‘Damn fine work.’ Cathcart nodded happily as he leaned forward and squinted down the length of one of the rockets, which was lined up with a church tower the best part of a mile away. In the far distance lay the delicate-looking masts of the fleet that would be the prize of a successful siege. Outside the entrance to the harbour lay the fleet of Admiral Gambier, bottling the Danish vessels up and ready to bombard the city from the sea if necessary.

  Cathcart clapped his hands together. ‘Those bloody Danes will have to come to terms now. If not, then we’ll pound their city to dust, and good riddance.’

  Arthur cleared his throat and Cathcart turned towards the sound with a frown. ‘D’you have something to say,Wellesley? Speak up.’

  Arthur glanced towards the distant roofs of Copenhagen gleaming dully in the sunshine. A faint haze hung over the landscape, adding to the peaceful appearance of the setting. He turned his attention away from the city and looked steadily at his commanding officer. ‘We have been sent here to secure the Danish fleet, my lord.’

  ‘I know that well enough, thank you. What is your point?’

  ‘Well, it seems to me that the most prudent course of action would be to do all in our power to take those warships with the least loss of life and damage to property.’

  ‘Damn it, man.’ Cathcart thrust his hand out towards the Danish warships. ‘There is the fleet, Wellesley. In case you had not noticed, the city lies between us and those ships.We must overwhelm the one to win through to the other.’

  ‘I agree, my lord.We must have those ships. But we do not want this affair to damage Britain’s reputation unnecessarily. Surely it would be better to try to persuade the Danes to surrender before any more blood is shed? If we can demonstrate that violence is our last recourse then we may yet emerge from this with more credit than we brought into it.’

  Lord Cathcart shook his head.‘Do not if and but me,Wellesley.That is no way for a soldier to think. We have our orders and we will obey them to the best of our ability. Now then.’ Cathcart forced a smile. ‘Since you insist on using those terms, then if the enemy can be persuaded to surrender as soon as possible, then so much the better, eh? But if he is resolved to fight, then we must make sure that we crush him without mercy. Then all Europe will know the dreadful price that comes with defying the interests of Britain.’

  Arthur thought about this for a moment before responding. ‘You are probably right, my lord. It might well be better to be feared than befriended. ’ He paused and tried to restrain a small smile as he continued. ‘However, I would rather not have our country compared to France in terms of the lessons we teach other nations.We make war as a last resort and even then we should not make enemies if we can avoid it.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ General Baird snorted.‘War is war. It’s a bloody business. Besides, the Danes have brought this on themselves. They should have given way when they had the choice,Wellesley.’

  ‘That is so,’ Arthur conceded. ‘But their pride was affronted. Now that they have suffered a number of reverses, and are looking upon the muzzles of our siege guns, they might be more willing to negotiate.’

  Cathcart shut his eyes for a moment and breathed heavily, as if struggling to control his temper. ‘Look here, Wellesley, if you think you can talk them round then you are welcome to try. I don’t give a damned fig for their city, but I will do what I can to spare our boys.’

  Arthur felt his heart lift at Cathcart’s words. He saluted. ‘I’ll see to it at once, my lord.’

  ‘You do that,’ Cathcart replied flatly and turned away as he raised his telescope and examined the Danish defences.

  Arthur galloped back to his brigade headquarters and hurriedly briefed Stewart.

  ‘If anything happens, you will take command of the brigade.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Be careful.’

  Arthur stared at him a moment as he sensed the man’s sincerity, and then bowed his head. ‘Thank you, Stewart. Now you have your instructions. I will need an officer to carry a flag of truce. Also I want General Schmeiler brought forward.’

  ‘Schmeiler?’

  Arthur nodded. ‘I have a feeling he may prove useful.’

  Stewart saluted and strode off to carry out his instructions leaving Arthur staring out of his tent flaps towards Copenhagen, shimmering in the heat. He reached down and unbuckled his sword, and laid it down on his campaign desk. Now that he was about to approach the Danish lines unarmed and with just one of his men, Arthur felt the first cold tingle of fear trace its way up his spine. At once he was furious with himself for the unworthy sentiment, and forced it from his mind. A general simply could not afford to succumb to such moments of weakness. He drew a cloth from his pocket and mopped the sweat from his brow before pressing his cocked hat firmly down over his crown.Taking a deep breath, he strode out into the sunshine and called for his horse.

  Shortly before noon, the three men rode out from the British lines, down the turnpike leading towards Copenhagen. Arthur rode a short distance ahead. To his left a young ensign bore a white flag aloft, gently waving it from side to side in the breathless air to ensure that the Danes would see that it was a flag of truce that he carried. To Arthur’s left, General Schmeiler sat erect, a strained expression on his face. He had cracked some ribs when he had crashed to the ground back in Køge and was in some pain as his horse walked slowly forward.

  They passed between the last of the British outposts and emerged into the open ground between the two armies. The air was still and a slight haze wavered off the dried track in the distance.The hooves of the horses scraped and clopped as the saddlery creaked under the three riders. Now and then one of the horses snorted or ground its teeth on its bit. As they approached the Danish outposts several of the militiamen emerged from shelter, holding their muskets at the ready.

  ‘General Wellesley,’ Schmeiler said softly.‘What is to prevent me from joining my countrymen when we reach their lines?’

  ‘Just your word of honour.You have given your parole and I will not release you from it until this conflict is over.’

  Schmeiler eased his mount forward until he was alongside Arthur. ‘And then you will release me?’

  ‘Of course. What would be the point of holding you prisoner any longer than was necessary? As I explained, we are here for your fleet and nothing more. Once France is defeated the warships will be returned to Denmark.’

  ‘So you say.’

  ‘So I mean.’Arthur looked at the Danish general.‘You have my word on it.’

  They continued forward until they were no more than fifty paces from the nearest of the militia.Then one of them, a junior officer, raised his hand and shouted to the three riders.

  ‘He says we are to halt,’ muttered Schmeiler.

  Arthur reined in. ‘Would you be kind enough to explain that I wish to speak to the senior officer of the gallant defenders of Copenhagen.’

  Schmeiler translated the request and after a further brief exchange the officer saluted and trotted off towards the nearest redoubt. A moment later Arthur saw him emerge on horseback from behind the earthworks and gallop off towards the town a quarter of a mile beyond. They waited patiently in their saddles as their mo
unts ambled towards the grass growing along the side of the turnpike and lowered their heads to feed. Arthur turned to Schmeiler.

  ‘It is a shame that Denmark does not join us in the fight against Bonaparte. Surely you must see the danger he poses to us all?’

  ‘Of course. But what can we do about it? Denmark is a small nation. Our army is no match for soldiers of France, or Britain for that matter, as I have discovered. If we defied the Emperor he would swallow us up in a matter of days. So we bide our time, and attempt to keep out of the wars of greater nations. Now you have brought war to us and we find ourselves caught between Britain and France without even the consolation of making a friend out of an enemy’s enemy.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Arthur looked at the Dane sharply.

  ‘Copenhagen is besieged by Britain and Denmark is besieged by France. Before I encountered your brigade, I had just been informed that a French army was massing on our border. I think their intention is clear enough. They mean to let you weaken our defences before marching on your rear, and taking Copenhagen the moment they have dealt with you.They could arrive within a week.Ten days at the most.’