by Lynn Bryant
“Yon lad’s not looking so good. Should tell the Lieutenant, maybe.”
“What’s the point, he won’t care,” Kissack said shortly. “His men put him here. There’s no surgeon aboard, I asked. If he’s not better when we reach the fleet I’ll speak to the officers there. He shouldn’t be here anyway, he’s too young, it’s illegal. Just a lad out for a sail with his brothers.”
“Aye, they’re bastards,” the man agreed. “Poor little bugger. Maybe they’ll agree to release him though I wouldn’t bet on it, I’ve known younger than him kept on if they can’t prove their age.”
He moved on and Roseen slowly relaxed, allowing herself to breathe again. After two days at sea most of the landsmen had begun to recover from their sea sickness and although they were not allowed on deck to see, there was a sense they were making good time. A few more days might see them taken aboard a warship and although Roseen cringed at the thought of what the captain might make of her, filthy and stinking and dressed in rags, she did not really care. Realising that their impress service had kidnapped not only a woman but a gentleman’s daughter was likely to galvanise even the most uninterested officer into helping her.
And then, late into the night, two men showed signs of the fever.
Roseen had never been ill in her life aside from childhood infections and she was horrified at how quickly it spread and how quickly men died. The hold, already foul enough, became unbearable with men sweating profusely, tossing and turning. Sickness and diarrhoea followed and with men unable to get up to use the seat of ease, they died in their own filth.
After two days the crew stopped coming into the hold. Illiam Kissack, with grim resignation, trying to hide his fear since he knew that in this foul atmosphere they might all die, arranged those men still able to walk to carry the bodies to the companionway to be lifted up and buried at sea and food and water was let down the same way.
Roseen abandoned her immobility and got up to help. She no longer feared detection or assault; she feared the illness far more and she could think of no way to avoid it. But it was not possible for any person with compassion to listen to the cries of the sick men unmoved so she took charge of the water barrels and paced backwards and forwards filling cups and helping dying men to drink.
By the time the Flight weighed anchor, both Kissack and Kneale were ill. Roseen sat with them, holding their hands and trying to comfort them. She had been told by the seaman delivering food that the sickness had spread to some of the crew and that Lieutenant Paget was dangerously ill in his cabin.
“Where are we?” Roseen asked.
“At anchor; we’ve reached the fleet. Bosun’s in charge now; managed to get us to where we should be. He’ll send a message to the flagship for orders, but they’re not going to let us off this ship.”
“If they don’t, we’re all going to die,” Roseen said. She was exhausted from days of nursing and her head was curiously muddled, probably from lack of food since the foul atmosphere made it impossible for her to eat much.
The seaman nodded. “I know. If Paget gets it, it’s justice all right. We were only two days out when this hit, should’ve turned back and released the lot of you, got this ship scoured clean. Might have meant a few deaths and we’d have had to start again, but it’d have saved many.”
“Why didn’t he?”
“Greedy bastard,” the seaman said sourly his hand on the hatch to close it. “A few of the petty officers tried to tell him, but he wants his bonus. Wind was good and he hoped he’d get us here and unloaded before it really took hold. He’d have spread it through half the fleet if he’d done that. Hope he dies. You all right, lad? You don’t look it.”
“Just tired,” Roseen said. She watched the hatch close and took a deep breath then went to collect her cups to fill them again. As she stepped off the bottom rung of the ladder and turned towards the new water barrels she was astonished to realise that the hold was spinning around her and the deck rushing up to meet her. Understanding what was happening, it was a relief to lose consciousness.
***
The Kronprins Karl was a pretty inn to the south of Elsinore on the Copenhagen road. The landlord spoke no English but understood the sight of money very well and was happy to accommodate the two English officers in a small room at the back. He sent a plump maidservant with wine for them and with an imaginative use of smiles and pantomime Paul ordered food. Sir Arthur Wellesley, who was not a particularly good sailor and still looked pale, watched with grim amusement.
“Quite a performance, Major,” he said when the girl had gone. “I am uncertain whether you just ordered a meal or invited her to bed but we shall see.”
“Be interesting to see who she picks then, sir,” Paul said placidly, drinking his wine.
“I have not the slightest doubt she will choose the man waving around a fat purse,” Wellesley said acidly. “Which is just as well because I could not contemplate so much activity.”
Paul laughed. “You’ll feel better for a meal and a walk in the fresh air, sir. You’re not nearly as bad as Rowena.”
“No, I know how she suffers. How is she, Paul - back in Leicestershire?”
“Yes, I left her at Southwinds with the children, she’s happy to be home.”
“And has she fully recovered from that unfortunate incident with Captain Tyler in Dublin?”
Paul grinned. “I suspect she has forgotten all about it,” he said. “He wrote her a very civil letter of apology I must say.”
“I very much doubt Captain Tyler has forgotten about it, or ever will!” Wellesley said waspishly.
“Who told you, sir?”
“Colonel Johnstone received a letter of complaint from him,” Wellesley said.
“Did he? He never mentioned it to me. I expect he was too busy robbing me blind over my promotion. He wasn’t going to want me cashiered at that point, it would have cost him a fortune.”
“I informed the colonel that you had quarrelled with Captain Tyler privately over an insult to your wife and that it was in no way a military matter. Do not ever put me in that position again.”
“No, sir,” Paul said meekly.
The door opened and the maid returned with plates and cutlery. Wellesley lifted his eyebrows.
“It seems your playacting worked.”
“I’d a feeling it would, sir.” Paul watched as the maid whisked backwards and forwards with a selection of covered dishes. She was generously made with a mass of pale curly hair escaping from an old fashioned white cap and creamy skin with a dusting of freckles which Paul found decidedly attractive.
“Major!” Wellesley said sharply and Paul laughed aloud and applied himself to his food.
“Sorry, sir. Just looking.”
“Well don’t! This campaign is quite chaotic enough without my having to deal with complaints from the local population that you have been seducing their daughters.”
“You’d never understand them anyway,” Paul said, spooning what smelled like fish stew into his bowl. “Thank you for this, by the way. How did you know I’d be going mad on that ship by now?”
“Any form of inactivity drives you mad, I have known you for several years now. I am aware that usually it results in an extremely well trained battalion but even you can hardly be parading them in companies on the deck of a fireship.”
“I would have managed something if it had been a merchant ship, sir, but the navy aren’t that cooperative. They prefer us to stay out of the way and if we can manage to be sea sick for their entertainment as well that’s even better. Although having said that, I found Lieutenant Freeman of the Horace extremely civil and helpful. How was your voyage?”
“Tolerable,” Wellesley said, beginning to eat. “I will be joined later by my staff who are keen to look around the town but I wanted to see you first.”
“I’m flattered, sir,” Paul said. “And slightly nervous. Have I done something…”
“If you have I know nothing of it. Please do not tell me. I wa
nted to update you with what is going on.”
Paul said nothing. Over the five years of their acquaintance he had come to realise that Sir Arthur Wellesley, for reasons that he had never really been able to fathom, chose to confide in a junior officer some twelve years younger than him who came from immense wealth but no family to speak of. Their relationship had begun the year of Assaye, the first significant victory of Wellesley’s career and Paul had often wondered if his unemotional chief had a superstitious streak and saw him as something of a good luck charm. On the other hand, despite the difference in age and rank, he and Wellesley had a shared sense of humour, a shared instinct for perfection and a shared ambition and it may have been nothing more than that.
Whatever the reason, a cautious bond had built up over these years. Wellesley was a man of considerable reserve who kept his feelings to himself and did not make friends easily. He was the younger son of an Anglo-Irish peer with politically ambitious brothers and a wife left back in Dublin with a young son and another, so Paul had heard, on the way. Paul often wondered if Wellesley’s growing years had been something of a struggle to find his place in a family with ambition but little money. It gave Paul a sense of kinship, remembering his own childhood with an elder brother who seemed not to be able to put a foot wrong while he was unable to put a foot right.
Paul sipped his wine, ignoring the maid who had returned with a forgotten crock of butter. He was conscious of her eyes on him and knew that if he turned to smile at her he would get a response but he also knew that it would infuriate Wellesley so he refrained. “What’s going on, sir?” he asked.
“I would have thought that was moderately obvious to a man of your intelligence, Major. We are sitting around on ships looking at Denmark and waiting to hear if we are at war with it or not.”
Paul broke into laughter. “You’re worse than I am, sir, you’re bored already and you’ve barely arrived. Are we about to be at war with Denmark?”
“It is looking more likely,” Wellesley said, putting down his spoon. “I have been receiving letters from London about the diplomatic situation and this morning I visited Admiral Gambier on the flagship. Have you met the Admiral?”
Paul shook his head. “No, sir. I remember his name from my short spell below decks as a boy, but other than the fact that he is an evangelical who won’t let loose women aboard his ship even in port and fines his seamen for swearing, I’m ignorant.”
“It is probably a good thing he is not an army commander, I imagine that serving under him would kill you,” Wellesley said dispassionately.
“More likely to kill him, I should think,” Paul said. “Thank you for the vote of confidence, sir. Was that an attack on my morals or my language?”
“Since both are appalling it hardly matters. Have you come across Francis Jackson?”
Paul shook his head, lifting the lid off a dish of roast mutton. “Never heard of him,” he said. “Who is he?”
“He is a diplomat, formerly stationed in Berlin for a while. He arrived today to replace Taylor and poor Garlike to try to persuade the Danes to give their fleet over into our care until Bonaparte is beaten. I do not know Jackson personally although he is fairly well thought of. But on this occasion he is doomed to failure, I feel.”
Paul jerked his head at the door which had closed behind the maid. “Do they have any idea?”
“I doubt it - certainly not the ordinary people. I am told they are falling over themselves to provide the ships with supplies and a number of enterprising females have been earning their keep going from ship to ship in several small boats.”
Paul grinned. “I know, they made it to the Horace two days ago. My lads were delighted.”
“I’m sure they were,” Wellesley said caustically. “Jackson has gone to meet with the Bernstorffs - two brothers, one foreign minister and the other his deputy. They…”
“Good God,” Paul said in surprise. “I wonder how that works in the family? I’m actually quite fond of my brother but I doubt we could work that closely together.”
“You seem to have forgotten that I served under my brother during his tenure in India,” Wellesley said dryly. “I am sure that I benefited in terms of the commands given me but it definitely put a strain on family dinners at times. At some point I imagine he will be in a post in government while I am in the field…”
“Sir, you’re supposed to be in a post in government yourself,” Paul said.
“I have leave of absence.”
“I know, sir. But even so, I am curious. How is that likely to work with Lord Cathcart? I don’t know the man, never met him. But in his shoes I’d be feeling as though I wasn’t the only one reporting home about the campaign.”
“I shall follow the chain of command, Major.”
“I know you will, but you’ll also be writing letters to your family and friends in London, sir. It has to be difficult for him.”
“I shall be circumspect,” Wellesley said.
“Well you’re not that circumspect when you write to me,” Paul said and his mentor suddenly gave one of his rare and unexpected genuine smiles.
“I trust you. You are never going to sell my letters to the gutter press or publish them to my detriment. I am not always quite so certain about one or two of my family. Jackson will spend some time trying to persuade the Bernstorffs and the Prince to cooperate and in the meantime we await Lord Cathcart and the King’s German Legion from Pomerania. Sir Harry Burrard is his second-in-command and currently in charge so we must hope that no quick decisions are required for the next few days. I, as a newly promoted major-general along with you, as a newly promoted major will wait as patiently as we are able until we receive our orders.”
Paul nodded, putting down his knife and fork. “How would you do it?” he asked and Wellesley’s blue grey eyes gleamed in response. Suddenly he was animated.
“It is very unlikely that my opinion will be asked, Major.”
“I’m asking for it, sir.”
“Very well. In my opinion we should do everything we can to avoid a bombardment of the city. It will reflect badly on our nation, send Denmark into the arms of Bonaparte and the people of Great Britain will hate it. We need a siege which will bottle them in so thoroughly they cannot get a mouse through it. And with the navy and the army here, we ought to be able to do it.”
By the time Wellesley’s small staff arrived to join him, the table had been rearranged with plates and dishes as islands and cutlery neatly laid out as battalions. The door opened to admit the blushing and bewildered maidservant ushering Colin Campbell, Wellesley’s brigade-major whom Paul had known and liked in India and a very young and slightly worried-looking captain.
Paul rose and both men saluted Wellesley who also got up. “I was beginning to think you had both drowned,” he said waspishly.
“My apologies, sir, it took a while to get a boat.” Campbell’s eyes shifted to Paul and he smiled. “Captain van Daan, I could hear the general yelling from outside so I guessed you’d be here. But I’d forgotten, I’m sorry, it’s Major van Daan isn’t it?”
“Very recently,” Paul said. How are you, Major, it’s very good to see you again.” He smiled at the captain who saluted smartly and Campbell grinned.
“Captain Fitzroy Stanhope, allow me to introduce Major Paul van Daan of the 110th. He was in India with us. Captain Stanhope is now ADC to Sir Arthur Wellesley, Major.”
Paul smiled and returned the salute. “It’s good to meet you, Captain. I’m sorry about the noise, we are taking Copenhagen using the dinner service and I think I just outgunned the general.”
“You did not!” Wellesley said explosively. “You would never make it across that ground in time to…”
“I would, sir,” Paul said positively. “I’ve looked at the maps and I’ve worked out the distances. I’d need to see the lay of the land but I’ve been talking to one or two of the locals, and I could do it.”
“You wouldn’t have time.”
“You
haven’t seen them since India, sir.”
Wellesley glared at him and then sat down, waving the other men to join them. “There’s food left, help yourselves if you’ve not eaten,” he said. “The maidservant kept bringing more dishes in order to make eyes at Major van Daan, even he could not finish it all.”
Campbell gave a snort of laughter and young Stanhope blushed. Paul grinned.
“I was doing well until Captain Stanhope arrived but I saw the way she looked at you as she was showing you in, Captain, my chance has gone. Have some wine, Major.”
Wellesley held out his own glass. “Stop corrupting my junior staff members, you unprincipled rake, I won’t have it! I admit they looked very good on the parade ground in Dublin, Major, but all the same…”
“They’re skirmishers, sir. They can do a lot more than looking pretty on parade.”
Wellesley drank. “I believe you,” he said quietly. “Sadly I think we are unlikely to see them tested this time. If my advice is asked, I will mention this piece of insanity that you call a plan to the joint commanders. But I rather think that my role this time will be to kick my heels with the reserves and dream of future glory.”
Paul raised his glass, laughing. “Cheer up, sir. This wine is actually quite good and the girls are very pretty.”
It was late as they made their way back, the streets of Elsinore quiet and dim. Paul had rather liked the pretty little town and he thought about Copenhagen and wondered if it was as attractive. If negotiations failed and there was no successful way to besiege the town he knew that a naval bombardment would be used. There was no defence against it; the small forces available to the Danes had been neatly penned in or cut off by Keats’ naval blockade and the Danish navy was in dock and mostly unrigged. Denmark could not have been more unprepared and like Wellesley, Paul hated the idea of battering the small capital of a neutral nation into submission however necessary it might be. Their impromptu war-games of the afternoon had been, in part, a mutual rebellion against the idea but he knew that Wellesley was right; nobody was going to listen to them.