An Unwilling Alliance

by Lynn Bryant

  Hugh surveyed him. He shared the navy’s slightly superior attitude towards the army and had no friends in the service although he had met a few officers over the years that he had liked well enough. However, there was something about this confident young major that appealed to him. The younger man had been completely punctilious in showing respect for Hugh’s superior rank but Hugh had a strong sense that he actually did not care and it made Hugh feel nostalgic for the egalitarian attitude of many of his countrymen back home.

  “I was going in search of a seat and a drink,” he said on impulse. “I’ve a report to make to the Admiral, but he’ll be busy a while yet. Why don’t you join me?”

  Paul van Daan studied him. “Thank you, sir, that’s good of you. Let me have a word with that groom and I’ll be with you.”

  Hugh watched as he went to the stable door and yelled. The man emerged at a run and stood before Van Daan, his eyes shifting to the neatly tied horses in some surprise. He looked back at the major, his expression a combination of guilt and defiance.

  Van Daan reached out, took him by one ear, and led him to the horses as if he had been a misbehaving schoolboy. He indicated the newly tied knots, spoke briefly and then clipped the groom around the head, not very hard. Hugh saw him point to the feed troughs and water pump, using gestures to make up for the language difficulties. He then pointed to the grey’s tangled mane and muddy coat and gestured again. The groom was nodding, his sulky expression lightening a little.

  Having given his orders, something with which Hugh observed sardonically that Paul van Daan seemed very comfortable, the young major reached into his coat pocket and took out two coins which he held up. The groom’s eyes fixed on them and Paul van Daan pointed to the horses and spoke again. The man nodded. The major handed him one coin and put the other back into his pocket. Then he smiled, the first real smile Hugh had seen him give, and it transformed his face. The groom smiled back as though he could not help it, and the major put his hand on the man’s shoulder, laughed, and then ruffled the dirty hair with surprising informality as if he were a younger brother or cousin. He released the groom and went along the row to an ugly piebald mare, stroking her neck. The animal nuzzled his shoulder and Van Daan smiled, reached into his pocket and took out a treat. He stroked the mare as he fed her and Hugh watched him and wondered if the small drama he had just watched played out was regularly enacted with Van Daan’s men.

  “Major van Daan!”

  The voice was cold, clipped, its tone biting, coming from an upstairs window of the house. Van Daan turned and looked up.

  “Is there a reason why you are in the stable yard socialising with the grooms when the man I have sent to search for you is combing this house looking for you? Or are you under the impression that I asked you to accompany me in order to give you a day off?”

  Major Paul van Daan saluted with a grin to the upstairs windows where the dark head of Sir Arthur Wellesley protruded. “Sorry, sir, didn’t think you’d need me for a bit.”

  “It appears that no secretary is available and I would prefer to have this meeting fully documented in a language that the cabinet in London understands. Lord Cathcart’s clerk is unwell and Sir Home Popham appears to be of the opinion that no minutes are needed at all which makes me all the more determined to provide them. Try to write legibly for once.”

  “On my way, sir,” Van Daan said. Wellesley withdrew his head and the major gave one more nut to the piebald, called a word to the groom who was filling water buckets with considerable speed and joined Hugh at the door. “I’m sorry, sir, we’ll need to postpone that drink, it appears I am now a secretary as well as a battalion commander. Thank you for your help with the horses.”

  “You’re welcome,” Hugh said. “You in trouble, Major?”

  “Wellesley? Jesus, no, that’s him on a good day,” Van Daan said, laughing. “I’d better go before he causes serious offence to one of your senior officers. It’s been good to meet you, sir.”

  “You too, Major,” Hugh said, and watched as the tall fair figure disappeared inside the house. He walked over to the horses and watched the groom for a while, noting that the man seemed to have recovered his enthusiasm for his job. Then he turned and went into the house to remind the ADC of his presence and request refreshment while he waited.

  ***

  It was early evening by the time Sir Arthur Wellesley and Paul collected their horses. Paul inspected the animals then went in search of the groom to give him his promised reward. Wellesley was quiet as they rode out of the park and Paul waited for him to speak.

  They were on the road to Emdrup when Wellesley said:

  “Sometimes I take no pleasure in being right.”

  Paul shot his chief a glance. He could think of a number of remarks but he sensed that Wellesley was not in the mood to be amused by any of them today. “I know, sir. I don’t like it either. And not, as they seem to believe, because I don’t want the navy to get the glory instead of the army.”

  Wellesley gave a faint smile. “Of course, you don’t.”

  “No. But I’d happily give it to them if this mess could be avoided.”

  It had been the latest of a number of meetings of the general officers of both services to discuss possible plans of attack should the Danes continue to refuse Britain’s demands that they surrender their fleet. It was obvious that Lord Cathcart had no plan and his distaste for the whole operation was very evident. His engineers reported that Copenhagen’s defences were too strong to be breached by anything less than a full siege and Cathcart had none of the resources to undertake one. One or two of the officers had muttered criticism of the Ordnance department but Paul was fairly sure that a siege train would have been sent if it had been requested. It had not been.

  A proposal had been made that the Three Crowns Battery which guarded the entrance to the harbour might be taken, enabling the Danish fleet to be destroyed by long-range mortar fire but the result was too uncertain. Lieutenant-Colonel George Murray had been urging a closer investment of the town from Zealand and then Amager, followed by either a land-based or naval bombardment if the Danes should continue to resist.

  None of the senior officers particularly liked the idea of bombarding the civilian inhabitants of a European capital and Wellesley had argued forcibly for a more effective siege which would interrupt supplies of food and water to the city before any decision about a bombardment was made but Paul was fairly sure that his words had fallen on deaf ears. The time for a more efficient investment of the town had probably passed with the days of inactivity and there was no taste for a long drawn out campaign.

  “I thought your plan was to yell at me on the way back,” Paul said as they approached Wellesley’s headquarters.

  “It was, but I find myself too depressed even for that. Are you coming in for a drink?”

  “Do you mind if I don’t, sir? I’d like to do a quick circuit of the lines as it’s getting dark. I don’t want them to forget I’m here.”

  Wellesley laughed, his face lightening. “Major, you never allow them to relax, do you?”

  “I do, sir. I just don’t allow them to loot, get drunk and annoy the local population. Particularly on this campaign when I rather think the Danes are the injured party. They don’t need my lot going on a drunken rampage through the suburbs on top of that.”

  “I admire your dedication, Major. Good night.”

  Paul kicked his sluggish mount into a reluctant trot and rode the lines from Emdrup to Gladsaxe. He found his men settled around camp fires cooking their supper and drinking their grog rations. In a few places some local women had joined them but the celebrations were muted and seemed well under control and sentries and pickets were wide-awake and alert so Paul left them with a cheerful goodnight. He considered going back to the inn and sharing supper with Ilse, the pretty brown haired girl who cleaned his room and served meals to his officers. He had been determinedly resisting the temptation to invite her to share a drink and possibly more w
ith him. He suspected she would be willing to do so and today he very much wanted a distraction but he was trying hard to behave like a married man.

  Instead, when he had inspected the last outpost, he set Luna towards the coast road. The sun was beginning to sink over the dark forests, staining the sky with a glorious display of gold and amber over the low hills and the sea stretched out before him tinged with fire reflected from above. Paul reined in at the top of a little rise and stood looking out. Ships crowded the sea, mostly the British fleet at anchor but a few smaller Danish boats patrolling, looking for the opportunity to engage. The desultory naval duel had gained momentum in the last few days and the sound of guns had become a background to Paul’s daily rides.

  He thought about his wife, back at his family home in Leicestershire with his two children. They had been married for almost three years now. He had been twenty three, struggling to recover from injury and the loss of a third of his company at the battle of Assaye in India and she had been eighteen, an impoverished governess straight from a charity school. She had been very innocent and very pretty and there had been no excusing his impulsive decision to seduce her. Their love affair had ended with his company’s posting to Naples and she had chosen not to inform him that she was with child. He had discovered in time to do the right thing and she had sailed with him into the chaotic Italian campaign to bear their son with no family to support her.

  Paul had not been in love with her and he was still not sure if he was capable of the kind of heady passion that seemed to inflict some of his fellow officers when they fretted after a girl or pined for their wife. But he had come to value what he had with Rowena in a way that he had never expected. She was an anchor in his wandering life, caring for their small son and his natural daughter, accepting his sudden absences and reappearances without complaint and enduring the difficulties of army life in a way that he had come to appreciate.

  After the chaos of the campaign in Naples and Sicily when she had almost died bearing his son, she had joined him in Dublin, a very social posting which had probably horrified his shy wife more than a difficult childbirth. But she had managed their rented house with a new staff and two rebellious toddlers surprisingly well. It had been their first real experience of married life away from Paul’s family where his efficient sister-in-law tended to take on all domestic duties, and although he found Rowena’s household to be somewhat muddled at times he had thoroughly enjoyed family life and it had given him a new appreciation of his pretty young wife.

  He had been unfaithful to her a number of times, although he had tried hard not to let her know it. He knew that he had not always been successful. His ill-judged and much regretted affair in Naples with the beautiful wife of a fellow officer had been well-known and he had no hope that somebody had not told Rowena. She had never asked him and never complained and her forbearance had made him ashamed. There was no chance that she would find out about a few enjoyable nights sharing his bed with a pretty Danish maidservant, but his months in Ireland with her had made him realise, to his considerable surprise, that he preferred to make love to Rowena than to some anonymous stranger, and although the temptation was considerable, he was trying hard not to give in to his baser self. He wanted, when this campaign was over, to go home to her for the first time without a nagging sense of shame. He was aware that Wellesley, who had marital problems of his own, was amused by his new-found conscience but Paul did not care.

  There was a commotion over on the beach. Paul sat his horse, watching in some curiosity for a while. A small fishing smack had just come in and half a dozen men, Danish peasants and fishermen and one rather better dressed individual were crowding around it. The sound of their voices reached him and there was some agitation. Paul wished he had Carl with him. Many of the locals spoke some Swedish and although Carl had not used his grandfather’s native language since he was a boy, he remembered enough for basic conversation.

  Curiosity got the better of him and Paul touched his heel’s to Luna’s flank. The mare did not move and Paul grinned and urged her more firmly. Luna was the worst horse he had ridden in years but she was hugely affectionate, with the temperament of a family pet and he had taken a ridiculous liking to her.

  They turned suspicious faces to him as he approached and Paul dismounted, holding Luna firmly by the bridle since she seemed unaccountably agitated as he led her forward. He paused, looking over the assembled group and caught the eye of the youngest, a lad of around seventeen in heavy fisherman’s smock and bare feet. Paul put his hand into his pocket and took out a coin. He smiled and beckoned, holding out the reins and the boy came forward cautiously and took both the coin and the bridle. Paul went forward to the object on the beach which had just been lifted out of the boat.

  He knew what it was immediately, his gut giving a little lurch both of shock and at the smell emanating from the body. It was not visible, having been sewn into a navy-issue hammock. Paul judged from the smell that it had been in the water a day or two and he silently cursed whichever idle seaman had dumped the body of a fallen comrade too close to shore and without properly weighing it down. During his two and a half years in the navy as a boy he had seen many burials at sea and he knew that this should not have happened. Illness probably, or an accident, but these people should not have had to deal with it.

  It took some time to make himself understood using mainly gestures and the dozen or so words of Danish he had acquired, but eventually they got the point. The prosperous citizen sent two of the other men scurrying and they returned quickly with a handcart. Paul took his horse back from the boy with a smile of thanks and mounted, following the small party up to the village at a walk.

  He was startled as he realised that they were turning in to a churchyard. The parson had obviously been alerted and was waiting for them, a thin worried looking man with sparse grey hair and eyes of blue ice which regarded Paul steadily.

  “You are English?”

  Paul dismounted and came forward. “I am, sir. You speak English?”

  “A little. This man…he is yours?”

  Paul shook his head. “From the ships,” he said. “I do not know his name. He was buried at sea, but…” He shrugged, pantomiming bewilderment and the pastor nodded.

  “Here, there are tides. They will bring things in. We shall bury him here, with prayers.”

  “Thank you,” Paul said. “May I stay?”

  The man looked surprised but nodded. He motioned to Paul to follow him and led him to a house behind the white painted church. A boy emerged and came forward to take Luna’s bridle and the pastor led Paul into a small bare parlour, achingly clean, where he poured two glasses of wine. Paul sipped cautiously. It was clearly home made, tasting of fruit but it was surprisingly pleasant. The pastor saw his expression and smiled. It made him look younger and more human.

  “My wife’s recipe. Made from cherries. It is good, yes?”

  “Very good.”

  “They will dig a grave. Later, if you find out his name…”

  “I will tell you. Sir, may I give you some money for the men who dig. This should not be their work. I will try to find out.”

  “Thank you, they will be grateful.”

  The door opened and Paul turned, following his host’s gaze and was surprised to see not the plump Danish housewife he had expected but a girl, little more than a child, dark brown hair and fair skin making a pleasing contrast with a surprising pair of blue eyes. She looked at Paul in some astonishment and then at Pastor Nilsson.

  “Sir, my daughter, Christa. Christa, make your curtsey to…?”

  “Major Paul van Daan, 110th infantry. My pleasure, Miss Nilsson.”

  The girl dropped a polite curtsey and turned to her father, words tumbling out of her. Paul waited as her father explained, clearly calming her anxiety. She turned to look at him again when the story was done and Paul summoned a neutral smile.

  “I am sorry, Miss Nilsson.”

  The girl studied him for a moment
then said, to his complete surprise, in heavily accented, careful English:

  “I am happy to meet you, Major.”

  She said nothing more but accompanied them out into the gathering darkness as the anonymous body was lowered, in his makeshift shroud, into the hastily dug grave at the edge of the churchyard. The parson said prayers in his own language and the men stood with heads bowed. When the short service was over Paul went back to the house and handed over payment to the parson then took his leave with thanks. Riding back to the Preinsesse Charlotte through the darkness he wondered about the unknown sailor. He thought too about the little group of people he had met tonight and their civility and kindness and he hoped passionately that the Danish government would see sense before violence came to a people he had no wish to harm.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Four more bodies were washed up within the next two days.

  Parson Nilsson appeared shortly after dinner driving a smart little gig with his daughter beside him. With time to prepare, Christa Nilsson was dressed in a pretty yellow gown with a dark brown jacket and a straw bonnet and she looked older than Paul had thought. He escorted his guests through into the parlour of the inn and summoned Carl and Johnny to join him. Over wine and sweet biscuits he listened with growing concern to the pastor’s story. As with the first body, Nilsson had brought the corpses up to his churchyard and arranged burial but he was now concerned about where the bodies were coming from and Paul agreed.

  He was vaguely aware of his two officers in the background ignoring the importance of the conversation and conducting a pleasant flirtation with Miss Nilsson. It made Paul feel oddly grown-up to be concentrating on serious matters while Johnny and Carl appreciated a pretty face and he let it go on for longer than was strictly necessary before he called them to order.