Inferno

Chapter 57

Vedb?k, ten miles north of Copenhagen

In the armed transport Rathlin, the news was received with a joy born of desperation. After weeks of idleness and being packed into every conceivable space in the old merchant ship, tempers were ragged. The 52nd Regiment of Foot was a fighting force with service all over the world. Recently re-formed as part of the Light Division they were eager to prove themselves anew in the field.

Ensign Francis Maynard performed the morning inspection of his section – but this time it was in deadly earnest. At dawn the next morning the battalion would be facing the enemy. He walked along slowly, the hard-faced Sergeant Heyer close behind. The expressions varied from boredom through blank-faced inscrutability to blithe resignation. Many were sundarkened by India service; others had the pale faces and thin bodies of recent recruits. They were not noble warriors – but they were his men. He knew all their names now, their habits and mannerisms, and had a fair notion of how far he could trust them as individuals. He was aware that he himself was being weighed up and, if found wanting, could lose their loyalty.

Maynard made a point of thoroughly checking muskets and accoutrements for this was the whole being of a light infantryman. The sergeants and corporals could be relied on to ensure their knapsacks and traps were up to scratch.

The company briefing earlier had set out the operation in detail. At dawn, under the guns of the fleet, boats of the first wave would head inshore with light infantry, who would establish a beachhead, repelling enemy counter-attacks while the line regiments poured ashore. Once there, the 52nd would move forward to extend the defended line to such a point that guns and horses could be landed.

Simple and straightforward. But if the Danes brought up even horse artillery to the fringing dunes there would be a bloodbath, with an onslaught of canister and round shot into the unprotected boats. Or ashore, as they were assembling, even a small force of cavalry could slash them to pieces.

That night Maynard slept badly. Not that he must doubt his own courage but that when the hour of trial came he would fail the regiment. His was a post of the greatest honour – and the highest danger. As ensign he would be the one to take the regimental colours ashore and plant them on enemy soil as a rallying point. He would be among the first to set foot on land, in the teeth of the worst that the enemy could bring against them.

Even before dawn the troops were assembling after a cold breakfast, detailed off in accordance with the embarkation plan. From now on it was the endurance of waiting.

As first light stole over the anchorage, a silent procession of big warships weighed and detached, the squadron about to close with Copenhagen to face any sudden emergence of the Danish fleet contesting the landing. Maynard watched in the dim light as the men-o’-war purposefully headed south, sailors distantly mounting masts to set sail, gun-ports open in grim challenge, a grand and fearful sight.

Suddenly their companion of the last weeks, the Danish guardship frigate, slipped her cable to make a break for the open sea to the north. Signals went up at the rush in Gambier’s flagship and a battleship, with a frigate, dropped sail and went after it.

Now it was their turn. Maynard knew from the map that the beach selected, Vedb?k, was a dozen miles south, halfway along the coast to the capital. The assault ships had been held back until the last minute so as to give no indication of where the soldiers would go in. Now there was general movement on each ship as they prepared for the final run.

Chased off the deck by busy sailors, there was nothing for it but to go below to the creaking, malodorous dimness and endure until the rumble and shake of the anchor cable running out announced their arrival off the beaches.

Heart in his mouth, Maynard took the deck and stood by the company captain as the troops were mustered by boat, trying not to stare at the low, wood-mantled shore almost a mile away. There was no gunfire yet, and no movements that he could see of defenders assembling for the confrontation.

Spars and tackles lifted the heavy boats from their stowage and one by one they were lowered to the water. Seamen tumbled down to take their places at the oars and it was time to board.

Maynard descended steps to the little platform and stepped into the boat. Behind him, Sergeant Heyer carried the colours in their leather case and the pike. Sailors’ eyes followed his progress as he went unsteadily over the thwarts to the front of the boat. The colours were passed along to him. It seemed incredible that scores of fully equipped troops with muskets and packs could fit into the confines of the awkward craft and still leave room for the patient seamen to row.

They made shift, however, grunting and cursing, squatting and wedging as they were encouraged by the sailors.

It did not head for the shore: like the others, it fell into line abreast and made ready. Three long lines of boats, lifting gently to the waves, waiting for the order.

Still there was no gunfire or troop movement ashore. It looked so peaceful and ordinary, a rustic cottage to the right and, inland, a spiral of smoke.

It could all change in an instant. The light woods came almost to the water’s edge and might conceal anything up to an entire army. Horse artillery might even now be sighting to enfilade the beach and-

A sullen thud sounded from the flagship and a huge Union flag soared up the mainmast – it was the signal.

‘Uncase colours!’ the lieutenant commanded.

Maynard fumbled nervously in the awkward confines of the bow. Taller than a man, the colours were secured to the pike, which was ten feet long. Then the regimental colours of the 52nd floated out in all their splendour, a Union flag in the canton and the blaze of ‘52’ prominent in laurels against a buff background, the whole with crimson and gold tassels trailing down from the peak.

Exhilarated now, Maynard stood braced in the bows, proud and erect. The colours tugged and pulled mercilessly but the winds were light and he was spared ignominy. The whole line was now in motion, scores of boats abreast of his, and more in the next wave close behind – they were going in.

It was an eerie quiet. No one spoke, all eyes on the long, pale beach, waiting for …

They drew nearer. Details of the shoreline became clear: a landing hard for fishermen, a straggle of grey rocks to the left, a small track going up the rise to the right.

They were halfway. Nothing, just the creak and thump of oars, the pretty gurgle of water under their forefoot. It was unreal.

‘There they is!’ The voice cracked with tension and the sharp-eyed Corporal Jakes flung out an arm to point.

One by one horses were topping the rise, their riders in green and black, unmistakably Danish cavalry videttes. The enemy. Carried by a strange euphoria, Maynard ignored them, standing bold, his eyes fixed on the water’s edge, where that day he would do his duty whatever the cost.

The sailors pulled harder, the coxswain driving them on with low urging as the boat swayed with their efforts.

Two hundred yards now. They were well within range of a six-pounder, let alone a nine. Why were they being allowed so close in?

A hundred yards – soon they would be storming the beach.

Skin crawling with anticipation, Maynard clutched the colours staff and when the boat lurched to a stop in the shallows he was over the side, stumbling up the sand, the colours triumphantly streaming above.

Nothing.

Panting with effort, he reached the level ground below the edge of the woods. He struck the butt of the pike into the soil of Denmark, then stood noble and erect. Emotion threatened to overcome him as soldiers rallied beside him, sergeants hoarsely taking charge and drawing them up into familiar battle formations.

And no storm of fire and destruction.

The stillness was broken only by shouts of command, the occasional baying of a bugle-horn and the cawing of argumentative rooks in the woods.

Then the spell was broken. Details were told to push out into the country to establish a perimeter as the second wave came in, splashing ashore and assembling.

Hundreds, then thousands of troops flooded in unopposed. Some marched off; others prepared to land stores and horses. A disciplined bedlam filled the beachhead.

Maynard had done his duty and now set off to join his men.

He marched up the track to find his company captain. From the glory of the colour party he must now revert to a common ensign of foot. For some reason the enemy had not been waiting – but how could this be when they’d been sighted by the videttes? It was a mystery but no one else seemed to be questioning their good fortune.

The captain briefed him on the terrain. Strong ground to the left and right occupied, the landing beach now safe. The woods thinning to open pasturage inland and a now deserted farmhouse to the right. Five parties out on an armed reconnaissance with no sighting of the enemy, the periphery of the defensive line moving out fast. Maynard was to regroup and set out on a line of bearing to consolidate a strongpoint that would form part of the perimeter.

There were still no enemy formations. In a field a farmer, their first Dane, stared at them in astonishment. They passed him with friendly shouts, many themselves no stranger to a plough.

Reaching their goal they set up a defence position then rested. Yet so rapid was the advance that within an hour they were on the move again, headed for a distinguished building set in parkland at the skyline.

‘Maynard,’ the captain advised, ‘yonder is Charlottenlund. This is the summer palace of the Crown Prince of Denmark. I’ve orders from General Wellesley that if there’s no resistance no one is to enter its doors, under the direst penalty.’

‘Aye, an’ Nosey’s a hangin’ general,’ Sergeant Heyer offered gloomily. ‘Why, after Seringapatam there was good men a-dangling-’

‘That’s enough,’ snapped Maynard. ‘Warn off the men, is all.’

They closed with it in good order in the warm afternoon sunshine, through manicured parkland, past fishponds and extensive gardens. Ahead, the neat but frowning palace was deserted.

It was uncanny. They were now several miles inland with no sign of resistance. Was it because the Danes were waiting to spring a trap, an encirclement that would see their advance cut off and destroyed? Maynard clamped a hold on his fears.

Wary and prepared, they came up to the silent palace, but there was no movement. At the back were stables, recently used and in some disorder, but nothing to suggest preparations for a stand.

Men were posted around the sombre building and evening began to draw in.

Orders were given to prepare a bivouac. Not under fire, this was clear-cut enough, but Maynard had never heard of the manoeuvre done when contact with the enemy had not yet been established. By now there were thousands ashore, headquarters staff and even artillery beginning to form up in a comforting army routine of order and discipline.

After a welcome evening meal Maynard lay down with his men, under arms by ranks, with knapsacks for pillows. They had found an arena of soft sand where the regal horses were exercised with only clouds of midges intruding. He stared up at the stars of the night and wondered what the next day might bring.