Inferno

Chapter 102

At the gates of the Citadel, close to the scene of the hardest-fought encounters, instruments of ratification for an armistice were exchanged by a small group of officers. Then, without ceremony, the Danish guard marched away. The rest of the garrison left the Citadel, an empty fortification, for the British to take possession.

It was agreed that the Citadel and dockyard alone were to be occupied and only for the period needed to fit out the Danish fleet for sea, after which the British would leave for ever. The commanders took up their temporary residence and the last details could be put into train.

‘Maynard!’

Jolted by the adjutant’s irritable shout he presented himself.

‘A task for yourself, a sergeant and six. Here’s a list of the last-known addresses of British citizens, merchants and such in Copenhagen. Visit each and see if they’re about, then offer them escort back. Clear?’

A tight-faced interpreter consulted the list and suggested a route. They set off into the city.

At first there were no signs that war had visited; they passed grand squares and avenues, statues and churches. People watched them with differing emotions: from cautious and respectful to naked hatred. Many more were shattered, blank-faced and staring.

After a mile or so the first damage appeared – a house with one half of it in a fallen ruin. As they reached deeper into the suburbs it was a different matter. Ruins and desolation became common, the stink of fire-gutted old buildings drifted about with wisps of dust and smoke.

The landscape was now a hideous travesty of what it had been, the interpreter often finding himself disoriented and having to ask one of the shuffling passers-by where he was.

It beat in on Maynard. Here were homes and lives of ordinary folk, those near the same as might be found in Bath or Oxford. Events far away, over which they hadn’t the slightest control, had put in train a sequence that had climaxed with a ferocious hail of death. There was a catch in his throat at the injustice of it – was it hundreds or thousands that had paid with their lives for the failings of their leaders?

War had come to Copenhagen and he himself was one of its agents.

An ugly fire still smouldered in a collapsed apartment building. In front of it were corpses in a neat line and several kneeling figures, some weeping.

As they passed, he broke away and went to the bodies – they’d been burned alive and their last agonised expressions were still in place in seared flesh, eyes staring up through unendurable pain, a final accusing of the world that had condemned them to such a death.

A torrent of emotion flooded him, sweeping away his pretence of manly indifference. In that moment he knew that he’d failed. He couldn’t go on. As a soldier and officer, he was not fit to lead men. He’d joined for glory and honour and had found that he couldn’t face the reality of war.

He fell to a broken weeping.

‘’Ere, sir, don’t take on so.’ Sergeant Heyer took him by the arm and spoke in urgent, embarrassed tones. ‘Please, sir – it’s unsettlin’ the men.’

With a heroic effort Maynard forced himself to a brittle calm. ‘S-sorry, Sar’nt,’ he said, in a small voice, keeping his face averted. ‘I – I forgot myself.’

One thing was certain: when they returned to England he would hand in his commission.

‘Not in front o’ the enemy as was,’ Sergeant Heyer added.

Enemy? This nearly brought on another bout – these pitiable creatures, the enemy?

Then a picture of his brother came into his mind. What would David think of him? He’d been in worse battles and had never once spoken of the other side of his war. By some means, he’d found a way to overcome his feelings and continue to do his duty. The image of his grave and upright older brother steadied him, and as they marched away, Francis felt the beginnings of an understanding.

Was not this part of the profession of arms? Not the central purpose but the regrettable outcome of a higher duty. Just as a physician must find ways to shut out the sounds of pain and sight of sawn limbs so he must strengthen his resolve and determination.

The sights he had seen that day were piteous and brutal, but if he was to be numbered as a king’s officer, charged with the urgent task of defending the realm against the tyrant emperor now towering above Europe, it was his duty to rise above his natural feelings.

A flood of release entered him and he straightened as he marched. Yes, this was how it was and had to be.

And one guilty but gratifying thought came to him: he had been blooded in battle, he’d seen the worst – just like his brother, whom at last he could stand next to.