Inferno

Chapter 105

The day was grey, in keeping with what was about to take place; the only points of bright colour the ensigns and pennants of the great fleet that Britain had sent to exact its will.

It was so vast that it stretched in an unbroken forest of spars well up the Sound. In the van was the majestic Prince of Wales, flagship of Admiral Sir James Gambier, at the head of a concourse of ships-of-the-line such as had not been seen since Trafalgar.

In the centre were even more – eighty ships, the transports for the army divisions that had compelled the Danes to bow to their fate, and the dread weapons they had employed to such effect.

And in the rear, Superb and other sail-of-the-line of Commodore Keats, with his three frigates lying off the Trekroner Fortress.

‘Preparative,’ Tyger’s signals midshipman reported importantly, his telescope on the flagship.

The English were about to leave Copenhagen to its inhabitants and sail away for ever.

Standing on the quarterdeck, Renzi murmured to Cecilia, ‘A memory that will never leave us.’ She squeezed his arm tightly, gazing back at the stricken city.

‘Execute!’ came the next signal.

From the yards of the van and centre, sail appeared and slowly, ponderously, the grand fleet got under way for the open sea.

The rear remained where it was, theirs a solemn duty.

‘Give me that glass, younker,’ Kydd rapped, taking the telescope and training it on the shore. He’d spotted unusual movement along the waterfront, like the stealthy advance of an army. He held his breath and stared – was this going to be a last frenzied falling upon the forces that had so grievously hurt their city?

Yet there were no trumpets or drums, wild shouts or gunfire. In an unearthly hush, a ghost-like mass of people flooded forward until the foreshore was black with silent figures, standing, watching. From Swan Mill to far along into the harbour, hundreds, thousands of Danes had come to witness the last act.

The first of the Danish fleet emerged from its refuge.

Christian VII, flagship, powerful enough on her own to take on any one of the British 74s that waited for her outside. No white ensign was flaunted aloft, for this was not a mano’-war taken in battle.

She was closely followed by Waldemaar, Prindsesse Sophia Friderica, more. One after another, the proudest vessels of the Royal Danish Navy passed through the harbour entrance by the Citadel seeming, to the still figures along the water-front, almost close enough to touch.

In an endless stream, battleships, frigates, others emerged to join the British fleet. Still more – even the gallant Nakskov kanonchalup going now to serve a different master.

And in all the time it took to assemble there was not a murmur from the crowded foreshore.

‘Hands to the braces,’ Kydd ordered quietly.

Superb’s signal to get under way soared up.

Tyger’s post was in the rear, the last ship to quit the scene and therefore granted the final view of Copenhagen harbour.

Where a first-rank navy had rested in the bosom of its nation’s capital, now there was nothing but bare wharves, deserted storehouses and an expanse of empty harbour. A bleak and unforgettable sight.

As the last ship took up on its northward course, Tyger braced about and followed.

Guessing Renzi’s thoughts, Kydd went over to him. He gave a twisted smile. ‘Nicholas, m’ friend. Do know we’ve scuppered Boney, that’s true enough …’

Without taking his eyes from Copenhagen and its army of silent watchers slipping astern, Renzi whispered, ‘Yes, dear fellow, but how will history judge us?’