Inferno (50 page)

H
etty woke. In a wash of terror it all came back – but in the dull daylight the situation had changed. The leaping flames of the night had given way to a drab bleakness, a desolation of ruins and scattered debris almost unrecognisable as the street she knew. From all directions sullen columns of discoloured smoke rose over the dull red of fires still alight, and the street was full of shuffling figures, some with pathetic bundles and trailing children.

There had been light rain during the night, which had laid the dust somewhat but had left her dress wet and clinging, grimed and spattered with blood from her fingers. She shivered and pulled it tighter as reality hammered in: under this sprawling mass of rubble were the dear Lady Cecilia and her husband, Lord Farndon.

It rocked her sanity and brought on an empty, dry sobbing at her sheer helplessness in the face of what had happened so quickly. All that was mortal of the ones she cared about most was there and only she could do something about it.

She looked up at the passers-by, dully plodding on to who
knew where – but they were Danish. Why should they help their enemy?

She gulped and looked about. Was there no one she could turn to?

Yes. Mr Jago was in their Amalienborg quarters. Imperturb able and impassive, he would know what to do. She had to get to him.

She and Cecilia had left for Frederiksborg Castle through the West Gate. Therefore she would walk east into the morning sun until she reached somewhere she recognised, her goal the big square of the Amalienborg complex.

‘Don't just stand there – give me a hand!' Jago grunted to Golding, one of the servants, as he peered out of the window. ‘That's Miss Hetty out there.'

The door had been well barricaded with a sofa and chairs and took some time to open.

He hauled her in. ‘Miss Hetty, what've you been up to, walkin' the streets like that?'

‘Oh, Mr Jago! It's terrible, terrible.' A wave of emotion seized her, leaving her weeping and trembling and clinging tight to him.

‘Why, here's a to-do,' muttered Jago, clearly embarrassed. He led her to a chair and sat her down. ‘Now you tells me all about it.'

She took a deep breath, held it for a long moment, then recounted what had happened.

‘We've got to rescue them, Mr Jago! Get them out of there!'

‘After what you said, if 'n they're still alive,' he reflected darkly.

She cried in anguish. ‘Please help, I beg you.
Pleeeease!
'

‘There's a war on. I don't rightly know …'

‘But we have to do
something
– anything!'

‘Don't take on so, Miss Hetty,' he snapped. ‘He's my master as well, an' it doesn't help, you pipin' your eye like that.' He began pacing around the room. ‘Could be there's a way. Look, I know you's had a time of it, but can y' see your way clear to takin' us to 'em?'

‘Of course!' she replied instantly.

‘First things first. We finds a few tools to carry, then I've got a job for that kitchen boy as has the English.'

A furtive search around the lower floor produced only some gardening implements but Jago seemed happy with the haul.

The kitchen boy agreed to be their translator, for a ready sum.

‘Now you be on y'r best behaviour, young lad, 'cos we's on a special mission, and if you promises not to tell a living soul, I'll let you in on it.'

Outside it was quiet and no one seemed inclined to question a group of men, a ragged woman and a boy as they trudged along.

‘There's no guns, Mr Jago,' Hetty said.

‘Course not. They gets going at night.'

‘No, it's not that – there's not even the others.'

The irregular thumps and rumble of artillery exchanges at the ramparts had stopped completely. Not even distant bursts of musketry.

‘They've given in, surrendered.'

‘Never. See? All the flags are still up.'

As they reached the corner Jago bent down as if to tie a bootlace and glanced back. To his satisfaction he noted a
sudden scurrying of figures diving out of sight. ‘Well, let's be on our way.'

When they reached the scene Jago paused, as if considering what to do.

‘Mr Jago, there's only the few of us. Where are the others to help?' Hetty pleaded.

He gave a tight smile. ‘They'll come – magic it'll be, you'll see.'

He strode forward and pointed at the rubble, then set to with his mattock.

It was a signal: from their hiding places scores of men raced out and, roughly shouldering him aside, went at it with a will, heaving off slabs of brick, tossing aside fragments and reducing the pile.

Passing men joined in the mad scrabble.

Hetty stared open-mouthed. ‘M-Mr Jago, how did you …?'

She turned to Golding, standing back and leaning on his rake. ‘Do you know how he did it?'

The young man tipped his hat in admiration. ‘Ha! Cautioned young Andreas not to tell a soul, but he'd heard the mansion where the Crown Jewels was hidden just fell down an' we were on our way to help ourselves. They has to keep out o' sight until we shows 'em which place it is, then they goes at it for 'emselves, like good 'uns. Mr Jago knew he'd snitch, the scamp.'

The rubble was fast disappearing revealing a once splendid ground floor in a shattered state, bowed down under the tons of debris, but now rapidly clearing. A shout brought Jago and Hetty running – a section of the floor had given way, exposing a dark void.

Jago used his fists to work his way to the front and peered in.

There was movement. A glint of something. He eased down to lie prone at the edge of the pit. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he saw Nicholas Laughton, sixth Earl of Farndon in a wine cellar, sitting beside the countess and swigging extravagantly from a bottle of excellent white wine.

‘So early, m' lord?'

‘As it has served us for water these past days, Jago. Do be a good fellow and help us out, will you?'

E
very eye in the room was on Peymann as the recitation went on. Then it was the turn of the Danish land forces commander, General Bielefeldt.

‘Sir, it's with the greatest reluctance I have to tell you that many of the burgher militia have abandoned their posts on the defences in the face of the bombardment. They're on the front line. It leaves the ramparts undefended. Should the British choose to storm us, there can be no hope.'

‘I see.' Peymann rubbed his bloodshot eyes. ‘It had to happen, I suppose, poor fellows.'

Significant glances were exchanged around the table. Did this mean …?

‘Sir, I really think that—'

‘Gentlemen,' Peymann said, and sighed, placing his hands on the table in a gesture of finality. ‘This you may take to be a council-of-war, with the object of establishing the most advantageous terms of capitulation. Note that down, will you, Knud?'

‘No!' blurted Bille. ‘There's still the—'

‘Kommandør,' Peymann said, in tones of the utmost weariness, ‘we have resisted valiantly and can do no more. I shall ask for a cease-fire as of this hour and will expect to be discussing terms with the English commander shortly. Shall we begin?'

It had to be faced. They were defeated. Even the Crown Prince's exhortations couldn't change that.

‘We ask for the honours of war, of course. Due ceremony, the exchange of prisoners, that sort of thing, yes. But one question stands above all. This war was brought to us by the British, who wanted one thing – our fleet. This question therefore is, do we yield it up lightly or do we destroy it before they can lay their hands on it?'

‘No question! I shall set a torch to it in person,' Bille ground out. ‘The honour of Denmark is not to be preserved by tamely surrendering our glorious fleet, undefeated and unbowed.'

Peymann winced. ‘I really cannot support you in that, Kommandør. The dockyard is in the centre of Copenhagen and will lay ablaze any of our city still left to us.'

‘And it will antagonise the British beyond their enduring. Our terms will be so much the sterner, and I fear—'

‘Antagonise? Damn it, if they—'

‘There's one outcome of denying them the fleet that disturbs me greatly.'

‘General?'

‘That they may decide instead to remain in Sjælland, take Elsinore and turn it into a second Gibraltar to safeguard their Baltic trade. They'd then be very hard to cast out.'

‘True enough. Gentlemen, we can do no other than comply with the demand.'

Murmurs of agreement came reluctantly but Bille sat red-faced and tight-lipped.

‘In consequence of which I desire you will accordingly sign your agreement to our resolve.'

‘I will not!' Bille spluttered. ‘On my soul, I will not do it. Arm every true Dane, I say, to follow me as, with gunboats and all that floats, in a last glorious charge we throw ourselves at the English invaders of our motherland.'

‘W
ell, now, and they've finally come to their senses,' breathed Cathcart. ‘An armistice to discuss terms. Thank God that carnage is over. It sickened me to think of those poor wretches … We'd better get to work and settle what we want of the beggars. I shall give 'em a cease-fire until four, in which they are to state to me what they'll consider acceptable as terms. If by then they're still footling about, we will resume our bombardment.'

‘The fleet.' Admiral Gambier had no doubt about the first item.

‘You think they'll give it to you without an argument? Or worse?'

‘They must. We'll not be moved until we have it – they must know that.'

‘Umm.'

‘And surplus stores, sailing gear, that sort of thing.'

‘Very well. We get the fleet. What else?'

‘To take Sjælland itself ?' Brigadier Stewart came in brightly. ‘With our Swedish friends across the Sound, 'twould
make a capital base to control the Baltic trade for ever!'

‘I rather fear our men-o'-war will soon be iced out to the Skaggerak in the north,' Gambier said gloomily, ‘as will leave your military unprotected.'

‘And I'd think in any case that thirty thousand not too many for the garrison, a number I fear would not be countenanced by the government at this time.'

‘A pity. Well, we'll settle for the fleet and no conquests. It's what we came for, was it not?'

Unexpectedly it was Wellesley who spoke for the Danes. ‘I rather think it would be contrary of us not to accept that the Danish fought nobly with what little they had against our superior forces. Can we not show it by a leniency in our terms?'

‘That's nobly said, Sir Arthur,' rumbled General Bloomfield.

‘Besides which,' Wellesley continued smoothly, ‘should the conceit be that, having secured the fleet, we are satisfied with no territorial gains, then it is no longer terms of surrender under discussion, for we will have left immediately and with no conquests.'

‘Quite!' said Cathcart, with satisfaction. ‘By that we are spared the expense of an occupation.'

‘So no need for military parades, hauling down of flags, so wounding to the feelings. They cannot object to that.'