The Danish Revival

18. The King is Dead, Long Live…

Ameliensborg Palace
3rd December 1839

Crown Prince Christian sat outside his dying father’s room. He remembered when he was a child, how his father’s face was so full of life and energy. Now he sits in there, all dead apart from the blood that limps through his veins. Christian wiped a tear from his eye; he knew the time was near. He knew how it went. There would be a brief period of mourning, and then he would be crowned King Christian VIII of Denmark. He could not but help but bring to mind that phrase, we will live like kings. Judging by the gaunt, pale and to all intents and purposes insane creature that occupied the bedchamber, the life of a king was nothing to dream of. It’s been more a nightmare, ever since he came along.

The hairs on the back of Christian’s neck stood on end as a feminine howl came from the bedchamber. He’s gone. I am King. He would have been there, he wanted to be there comfort his father as the life drained away, but he couldn’t, not with him there, no doubt shedding crocodile tears for his dead puppet…

Christian could feel the anger rising inside him, and it took all his fortitude not to march in there and tell that Swede to get the hell away from his father. Instead, he waited for his mother to come out. A moment later she did, her face red from crying. As Christian softly entered the room a chill went down his spine. There on the bed lay his father, and next to him kneeled Mathias Jonsson. And indeed, he was blinking back tears, but there was something about his demeanour that indicated that he was not sad, not sad at all. Mathias stood up when he saw the Crown Prince and attempted to leave, but Christian grabbed his arm and swung him round.

“You did this, didn’t you!” It came out far louder than he had intended and his mother and the nurse looked up sharply. All the bitterness and hate that dwelt within Christian were focussed on this man, and his eyes burnt with abject resentment. Mathias returned his steely gaze, easily Christian‘s equal.

“A least I was here for him in his final moments, which is more than can be said for you!”

“Oh yes, take the moral high ground!” His voice became a throaty growl. “He was fine before you came along. For the last four years he just suffered, and how long had you been close to the king? Oh yes, four damn years!”

“Christian!” He looked across to his mother, who was glaring with tearful anger at him. “Don’t speak to Mathias like that! He was a good friend of Frederik.”

Christian looked at her in disbelief.

“You would…you…” He shook his head as words failed him. He knew he was right, he could see through this puppeteer. He did not know how he did it, but he was certain, absolutely certain that the appearance of Mathias and his father’s decline both mentally and physically were no coincidence. He had found out that Mathias had various friends among the plantation owners of the Virgin Islands, and the King’s bizarre decision to repeal the abolition of slavery had certainly been of great service to those individuals. Christian thought about the last four years, and with great pain remembered how the King had only trusted one man, one man alone, and it certainly had not been him. They had become strangers to one another.

He stormed out of the bedchamber muttering curses, and as he departed he was sure he heard his mother say “thank God he’s gone,” quietly.

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Excerpt from “The Danish Revival” by E. J. Cobban, Oxford University Press

When a general announcement was made that the King had died there was no surprise, but there was grief and sorrow. The Danish public had been somewhat ambivalent to his policies in his later life, but still recognised how even these had increased Denmark’s standing as a power to be reckoned with and how the growth of African trade had made the country, and thus them, wealthier. There was, however, an anti-monarchist sentiment among certain groups of the population who resented the fact that the liberal democratic systems of constitutional monarchy like those of the United Kingdom and Belgium had not been adopted in Denmark. The 1830’s had seen a rise of liberal sentiment, although to a certain degree the death of the King swept this temporarily to one side. There were of course those who called for the abolition of the monarchy, seeing the death of Frederik VI as a perfect opportunity to bring and end to nearly a thousand years of tradition. They were generally in a minority, although it seemed likely that if the new King failed to liberalise the system then there could be serious trouble in the near future as people would grow more and more discontent with absolute rule.

For the time being the monarchy was secure, and Crown Prince Christian became the newest of a long line of Danish monarchs. As the 1840’s began in earnest the new King showed few signs of implementing the constitutionalism that so many liberals clamoured for, and murmurings of discontent grew ever more steadily, but never reaching dangerous levels. However, King Christian recognised the threat to his absolutism, and begun to formulate plans that would hopefully shut up his liberal critics forever.


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17th February 1840
Christiansborg Palace

King Christian sat reading the newspaper while sipping a piping hot cup of Jamaican coffee. He looked up as the butler announced that Chancellor Jonnson was here to see him, and smiled.

“Yes, show him in!”

The King stood up, filled with joy at the prospect of seeing his closest friend and most trusted advisor. His face widened into a cheerful grin as the Chancellor entered, who was barely suppressing a smirk.

“Mathias, my friend, what brings you here?”

The Chancellor glanced down at the paper that lay on the table, and smiled.

“I suppose you can’t have missed the main article?” The King frowned.

“Indeed, it is a most shocking business. That the Swedes should execute Danish citizens without any sort of consultation with us is most alarming!”

“The Foreign Service Department has issued a stiff and angry protest, I can assure you your majesty. We have also recalled our ambassador from Stockholm, as have our Russian allies in solidarity with our cause.”

“Good, good.”

It was amazing how warm the relationship was now between the two men, and all previous disputes were seemingly forgotten. Indeed, now it seemed that the King would issue no statements of any kind without running it by Mathias first. It was fair to say that the King seemed to have lost most of his capacity for independent thought in the two months he had reigned.

The meeting had been fairly brief, as the two men talked of the sudden sharp decline in relations between Denmark and her Scandinavian neighbour. In January the newspapers had gained access to a leaked memo concerning repeated Swedish violations of Danish waters around the Sund, but this had been resolved by a swift apology from the Swedish government. The execution of three Danish merchants accused of smuggling in mid February seemed more serious, and thus far no apology was forthcoming. The Swedes maintained their guilt while the Danes maintained their innocence, demanding at least that they should have had the right to a trial by jury. This ensured a political stalemate.

As Mathias returned to his house he whistled to himself happily. The wheels are set in motion, he thought gleefully. He thought of the King and laughed. On the surface he appeared strong and confident, but underneath he was even weaker than dear old Frederik! He waltzed down into the basement, formerly a wine cellar but now a large, cavernous space. The chalk marks where he had performed the ritual over two months ago were still faintly visible on the wooden surface. A keen nose would have detected the faint smell of blood.

“The King’s mind became mine, as if by magic.” He chuckled softly at his own joke, and spent the rest of the evening reading with great interest some of the texts of the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer.​

19. Secret Order of the Day

Extract from “The Danish Revival” by E. J. Cobban, Oxford University Press

The beginning of 1840 was saw the continual rising of tensions between Denmark and Sweden. In February, a secret meeting between the foreign ministers of Denmark and Russia resulted in the Russians pledging to honour the alliance between the two countries signed in 1838 in case of war with Sweden. As winter became spring all the major newspapers focussed solely on that one issue, to the point where pretty much everyone assumed that war was inevitable. Prime Minister Joachim, now an old man, made a series of speeches to the masses promising tough action against the Swedes, betraying his normal easygoing demeanour. There was a certain tension in the air, like a calm before a storm.

However, with summer came no war. Indeed, all signs pointed towards the fact that the Danish Army was barely in existence, let alone strong enough to fight and win a war against Sweden. Two of the three standing divisions had been given to the Danish East Africa Company to protect the Swahili Coast and the other, the artillery, had returned to Copenhagen. The one division that could actually be called into action immediately was under strength, suffering as a consequence of the low military spending over the last few years. Thus the Swedes rested on their laurels, confident that there would most likely be no war. If there was, the Swedish King Charles XIV assured a worried nation, the Swedes would undoubtedly prevail. Most Swedes, including the government, believed that there would be no war, and if there was it would not be until mid 1841 at the earliest.

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A Mansion on the Outskirts of Copenhagen
21st June, 1840

This was where they met. A dark, gloomy house, owned by he who was known only as the Grandmaster. Tonight, midsummer, the halls were empty. The rats that haunted the poorly lit corridors were given a free reign, as all that took place here occurred underground. The servants were given the night off, and all that could be heard were distant cavernous echoing of voices sharing secrets that only those who were initiates of the Secret Order of the Temple were permitted to know.

They met not in the basement, but further, deeper down. The basement gave them not enough privacy, for what happened here required the utmost discretion. Instead, they met in vast caves that existed under the ground, to which there was an entrance in the house of the Grandmaster. The origins of the caves were not known, but it was obvious that something had made them. A casual observer would have noticed how the dim candlelight seemed to bend oddly, an unsettling experience for those not used to it.

The hall was filled with men of power, all dressed in the Masonic aprons which were covered in assorted magic symbols. Together, these men controlled the fate of Denmark and all of her subjects. The sat, with the order of authority clearly marked by the proximity of the members to the Grandmaster, who stood before them as the most illuminated of the Order, the leader and founder whose authority over even men of extreme wealth and influence was absolute and unquestioned. The Order was not an official part of the Grand Lodge of Freemasonry, and indeed there were no official Masonic organisations in Denmark at all. The Grandmaster had established the Secret Order of the Temple in light of this fact, acting in accordance with the wishes of the Nobility…

Mathias Jonsson pondered over the events of earlier as the Grandmaster started to speak. It really couldn’t have gone better, he thought while suppressing a smirk. The old man was dead, and a Swedish assassin was responsible, oh the horror! Luckily he had been carrying documents which proved he was Swedish upon his bloody demise. What a thoughtful assassin! Mathias’ first act as Prime Minister was to order a general review of the armed forces. What he found, was, to be quite honest, a shambles. Denmark’s standing army couldn’t even win a war against Bhutan, let alone Sweden. Indeed, that was why he had relayed a message to General Gudmunsson to fully mobilise, but with the utmost secrecy. Mathias thought while blocking out the Grandmaster’s voice, a voice that grabbed most people by the scruff of the neck and forced them to listen to the words of wisdom which inevitably poured forth.

The identity of Prime Minister Joachim’s successor was not really up for debate, and within three hours of his death Mathias Jonsson had been appointed by the King to fill the position. He was now the official Head of Government, although he retained his position at the Foreign Service Department at his insistence. The King, bless him, had worried that it would be too much for Mathias to handle, and it had not taken much for him to push these worries aside. As the Grandmaster continued to speak of the founding principles of the Order Mathias looked around at the other initiates. There was Lars Sandlund, and some distance away stood Knud Pedersen, the owner of every single newspaper that one could buy on the stands. I must congratulate him on that new liberal paper, Mathias thought vaguely as the Grandmaster stopped speaking. Tonight there were two new initiates, and there was a look of palpable fear on their faces. They looked like two scared children on their first day of boarding school, these being wealthy industrialists who made their money through the exploitation of the common man. It was heartily amusing to Mathias to see them squirm.

The initiation ceremony lasted an hour and a half, and afterwards various rituals were performed. As the meeting came to its conclusion Mathias started to leave, but was pulled aside by the Grandmaster.

“So you are Prime Minister now?” The Grandmaster gazed into the very depth of his soul, and Mathias looked straight back.

“Indeed. I assume you wish to congratulate me?” The Grandmaster looked temporarily nonplussed, and shook his head.

“Perhaps. No, I wish to speak of what comes in September…”

“What of it?” The Grandmaster laughed.

“I assume that you have already set things in motion…?”

“Of course. We will have eleven divisions ready for transport by the beginning of September at the latest.”

“Excellent. So now it won’t be long before-”

“Now let’s not be hasty! All in good time!” The Grandmaster glared at Mathias ferociously.

“I am never hasty!” Mathias nodded, and grinned.

“Let’s just take one thing at a time though, eh? Once the war is concluded and once my people have found for me that treasure that I search for, then it will be time.”

“It is the wish of the Nobility.”

“Their wish is my command, I assure you, oh Grandmaster of the Secret Order of the Temple.” The Grandmaster wrung his hands and smiled a compelling, evil smile.

“Perfect.”​

20. Two Swedes in Berlin

The Swedish Embassy to Prussia, Berlin
25th July 1840

“Cucumber sandwich, Herr Stierneld?”

“No, no, thank you.” With a swift wave of the hand Gustaf Stierneld, Swedish foreign minister waved away the servant, and sat back into the vaguely uncomfortable chair. Typical Germans, even make their guests feel uncomfortable he thought, looking at the men that sat around the table before them. To his left was none other than the Prime Minister of Prussia Karl Friedrich Heinrich, an elderly yet keenly alert and intelligent man. His wrinkled brow and deep eyes gave the impression of great wisdom, and Stierneld thought that that was exactly what they needed. Opposite him sat Baron Heinrich Werther, who occupied Stierneld’s role in the Prussian government. A proud, aristocratic man, and a notorious stiff neck to boot. Finally was Axel Gustafson, the Swedish ambassador to Prussia. It was upon his urgent pleading that he had agreed to come in secret to Berlin to hold this meeting, a meeting that could very well decide the future of Sweden.

“So,” Stierneld sighed, “what’s going on?” He looked each man in the eye in turn, and the first to speak was the elderly Prime Minister.

“We have…worrying intelligence concerning certain events that are occurring in Denmark.”

“Indeed. I believe that we have severely underestimated their strength militarily.” Stierneld glanced at Axel Gustafson, who had just spoken. “War may come sooner than we currently think, and you all know that the Russians would most likely support any act of Danish aggression.” Stierneld looked thoughtful.

“What proof is there of this?”

“Well,” piped up Werther, “our agents in Denmark have reported that large quantities of arms and ammunition have been moved from depots around the country to Copenhagen, which suggests mobilisation. Also Admiral Heinz has reported increased Danish patrols in the Sund, which does not bode well.”

“That,” Gustafson said nervously, “is why our two nations must sign some kind of pact. We share good relations, do we not?” There was a general nodding and murmuring of agreement around the table. “So…I propose that our two countries sign an alliance. As things stand, Denmark would win. With Prussian help…well, who knows? And of course,” he added, "there is the issue of Schleswig."

Stierneld glanced around, looking worried. The simple fact of the matter was that Sweden was in no position to fight a war alone. The Rikstag, which currently ruled in the King’s stead, was divided and partisan. To get a bill through authorising the full mobilisation of the Swedish Army could take months, and by the sound of it war was growing ever more immanent. Stierneld looked towards the two Prussians with a glint of hope.

“Ambassador Gustafson is right. Sweden in a war against both Russia and Denmark would be obliterated. The Danes would outclass us on the battlefields and the Russians would outclass us on the high seas. We need help.”

Prime Minister Heinrich and Foreign Minister Werther looked at one another, the silent tension almost too much to bear. A bead of sweat trickled down Stierneld’s head, and he now wished he had accepted that cucumber sandwich. His greying hair was now wet with sweat, and while the Prussians whispered in deliberation he thought about the Danes. He did not trust that new Prime Minister of theirs, who he knew well from the diplomatic circuit. There was something shifty about him. A superb diplomat without a doubt, but as ruthless as Napoleon. The Danes had now built up a good case against the Swedes, what with the smugglers and the supposed Swedish backed assassination of Otto Joachim.

The Prussians looked up, their deliberations finished.

“There are a few things that give me reason to pause concerning your proposal,” spoke Werther. “For a start, Prussia enjoys cordial relations with Russia. We would not wish to harm these excessively. A war would…well, make things difficult to say the least.”

“I also fear what exactly the Kingdom of Prussia would gain from this. Sure, denmark would be contained. However, as things stand I do not believe that even we could win a war against Russia as of this moment.” The two Swedes listened with sinking hearts as Prime Minister Heinrich continued speaking. “Our military is stood down, and it would take several months before we could even begin defending our borders realistically...”

Gustafson narrowed his eyes and spoke with venom.

“So you’re abandoning us?” He angrily slammed down his glass of water and stormed out of the room. He would resign his post as of the next day. The three men remaining looked at one another with nervous silence. Foreign Minister Stierneld was first to speak.

“Very well. I understand that Prussia must put her own nation interests before those of Sweden. I do believe you are making a mistake, for a strengthened Denmark would undoubtedly be a threat to Prussia.” He stood up, sporting an ironic smile. “Still, I suppose there may be no war. Or indeed, who knows, Sweden could win. Who knows how many divisions the Russians will be willing to send?”

“I do apologise Steirneld that no agreement could be reached here today, but I’m sure that we will be able to negotiate something, such as Prussian material aid or some such.” Stierneld looked at Werther, and sighed.

“Possibly. But I fear that further negotiation is pointless.” With that the meeting adjourned, and although talks were to continue for the next three days no agreements could be reached. Only one thing was made certain; Sweden would stand alone against her foes.​

21. On The Eve of Bloody War

“…And so it begins. The fate of all the world held in this one man. I see that he is adept at the black arts, and has personal ambitions that may bring his loyalty to us into question. However, as long as we have shared goals then I believe that all will go as planned. A war between Denmark and Sweden may seem an odd place to begin, but such hostilities are easily manipulated and can easily prove to be catalysts for much greater things to come. He is the future, he is the man who will bring the world to order. I hope he does not lose sight of the fact that his destiny is not his own but all mankinds‘…”

Excerpt from “The Danish Revival” by E. J. Cobban, Oxford University Press 2005

Prime Minister (or Chancellor, as the position came to be known) Jonsson’s first acts in his new office were to overhaul the antiquated structures of government that “kept us with one foot squarely in the 18th century”. The Foreign Service Department was scrapped and was replaced with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, to be headed by Jonsson himself. Other changes included the creation of the Ministry of Peace, which was headed by Ludvik Gudmunsson, as well as several key appointments to the King’s cabinet.

Most notably the young playboy industrialist Lars Sandlund entered the political arena being appointed as Minister of Trade and Industry, and Tomas Marken was appointed Minister of Finance (his old Ministry being combined with Industry to create Sandlund‘s new role). Knud Petersen was appointed Minister of the Colonies. His role was basically to oversee and regulate the slave trade, as well as to negotiate with the DEAC when needed.

A more clandestine reform of Jonsson’s was the creation of the Lov og Ordre Kontor (LOK), a secret police service that operated deep in the offices of Christiansborg. Only top officials in the Danish government were aware of its existence and purpose, which was to suppress pro-liberal activism with delicate care and utmost secrecy. Of course, it did not take long before people noticed that their friends and neighbours were disappearing in the night, and so the activities of the LOK only served to increase liberal resentment of the government. Most of the anger was directed at the King, who controlled and directed the affairs of the government as an autocratic ruler.

While all this was going on the Danish Army was making secret preparations for a naval invasion of Sweden, although it was definitely the most poorly kept secret that one could imagine. People, spurred on by the media, talked openly of coming war, and a series of patriotic speeches by Chancellor Jonsson made sure that the Danish people were fully behind the impending military action. In these speeches, which often whipped the crowd into a frenzy of patriotic fervour, Jonsson would highlight the acts of aggression perpetrated against the Danish state by the Swedes, most notably the assassination of Prime Minister Otto Joachim.

On August 18th Denmark sent to Stockholm an extensive list of their grievances with the Swedish state and made several key demands, of which refusal to comply would result in a state of war between the two countries. The demands were:

1. An official apology for each and every act of Swedish aggression by the King Karl XIV himself.
2. Reparations in monetary form of £50,000 for the suffering endured by the Danish state as a result of Swedish actions.
3. A further £1,000 for the families of the Danish merchants executed for smuggling.
4. The return of the Crown of Norway (but not the lands) as a symbolic gesture of goodwill between the two countries.

They were given two weeks to respond. On August 30th the response came, and it was a flat refusal to honour any of the demands. Three days later, on September 2nd 1840, a state of war was declared between the two countries, with Russia joining on Denmark’s side. The world watched on nervously as the first war in Scandinavia since Denmark’s humiliation during the Napoleonic Wars began. With massed ranks of Russian and Danish troops preparing to enter her soil the Kingdom of Sweden could only pray to God for a miracle.


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Outside Copenhagen, A Dingy Prison Cell
2nd September 1840

It was always the same. Nothing ever changed, here. The Jens of four years ago was unrecognisable, with his fine blonde hair now a dark, dirty mess, his face tired and wrinkled, betraying his meagre thirty four years of age. Despite his misery, despite the four months of irregular torture that he had endured back in late 1839, life was getting better. He had managed to befriend a guard, a young man known only as Madsen. Madsen had taken pity on the stricken prisoner and had secretly been giving him extra food. Jens had been able to whisper to him about Mathias, how evil and twisted he was. The young man had obviously been brainwashed or something, but was more receptive than any of the other guards. As a result of the extra food and water Jens could now stand unaided, and could feel the strength building within him. Soon…

Jens looked out of his cell and saw that Madsen and Nielsen were the two guards on duty. When he thought of all the pain he had endured at the hands of Nielsen he shuddered, and looking at the guards he saw…something. Had Madsen just winked at him? He could not be sure. This young guard was his only hope, maybe he pinned too much hope on him? Maybe he was just imagining things out of sheer hope? Jens mentally wrestled with himself until he was convinced that his imagination was running riot, and slunk back down against the wall of his cell. Just as he did he heard something.

“Hey, what the-” There was a smash, and in a panic Jens rushed to the door of his cell. Oh lord, it is true! There, lying in a pool of blood was Nielsen, his brains dashed across the cold stony floor. There was a mad glint in Madsen’s eyes, and with a quick dash he ran to the cell and unlocked it.

“You’re actually freeing me?” Jens spluttered, truly amazed despite his hopes. Madsen looked at the floor and sighed.

“Yes I am.” He laughed. “Being one of Mathias Jonsson’s henchmen is just not the life for me, especially after he killed…” His eyes went dark and cloudy, a bitter hatred seething deep inside of him. Then he looked up, and grinned. “Come on, we’d better go. I should think that I will be as much as a fugitive as you soon,” he said, looking at the corpse of his fellow guard. The two of them rushed out of the cell, and as Jens passed the body of Nielsen he spat and kicked at the corpse, memories of his torture resurfacing inside of him. They ran up the stairs and out of the castle, with no plan as to what to do next. I’m free at last, thought Jens hysterically, struggling to hold back tears. The dungeon that he had made his home for the last four years was now empty, all silent apart from the drip-drip-dripping.

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The Office of Mathias Jonsson
Early Hours of 3rd September 1840

The war had begun, and Mathias had been up all night conducting a war council. Now, finally, he was alone, and with a sigh he poured himself some vodka that he had been presented with by the Russian Tsar himself. Just as he was about to take a mouthful there was a knock at curt knock at the door, and Mathias growled with irritation.

“What!” he barked, suffering from acute tiredness. The door opened and he was presented with the sight of his pretty, full figured secretary called Thora Rasmussen. Mathias smiled. Thora had bright blue eyes, mousy brown hair and a smile that made Mathias weak at the knees. She batted her eyelashes and spoke timidly,

“There’s a man here to see you Mr. Jonsson.”

“Tell him to bugger off!” Thora bit her lip nervously.

“He says it is urgent!” Mathias sighed, and shrugged.

“All right, let him in.”

After a couple of seconds a man walked in, and Mathias blinked in surprise. The scraggly hair, the messy beard, it could only be-

“Poul, you have returned!” The man grinned, and sat down in the chair opposite to Mathias. Mathias looked at him and laughed.

“You could at least have had a wash before you came barging in here.” Poul grinned, and with a flourish he revealed a package that he had been keeping under his coat.

“No time for that, Mr. Jonsson, I had to come immediately.” He spoke with a slight, untraceable accent, and for the first time Mathias noticed the excitement in his eyes.

“You…?” Poul grinned and untameable grin and nodded furiously.

“I found it, Mr. Jonsson, I found it!” He handed the package over, and Mathias very carefully caressed it with his hands, as though what was inside was a precious as a Ming vase.

“Are you sure this is it?” Poul nodded.

“Without a doubt.”

The package was made of simple brown paper, and was the size of an average book. With slow, careful precision he removed the packaging and took a peek. He looked up at Poul, and very carefully slid it into his desk.

“You haven’t failed me, Poul. I will pay you in the morning.” Poul took that as his cue to exit, and immediately Mathias’ hand went to his desk. Finally! He thought, it is time-

His thoughts were interrupted once again by Thora, who popped her pretty head around the door.

“Um, Mr. Jonsson, there is another man to see you.”

“Yes, yes, tell him to come in.”

The man who entered was heavy set, with short white hair and a slick black suit. Mathias recognised him as Jorgen Hansen, the man in charge of the LOK.

The conversation lasted for less than a minute. Thora looked up in alarm as a loud howl emanated from the room, and as Hansen took his leave she saw that Mathias was thumping the table, screaming and shouting. This lasted for about five minutes until eventually he just broke down into sobs, mumbling something about “just a few more days, just a few more days I would have needed…”

After a few more minutes he composed himself, and sat, deep in contemplation. I must find another, he thought, another. Then, as something occurred to him he smiled. Yes, him. Why didn’t I think of it before?

With new schemes and plots filling his head he drifted to sleep, and dreamed dreams of power.​