The Danish Revival

22. The Northern War - Strategy and Initial Manoeuvres

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

In preparation for the war the Danes had trained and equipped a total of 110,000 men, 5% of the entire population. They were divided into four separate armies, three numbering 3 divisions and the other two. The basic plan was for the three larger corps’ to attack the cities of Malmo, Goteborg and Karlstad while the other army was kept in reserve. The three-pronged invasion was codenamed “Operation Kalmar“, a clear reference to the last time in history that Denmark had held sway over their eastern neighbours.


The first Danish army to land on Swedish soil was the 3rd Corps, under the command of the relatively inexperienced General Thiele. It began just a few hours after the declaration of war, with the Danish navy bombarding the coastal city of Goteborg. Meanwhile, Thiele’s army landed just north of the city a week later, and by the time they reached the besieged city there was little resistance, and Goteberg became the first Swedish city to fall to the Danes on September 14th.

3rd Corps faced no opposition whatsoever from the Swedish Army. While “Operation Kalmar” was beginning the bulk of Swedish troops were concentrated around Stockholm, against which the Russians were to attempt numerous amphibious landings without success. In the north the Russians sent two divisions to invade from the north, although they assured the Danes that more were on the way. However, this proved not to be the case, as Russia concentrated most of it’s force against the garrisons around the Swedish capital.

On September 19th 6th Corps, under General Jessen, attacked the southern city of Malmo, only to face resistance from a lone division of the Swedish Army. Within a couple of days, under heavy fire, the Swedes were pushed back towards Karlskrona, and Jessen spent the next few weeks securing the area and awaiting further orders. Simultaneous to this was 4th Corps’ assault on Karlstad, led by the elderly General Krieger, which fell within a matter of days.

The rest of September was spent securing the lands around the cities of Goteborg, Malmo and Karlstad. The initial invasion had been a total success, and fears of Swedish naval interception of transport vessels proved to be unfounded. However, intelligence suggested that the Swedish Navy was still very much in existence, and had apparently been supporting the garrison at Stockholm.

In early October, the Danish Peace Minister Gudmunsson and the other military minds running the war set about putting “Operation Valdemar” into action. The two divisions kept in reserve, 5th Corps, was transported across the Baltic to land on Gotland, in order to take the main city on the island, Visby. The two divisions successfully landed on the island on the 13th October, without catching sight nor sound of the Swedish Navy. Meanwhile, on mainland Sweden the three armies were ordered to move further inland. Thiele moved on to Orebro while Jessen moved towards Jonkoping. Krieger’s army marched towards Falun, where they were to face stiff resistance from two Swedish divisions, heavily entrenched in the old fortifications of the town.

23. Under a Waning Moon

A Clearing in a Forest, near Roskilde,
Night of September 5th 1840,

There were so many questions he wanted to find answers to. They circled round his head, poking, prodding, hoping for a glint of light. There was only one man who knew the answers to those questions, and should they ever meet then it was likely that asking questions would not be on his mind. It would not be on his mind at all.

He must pay. He must fall, and beg for mercy. He will pay, and when he does, I will look into his eyes and feel nothing. No amount of pleading and desperate begging will sway me, for I have a mission that I must fulfil. Under my cold, watchful gaze, Mathias Jonsson will die. He will die and no one will shed a tear, least of all me-

“What are you thinking about, Jens?” The blue eyes focussed, and regarded the youthful, innocent face of Niel Christian Madsen. Niel had short brown hair, blue eyes and a strong jaw. He only looked about nineteen, and he and Jens had formed a solid, if sometimes stormy, companionship over the past three days. Jens was the old hardened, bitter pessimist compared to Niel’s young fresh-faced hardened bitter pessimist.

There was a moment of eerie silence until Jens coughed, and looked up into the bright, star-filled sky.

“I was thinking of revenge.” I was thinking of murder. Niel nodded, his own head full of plans of sweet bloody vengeance. He too looked to the sky, and let out a stifled laugh.

“Do you believe in God, Jens?” Niel looked down at his companion with bright eyes, and after a few seconds Jens averted his gaze away from the stars and looked Niel straight in the eye.

“Maybe. I would say so, although if he does exist then he must have a sick sense of humour.” Jens sighed. “Don’t listen to me kid, I’m just old and cynical. Yes, I do believe in God, really.” Niel considered this, and wrinkled his brow. He spoke softly and carefully.

“Would God sanction the vengeance we both crave?” Jens narrowed his eyes, and once again looked up towards the heavens.

“God created justice. The natural moral law is the very law set down by God himself, when Moses came down from the mountain. We must act in favour of what is good, for God himself is the very essence of goodness. You following so far?” Niel nodded.

“Yes, but you have yet to answer the question.” Jens let out a guttural laugh and sighed.

“Right. So anyway, to abide by the good. But what is the good? Is it enough to do no harm, to stay out of the fray? For example, if you see a man being brutally beaten on the street, is there a moral obligation to help that man?” Jens raised his eyebrows in enquiry, and regarded Niel with amused anticipation.

“Well, it depends, doesn’t it? If you’re asking theoretically then yes, I would attempt to help the man I suppose.”

“Why?”

“Because…because it is the right thing to do.”

“Aha! Yes, it is the good! God’s law gifts us with duties. Inaction in the face of the bad is as morally reprehensible as actively creating pain!”

“Sure, all right, but why the philosophy lesson?” Jens shook his head softly.

“I’m trying to illustrate a point if you don’t mind, kid! Anyway, that means that it is in the interests of the good to prevent others from violating it. My…our vengeance, it would be an act of good, for our inaction against him would in itself violate God’s law.” Niel screwed his brow in confusion.

“Right, okay, but there’s one quite important part that doesn’t fit. You know as well as I do that killing another man is a big no-no. Thou shalt not kill?” Jens grinned, and ran his hands threw his dirty blonde hair. In the short silence that ensued an owl hooted mournfully under the waning moon, and there was a rustle from within the bushes of a fox on the prowl. Jens noticed absolutely none of this. He spoke with a spooky quietness that had not been in his voice until now.

“Thou shalt not kill. That’s a funny one, kid. Did the knights who went to the Holy Land in the 12th century care about Thou shalt not kill? No, no they did not. They were fighting a holy fight against the infidel, who they slaughtered in their thousands.” Jens stared at Niel with a fire in his old blue eyes. “Despite the fact that all men are God’s creatures. Mathias Jonsson, on the other hand, was not sent by God but by the Devil, by Beelzebub, Lucifer, whatever you care to call him. He is a stain upon humanity, a blot that must be wiped out. Thou shalt not kill only refers to God’s creatures.” Jens let out a snort, and wiped his face. “So, you see, to answer your question, God would sanction the vengeance that you and I crave. He must, by his very nature. Trust me on this, kid.”

They had continued talking for a little while longer until the lure of sleep was too hard to resist, for Niel at least. Jens lay awake, his mattress some straw that they had stolen from a farm and his blanket a large sack he had found by the roadside, probably used for wheat originally. The itchy fabric of the rough sack scrapped against his skin, but he did not care. To him, this was luxury, at least compared to the last four years.

Jens thought back over the last three days. It had mostly been spent laying low in the woods, only emerging to steal food and rob passing travellers of all they possessed. The clothes that Jens now wore originally belonged to a merchant who had the misfortune to encounter the two fugitives turned highwaymen. Niel’s (admittedly unloaded) pistol has certainly been useful, Jens thought with amusement. He realised that they had become nothing more than common bandits, and knew that this could not continue for much longer, no matter who may be after him. After all, who could forget thou shalt not steal?

Tomorrow, he thought with steely determination, tomorrow we head for Roskilde. Jens lay awake, gazing at the stars until the sun rose to illuminate another new day with the soft caress of her rays.​

24. A Fork in the Road

September 6th 1840

The glorious yellow sun sat in the sky like a monarch surveying all those who stood before it. The sky was as blue as the azure sea, and a gentle wind made the trees dance a gentle, swaying dance. The birds sang a sweet melody from their treetop strongholds, and the forest was alive with all of nature’s bounty.

The two rather grubby, unshaven travellers who plodded with casual disregard for all of this rather spoilt the scene. On the left there was Jens Stemme, whose grizzled, hardened face was now but a mockery of the youthful radiance with which it used to grace the world. On the right was Niel Madsen, who walked with sweaty stubbornness. Any passing life would have no doubt have considered it an odd sight, and indeed they would have been right for these men were outlaws. That is, they stood outside laws that were in truth but a obnoxious reflection of what the law should be. To these two men, they were not outside of the law but instead the law was outside of them.

“We’re going to get caught, aren’t we?” Jens looked up in surprise, for these were the first words his companion had uttered for the last half an hour.

“Not necessarily. Not if there’s any justice in this world.”

“The only justice,” he spat the word with venom, “is Chancellor Jonsson’s personal gang of thugs, known otherwise as the Law and Order Bureau.” Jens looked sidelong at Niel and laughed, his mood strangely cheerful.

“Oh yes, this LOK you keep mentioning.“ There was a pause. “It’s a funny thing, actually.” Niel raised his eyebrow. Jens clearly had something on his mind.

“Yes?”

“I just had a thought, a memory. I remember…I remember when I was a child. After my parents died I went to live with my aunt Freda. She was a nasty, nasty woman, oh she was nasty! She was a cruel, heartless old bitch, and she found an ideal outlet for these qualities on me, just seven years old at this time. Often I would hide, often in the worst hiding places you could think of. And do you know what?” Niel raised his eyebrows.

“What?”

“She would never find me! Never! I just scrunched into a ball and concentrated on remaining invisible, and old Freda would fail to find me even if I were right in front of her.” He laughed, and pushed a branch out of his face.

“Are you being serious?” Niel’s face was deadly serious, and as he spoke he frowned. Jens looked at him surprised.

“It’s just a silly childish fantasy. I couldn’t really make myself invisible!” Niel spoke with deliberate slowness.

“Well…what if you could?” Jens looked at him incredulous, and burst into a guttural laugh.

“Oh come on, don’t be silly!”

“No, no, I’m not! I read somewhere, I can’t remember where, that about five percent of people have the ability to tune their minds through the sheer force of the will into the world that lies beyond the shadows, the world of the occult!” He spoke with excited urgency, and Jens look on with faint amusement. As unlikely as it sounds, Jens thought, it would explain quite a few things…

“I’m not sure. Are you saying that I might have magical powers?!” Niel shrugged.

“Maybe. I remember that those with strong enough minds can mentally ‘persuade’ other people to entertain certain ideas.” As an afterthought he added, “there’s nothing wrong with keeping an open mind.”

A silence ensued as Jens pondered what had just been said, and half an hour later they reached the outskirts of Roskilde.

---------------------------------------------------------

Roskilde

“So tell me again why exactly we are here?” Jens regarded his companion stoically.

“This is home. I wanted to see it again before…”

Jens and Niel stood in the main square at the centre of Roskilde, and attracted little attention from passers-by who took them for beggars or tramps. The city was strangely quiet, a consequence of the war. Mostly only women, children and the elderly remained.

“There’s also someone I want to see.”

“Who?”

“Father Ipsen. If he’s still alive, of course.” There was a look on Jens’ face that Niel had not seen before. A thought entered his head, and suddenly the look made sense.

“I think I will go to the cathedral and pray.” Jens nodded silently, and apropos of nothing they stiffly embraced one another.

“What will you do after?”

“I don’t know, maybe go to England or something. Maybe join the French Foreign Legion.”

“Sounds like a plan, kid…”

It had been clear for from the outset that they would have to go their separate ways at some point, so as to half the possibility of capture. It would have to be sooner rather than later, so that the bonds of friendship could not fully form in time. Now, here, it was time. However, the inevitability of it made it no easier for either man, and they said their farewells Jens could feel a tear forming at the corner of his eye. As it would turn out, the two men would never see one another again.

Jens wandered slowly down the wide, cobbled road, not paying attention to what was going on around him. He walked in a daydream, lost in sorrowful thoughts. He had few friends left in this world…

After a couple of minutes he came to a quaint grey stone house in the old part of town where Father Ipsen had lived all these years ago. It’s a long-shot, he thought, but it’s worth a try. He’s the only man in this town that I even halfway trust.

He knocked on the door with three crisp knocks, and could hear movement and cursing from the other side. Sounds like Ipsen, thought Jens with nostalgic amusement. Eventually the door swung open, and there in the doorway stood an old man, certainly approaching ninety if not already there. He had wispy white hair, grey facial stubble, deep, maze-like wrinkles and an overpowering odour of cheap beer. The eyes gazed upon Jens like those of a hawk.

“Father Ipsen!”

The man leaned forward, looking intently at Jens through his monocle. He stared for what seemed like an eternity, the polished piece of glass perched upon his eye only adding to the intensity. Eventually he leaned back, looking thoroughly puzzled.

“You there…” Jens smiled, hoping the old priest had recognised him. Ipsen blinked, and got out a cloth to wipe his monocle.

“You there…” he said again, “You’re dead!”​

25. The Re-Education of Jens Stemme Part 1

“You there…” he said again, “You’re dead!”

“Father, may I please come in?” Jens spoke with quiet sadness, and the old priest widened his eyes and smiled, revealing a mess of black and yellow teeth.

“It wouldn’t be very Christian of me to refuse you now, would it! Just don’t touch or bugger anything.”

Ipsen wondered off towards the kitchen, and motioned with his head for Jens to go into the front room. The door swung back, and Jens entered the room. From the kitchen came a shout.

“Do you want a beer?”

“Yes, sure.” Jens took stock of the room that he found himself in. It was sparsely decorated, with clear signs of damp on the grim brown walls. The paint was peeling away, and it smelt like an odd cocktail of vodka and beer. In the centre of the room was a round, wooden table, upon which was a pile of old newspapers, yellowed with age. Jens barely noticed this, as he now stood before one of the walls, which was from top to bottom a book repository. His curiosity piqued, Jens walked over to it and picked up a book at random.

“Hmm, Malleus Mallificorum,” Jens muttered. “Probably not many witches round here.” He gently put it back and took another. Jens screwed up his face in bemusement.

“The Greater Key of King Solomon? What’s a priest doing with this?!”

As he exclaimed this Father Ipsen walked in holding two steins of beer, and glared sternly at Jens.

“I thought I told you not to bugger anything!” Jens looked up sheepishly.

“Sorry, it’s just these books…!” Ipsen snatched the book out of Jens’ hand and with great care and precision put it back in the bookshelf, muttering to himself.

“That’s a bloody rare book. There‘s only three bloody copies in existence.” Seeing Jens’ expression the old priest sighed, and grinned. “Behold,” he said with dramatic flourish, “the greatest collection of magical and occult texts outside of the British Museum! I can tell you, it was no fucking walk in the park getting hold of some of these.” Jens looked at the floor, vaguely embarrassed by Ipsen’s foul mouth. The priest laughed.

“Oh, you always were a straight-laced little bugger, I seem to remember.” He sat at the table sipping his beer, and gestured for Jens to do the same. There was a brief silence as they took gulps from their steins. Ipsen wiped his mouth, and adjusted his monocle. Ipsen was the first to speak.

“So Jens, you’re alive. That’s a turn up for the books and no mistake. Why have you come to me?” Jens look puzzled.

“I came to…I came because…um…actually I’m not entirely sure.”

“Good reason.” Ipsen took a gulp of his beer, and listened as Jens spoke.

“I think, however…I think I do know why, really why. I realised when I saw you’re library.” Ipsen raised an eyebrow in enquiry.

“Oh yes?”

“Well, it’s just that I had a memory, and my friend said something about the occult, and now I find you with all these books…”

“So it’s destiny, eh?” Ipsen spluttered a laugh, spraying beer across the room.

“Exactly how much do you know about these things? Because if you would be willing to teach me, I would be a willing student.” Ipsen listened while wiping the table with sleeve of his stained shirt, and look up intensely at Jens.

“I know more than most. I can verse you in the basics, but I fear my time is near. My memory, my eyesight, my hearing and my heart are starting to fail me. After that, I suggest you seek out an acquaintance of mine, a certain Pierre Ganneau. Have you ever been to Paris?” Jens nodded.

“Yes, as part of the diplomatic corps.” Ipsen smiled evilly.

“You ain’t been to the real Paris, then?” Jens looked confused.

“The real Paris?” Ipsen shook his head and tsked.

“There’s more to Paris than fancy palaces, you know!”

-------------------------------------------

For the next three weeks Jens lived with Father Ipsen, absorbing all the knowledge that the wily old priest had accumulated in his ninety three years, knowledge that one would not expect a catholic priest to possess.

“Magic,” Ipsen had explained, “don’t care what you use it for. It’s morally wossname, you know, neutral. Black magic and white magic depends on the heart of he who uses it, my lad. Always remember that.”

Ipsen had told Jens how the library had been begun when the priest was still an active man of the cloth, some fifty years before. Initially it had been a case of “know your enemy,” but over time it became apparent to Ipsen how there was power in these books. He had retired from the church when he reached sixty due to a bad heart, and had spent his time in solitude with the books. Of particular interest to the old priest recently was the writing of the necromancer and occultist Dr. John Dee.

The curiosity came about after Ganneau mentioned in a letter a couple of years back how a lodger and student of his had acquired a copy of Actions with the Spirits, and had been reading and studying it avidly for some time. Ganneau mentioned the young lodger frequently in their correspondence, and one of the many things Ipsen had learnt about the man was that he was a lapsed catholic priest, as well as a master tarot reader and expert on the Qaballah. Unfortunately, Ganneau had written, he was unable to find a job, despite his immense intellect and knowledge of the obscure.

During the three weeks Ipsen seemed to grow weaker and weaker, and to Jens’ amazement had still insisted on versing and teaching him even as the life was draining from his frail body. On September 29th, just two days before Jens planned to leave Denmark, the old priest died. He had had no close relatives, and the funeral had been a grim affair. Jens had stood in the pouring rain, with no one there but himself and the churchman who conducted the service.

Jens had been surprised to learn that in the brief time he had been staying in Roskilde that Ipsen had changed his will, leaving everything he owned to him. When he had read the will a tear formed at the corner of his eye, as Jens mourned the loss of yet another friend. This final act of generosity from the old priest far surpassed all else, although Jens was saddened that he would have to leave it all behind in a couple of days.

Father Ipsen had given Jens the name and location of a man who could smuggle him off Sjaelland. The priest had not given too many details about this man, but had made it clear enough that he was engaged in a variety of nefarious activities and was somewhat suspicious of the law himself. The absence of the Danish Royal Navy, currently engaged in combative action in the Baltic Sea, would make Jens’ journey much less hassle than it could have been.

On October 1st Jens set out for a small cove just south of Copenhagen where he was due to meet a man called Krieger. The meeting went as planned, and within two weeks the “Mathilda” had docked at near Caen in France, from which Jens set out for Paris and Pierre Ganneau.​

26. The Re-Education of Jens Stemme Part II

Paris, France, October 16th 1840

All Jens had was a name and an address, written on a scrap of paper in the shaky writing of the now deceased father Ipsen. He walked through the bustling city of Paris, and as he did he realised a grim irony about his situation. Mathias had sent him into a fake exile, and now here he was in real exile. It was like life imitating art.

The note that Jens held in his hand read:

Pierre Ganneau, 17 Rue de la Chaise, Paris.

So far his rudimentary knowledge of the French language had got him by, although the upper class accent with which he spoke was completely at odds with how he looked, more a vagrant or a beggar than a noble. He had received directions to Rue de la Chaise from a market trader, and now stood before the boarding house owned by Ganneau. The road proved to be nothing but a grim, dank alley and number 17 was part of a long, high terrace. With considerable anticipation Jens knocked on the door, and was surprised to be greeted by a man of no more than thirty. The man was unshaven, he wore the clothing of the Parisian poor, and smelled quite strongly of incense, or something similar. His hair was short and brown, and his nose was small and pointed. What Jens noticed most though were the eyes of the man, which were like two black pits into oblivion.

“You’re not Ganneau…” Jens murmured quietly. The man looked bemused.

“No, I’m not Ganneau. May I ask who you are?” His eyes narrowed threateningly. “You’re not a tax collector, are you? You don’t want to know what happened to the last taxman who poked his crooked nose round here.” Jens started giggling.

“Do I look like a taxman to you?!” The man shrugged.

“No, I guess not. Taxmen don’t usually smell quite as bad as you. Anyway, who are you then?”

“I am Jens Stemme from Denmark. I believe Monsieur Ganneau is expecting me?”

“Denmark you say? That rings a bell. Also explains the odd way you speak. I’m Alphonse, by the way, Alphonse Louis Constant.” They shook hands, and Alphonse led Jens into the communal sitting area. It was a simple room with a wooden table in the middle, which had been laid out for four. Jens remembered back to those letters that Ganneau had sent to Ipsen, and it occurred to him that this man, Alphonse, must be the lodger that he was constantly talking about.

Alphonse poured them both glasses of wine, and they sat at the table.

“Ganneau is out at the moment. His wife is upstairs in bed. She had been ill of late, consumption. Pierre has tried everything, but not even the doctor could do anything. He is a man of great powers, no doubt, but I think he just has to accept that Florie’s time is near.” Alphonse downed the remainder of the blood red wine and promptly poured himself another glass. He drained that glass too and burped. “You’re timing is unfortunate, to say the least. Ganneau is so wracked with sadness for his Florie that I can’t see him of being any use to you at all.” Alphonse smiled at Jens conspiratorially. “I assume that you have come to learn of matters of the occult?” Jens nodded, and told Alphonse of all that had happened in the last four years. At the end Alphonse looked thoughtful.

“I can assure you that you have no use for Ganneau, then. Sure, he and Florie are masters at natural magic, but that’s not much good for what you need. I’m pretty sure that this Mathias, if he is indeed dabbling in the black arts, is using high magic. You know, demons, angels and whatnot.” Jens frowned.

“I don’t know whether or not he is even using magic, let alone what kind! I know that he has some kind of influence over the King, but that’s it. Four years locked in a dank cell has rather limited my means of knowing these things.” Alphonse scratched his scrubble and downed another glass of wine.

“Well, look at it this way. If you learn the secrets of high magic and Mathias isn’t an adept, then you have a significant advantage. If he is an adept, then at least you will be on a level playing field. You get me?” Jens nodded, and at that very moment that door creaked open, revealing an old man, Pierre Ganneau. The man seemed to give off an aura of great power, knowledge and wisdom, but also of weakness and vulnerability. The main thing that occurred to Jens was that the man looked exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept soundly for months. He stood up to greet Ganneau.

“Monsieur Ganneau, I am Jens Stemme.” There was a flicker of recognition, and a faint smile.

“Ah, yes, old Father Ipsen sent you. How is the old beggar?”

“Um, he died not long before I left. I‘m sorry.” A pained expression flickered across the old man’s face, and his feature’s visibly sagged.

“Oh. Oh dear. Well, I need to go and tend to my Florie.” Ganneau lurched out the room, and Jens sat back down at the table, turning to find that Alphonse had disappeared. Jens sat at the table fiddling with his empty wine glass, not quite knowing what to do with himself. Eventually Alphonse returned with another bottle of wine, and poured them both some more. After a pause of a few seconds Alphonse spoke.

“I suppose I will have to verse you in the occult arts, then. I know enough to guide you well, so I believe. How about we start with a practical demonstration?”

“Wh-what do you mean?” Alphonse grinned cheerily.

“Let’s attempt to talk with the spirits. I’ve always wanted to converse with Cornelius Agrippa myself, or maybe Dr. Dee. You?”

Jens, wide-eyed, shook his head, and gulped down the remainder of his wine with one swift movement.​