The Danish Revival

76. The Battle of Haderslev

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

The series of small skirmishes known collectively as the Battle of Haderslev began on June 4th as a Republican scouting party was ambushed and massacred to a man by a small detachment of troops led by Colonel Kristensen. The first proper battle took place outside Haderslev itself, where Rye’s forces were caught by surprise by the full force of de Meza’s two divisions, and were forced to retreat north and abandon the town at least temporarily. De Meza gave chase, as Rye’s beleaguered division came under continued strafing and assault. On June 7th 1844 Rye’s army arrived at Christiansfeld, hoping to use the town itself as a weapon by forcing de Meza to fight for every street and house. However, Rye made a grave miscalculation; the people of Christiansfeld themselves took up arms and opposed Rye’s army. The massacre of the townsfolk that subsequently took place, thought to have been ordered by an underling rather than General Rye himself, is one of the darkest moments in the war, if not all of Danish history.

De Meza continued to press north, and when he reached Christiansfeld he found a ghost town, with the only inhabitants scared, beaten women and lost, wondering children. All the men, it seemed, had been rounded up and slaughtered, the thick red stains in the town square testament to this bloody act. The horror of what had happened was all the more as these were ordinary Danes that had been killed, by a Danish army under the orders of a Danish government. The unnecessary bloodshed drove de Meza to push forward with ever quickening haste, in the hope of bringing those who committed the Massacre of Christiansfeld to some kind of justice. The Monarchist army made for Kolding.


Kolding
June 10th 1844

No one had admitted to it. Of course no one had admitted, that was the way things worked. Rye shook his head, and as he stared at the brilliant blue sky, with the sun giving the world warmth and the clouds floating gently, he bent over and retched.

He was used to bloodshed, of course. It was not that bothered him. It was more the senselessness of it, the insubordination. Someone had given the orders to rape and pillage under his nose, and trying to stop the subsequent outpouring of violence and slaughter was as pointless as trying to stop a tidal wave with the palm of your hand. He could still smell that blasphemous marketplace, where the blood ran like libations of wine to the Gods. The spirit of the Vikings lives on, it seems, but that spirit is one bound for the fiery pits of hell…

Now the army had been forced back to Kolding, and victory against the monarchists in Jutland seemed like a distant dream with the paltry numbers Rye was forced to fight with. There had not even been any reinforcements, and the division was forced to operate at three quarters strength, destined only to grow weaker and weaker. It won’t be long before we’re back in bloody Vejle, he thought.

Something had to change, that much was clear. It would take a miracle to turn the tide and get a victory over the Monarchists….

Rye smiled and raised an eyebrow, as at that moment he made up his mind and knew what he was going to do. It was a feeling that he had been repressing through necessity, but things had got so bad that it now seemed like the only answer, time to act on that feeling. As he strolled through the camp it felt like a lead weight had been removed from his neck; he felt dizzy and elated. He found one of the messengers and had a brief talk with him, and a couple of minutes later the courier set out of the camp towards De Meza and his army, who was at that very moment pressing down on Kolding.

The Road Between Christiansfeld and Kolding

In the Monarchist camp morale was high and life was good. So far, every single battle and skirmish had been Monarchist victories, and the superiority of numbers more than made up for the problems with logistics that de Meza and Kristensen still faced, as it seemed that the Republicans were facing the same problems.

The army was able to make good speed due to the high morale, and as word of what had happened at Christiansfeld spread the towns, villages, and farmsteads they encountered were all willing to provide amenities and supplies to the Monarchists.

“What’s that?” said Kristensen to de Meza, who strained and narrowed his eyes. It was a dot on the horizon, but as it came closer it became that it was a man on horseback, riding alone. A messenger.

A couple of minutes later the rider was close enough to make out his features, and de Meza saw a young, short haired man with slight growths of facial hair and a very determined expression. He dismounted, and went to meet the messenger, who regarded him suspiciously.

“Are you General Christian de Meza?”

“Aye, that I am.” The messenger relaxed, and frowned, trying to remember exactly what he had been told.

“I bring a message from Generalmajor Rye. He wishes to parley.” De Meza raised his brow in surprise, and nodded.

“Did he mention the reason?” The messenger nodded.

“No-o, but he was very insistent that I tell you that it would be to your greatest benefit to hear what he wishes to say.”

De Meza was intrigued, very intrigued.

“Tell him I agree to his request.”​

77. Grigori and Nephilim

Gluecksburg Palace, Flensburg
June 4th 1844


Every month or so a letter would arrive from Alphonse, somehow always finding it’s way to Jens no matter where in the world he was. Sometimes two would arrive within a matter of days, other times there would be several months silence, but the correspondence continued, and the link back to a strangely nostalgia filled part of Jens’ life was maintained. Alphonse would update Jens on all the latest fads and trends in Paris, as well as documenting the decline and eventual death of old Ganneau; the exact time and date having been prophesised by the old mystic several weeks before. Since his release from prison the Parisian had been keeping a low profile, and earned money lecturing a small but dedicated group of enthusiasts in the ways of the occult. However, he kept an ear to the ground, and knew what was going on in the world underground. The buzz concerned the civil war in Denmark; most of the occultists supported Jonsson’s radical republic, and Alphonse’s attempts to dissuade them from this point of view was met, unfortunately, with relatively little success.

Jens sat in one of the lesser rooms of Gluecksburg Palace, casually reading one of the letters while sipping a glass of port. Despite the war that was ravaging the country it was peaceful and tranquil around the palace, and as far as Jens knew the King was asleep in his quarters. As he idly read his eyes suddenly widened, and he nearly choked on the mouthful of port he had taken. He went back and read the last couple of paragraphs again:

...Another thing that might interest you; I was reading over some old volumes that I found among Ganneau’s extensive library when I came across some mysterious text in a very strange form of Latin, with no mention of the identity of the author. I translated it to the best of my ability, and found it was an essay about the Book of Enoch; an apocryphal text of the Old Testament as I’m sure you know. It was all quite interesting, but something in particular seemed to resonate for some reason.

It was mention of the Grigori, or Watchers in plain old French. They were a group of fallen angels, or the Sons of God who came to earth and interbred with humans, or the Daughters of Men, creating a race of giants called the Nephilim. I believe the term is derived form some old word for abortion or something similar, and he argues that they were not giants in the literal physical sense, but in terms of their mental and intellectual power. The author of the essay seems to be arguing that the fallen angels survive to this day as something called the Nobility, the eight of the twenty leaders of the Grigori who survived God’s destruction of Eden, and it gives a list of their names as follows; Samael, Azazel, Arakiel, Kokabiel, Tamiel, Daniel, Chazaqiel and their leader, Semyazza. He even goes on to suggest Eden was Atlantis! The Apocryphal texts are pretty strange in themselves, but this seems like gibberish. Interesting gibberish, though...

Jens skimmed over the rest of the letter, and then went back to the two paragraphs, and carefully put his glass down. He remembered back to his initial meeting with Alpha, and thought about how similar the two accounts were. The stuff about the Book of Enoch and the Grigori was completely new, however, and Jens considered it a lead worth following. The Nobility remained a mysterious, malevolent factor in this whole conflict that Jens did not and could not comprehend, but it was possible that there would be more information about the Nobility and the Nephilim.

Of course, Jens knew only too well that very few copies of the apocryphal text existed, and certainly there were none in Denmark. He remembered reading about it’s discovery by the Scottish adventurer James Bruce in 1773, brought back to the Western world from Ethiopia, that obscure bastion of Christianity in the heart of darkest Africa. The Enoch it referred to was the great grandfather of Noah, and was supposedly upon death transformed into the angel Metatron, the Scribe of God, according the Zohar, a book that lies at the centre of all mystical Jewish thought and practice.

The Book was not written by Enoch himself, so the Biblical scholars claimed, but was the product of the Maccabean era, a century before the birth of Christ. As far as Jens knew it was only regarded as the revealed knowledge of God by the Coptic church, and his knowledge of that branch of Christianity was somewhat lacking.

Jens remembered that Bruce had brought back three copies; one went to the Bodleian Library in Oxford, one to the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris and one was kept by Bruce himself. As far as he was aware, no copies that had been made were otherwise available. Rereading over what Alphonse had written, Jens had a great desire to seek out and read the Book of Enoch for himself, but that would mean leaving Denmark whilst the Civil War continued. Although he had enjoyed his stint as the spy Ovesen, he knew in his heart that he was not a military man, best leave that to the likes of Kristensen and de Meza.

Jens put down the letter and smiled, and made up his mind. He found a blank piece of letter paper, and as he begun writing the letter to Alphonse he pondered on the best, easiest way to get to Paris.

78. Parley

The Road Between Christiansfeld and Kolding
June 13th 1844

De Meza had been quite surprised that General Rye wished for the parley to take place in the Monarchist camp, but pleased also. He had been expecting some neutral place, but Rye was adamant. Both Kristensen and de Meza knew why Rye wanted it this way; by subjecting himself entirely to the mercies of his enemy, there was no room for manoeuvre. It meant, to the Monarchist generals, only one thing; submission.

A scout reported to Kristensen that Rye and a small entourage were within sight, and thus he sent out the order that the enemy general should be treated with the utmost respect and courtesy, despite his position of weakness. Both the generals went out to greet Rye, and to guide him through the camp to the tent where the parley would take place.

Upon seeing his old friend de Meza could not help but smile, but soon noticed how haggard and tired Rye looked. His eyes were red, and he appeared painfully thin. They walked in silence, broken only by the sounds of everyday life in the camp. When they reached the tent Rye had a coughing fit, and for a moment de Meza thought he was choking. But he was not. As the three commanders entered the tent Rye’s entourage waited outside, returning the filthy looks they were getting from the denizens of the camp.

The tent was large, spacious and humid, despite the chilly wind outside that blew in from the Sund. As they sat down and exchanged formalities, de Meza anticipated what Rye would say with some excitement. Kristensen looked on, his expression guarded.

“So,” said de Meza, “your messenger said you had something to tell me that would be to my benefit?”

Rye rubbed his eyes, and nodded.

“Yes, yes. Ever since this war began, I have felt…uncomfortable. The whole situation just seems intolerable, and I despise Jonsson for how he has, through creeping treachery, seized material and spiritual power over this fair land. I fight on his side only because I was in Copenhagen when the revolution took place, and my unit was sent here by the Republican government. I am loyal, foremost, to my men, and second to the King, and third to the country.”

Kristensen nodded, and asked sharply,

“So what are you saying? That you wish to surrender?” Rye smiled gently.

“No, I do not wish to surrender,” he said, as de Meza’s hopeful expression fell. “I wish to follow my heart, and to offer my unit to you. I, as general, can feel when my men are not happy, and at the moment they could not be unhappier. Not only is every battle a defeat, but they feel that it is a defeat against the very people they should be fighting for, not against. Thus, Christian, I wish for my troops to come under your command.”

De Meza and Kristensen sat in stunned silence, contemplating what Rye was saying. Rye continued,

“As a mark of good faith, I offer myself up to be put into your custody, to do with me as you wish. I cannot return to Copenhagen, but I wish for Mathias Jonsson to know he has been betrayed at the earliest possible opportunity. Would that be possible?”

“Oh yes, definitely. I will send a messenger as soon as it is convenient. And do not worry, my friend, while you in our charge I will ensure you are treated with the greatest respect.”

Rye smiled, thankful. As he sat there, he felt no shame, no remorse; for it is not shameful nor a cause of remorse to betray an ideal you do not believe in, and Rye most certainly did not believe in the Republic, with all his heart and soul. He could see the excitement in the eyes of de Meza and Kristensen, and knew full well the implications of his defection; the entire north of the Jutland peninsula would be undefended. It would be absolutely devastating for the Republic’s war effort.

And indeed, over the next month or so the Monarchist army surged north, facing no resistance whatsoever. By early July the Monarchists had reached Viborg, and there was no one to stop them heading on further north. Elsewhere, in Skane and in Odense the Republic armies suffered humiliating defeats, and suddenly Copenhagen itself no longer seemed to be safe.​

79. Jens Goes Back To Paris

Paris, France
June 30th 1844

The voyage to France had been fairly uneventful, the trading clipper that Jens was hitching a ride on encountering calm, vacant seas all throughout it’s journey from Ebsjerg to Le Havre. Upon docking, Jens spent a few hours investigating the town and having a rest at a café, before getting the train to the capital.

In just a few short years the railways that Jens remembered from his last stay in France had been vastly improved, and the ride was far smoother and more comfortable. Jens fell into a dozy slumber, and when he woke there was a sight before him that evoked such hazy nostalgia; the city of Paris. The train rumbled into the station, and upon leaving the train the memories came flooding back. As he left the safety of the platform and headed into the city he found it was so familiar, and was able to memorise the route from Paris Central to the apartment building now owned by Alphonse, who had inherited it from his mentor Pierre Ganneau.

As he turned into Rue de la Chaisse, he thought back to that first meeting with Alphonse, when Jens had left Denmark after having escaped from Mathias’ evil clutches, and it felt like history repeating when, having knocked on the door, Alphonse opened it, unshaved and wearing a vest, looking exactly as he had the first time. However, this time he broke into a broad grin.

“Jens! It’s good to see you made it! Come in, come in, I have some very interesting things to show you…”

Jens followed him through into the kitchen, and was surprised to see that the place had been redecorated, albeit crudely and unprofessionally.

“Wine?” asked Alphonse, pouring himself a glass.

“No, thank you.”

“That’s fine,” Alphonse said, pouring Jens a glass anyway, to his amusement. They sat at the plain, rickety wooden table, and Alphonse took a gulp of his drink.

“So how’s Helena? It‘s just you never mention her in your letters.” Jens frowned.

“I don’t know really, for the last few months I’ve been in Odense and Jutland, while she’s been stuck in Roskilde.” Alphonse took another swig of wine in sympathy.

“That’s tough.” Jens nodded, and a brief silence ensued. Alphonse finished off his wine and got up to get another glass, while Jens changed the subject.

“So, this essay on the Nobility…can I see it?” Alphonse turned round.

“Ah yes, of course, hang on a moment.” He disappeared upstairs, coming down with a notebook filled with scribbled notes and various drawings, many of them sinister and obscene. However, a large part of it was the full translation into French of the strange essay, written originally in an obscure form of Latin. Jens begun to read, thankful he was fluent in French thanks to Alphonse’s horrible spelling and grammar, occasionally sipping his glass of white wine. Alphonse meanwhile, sat reading the newspaper, a few times glancing up to gauge Jens’ expression.

Eventually Jens looked up, his face wracked with puzzlement.

“I’m not sure I understand.” Upon hearing this Alphonse seemed to visibly relax.

“It’s…interesting, yes.”

“Do you have any idea who wrote this?”

“As it happens, I came across a reference to a certain Bernard of Valence, a thirteenth century Papal Inquisitor rumoured to himself be involved in the very heresy he was supposed to be fighting, but of course it was never proven or even investigated by the relevant authorities. If I remember rightly he claimed to be in contact with benevolent angelic beings, only to close friends of course.”

“The Nobility.” Jens murmured.

“Could be, could be. However, there is still the problem of how the author, should it be Bernard, had such knowledge of an as yet undiscovered apocryphal text.”

“That is certainly a puzzle, for sure. Is it possible that certain groups of individuals had possession of the Book of Enoch in the thirteenth century unknown to the secular and Church authorities?” asked Jens

“I suppose, but I reckon I would have come across it before if it had been.” He sighed. “Maybe I’ve just been reading the wrong things. However, if Bernard was really in contact with the Nobility then it’s possible they told him of it, but it still seems strange.” Alphonse paused for some wine, and then continued, “Of course, if you strip away all the stuff about Atlantis and the Book of Enoch then what you have is a standard thirteenth century heresy.”

“And I suppose this is what Mathias believes?” said Jens anxiously, “that Our Lord God is a mere malevolent impostor and that Lucifer was justified and right to rebel against Him and to tempt mankind?”

“If he and Bernard are in communication with the same entities, then there is little doubt that President Jonsson’s head will be full of all kinds of fancies.” Jens nodded, disgusted at the vile heresy of Bernard of Valence and Mathias Jonsson.

“What should we do?” Alphonse had a gleam in his eye.

The best way to find out information is to go directly to the source, is it not?”

“Yes, I suppose,” said Jens suspiciously.

“I have managed to procure a certain herb from the distant Amazon which supposedly takes the user’s mind to heaven, so that he may converse with angels.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of this…” said Jens slowly. Alphonse laughed.

“You want to find out more about all this, right? Well, if you remember, Enoch himself ascended to heaven and became the angel Metatron, the Scribe of God. If anyone’s going to know the answer’s to your questions, it is he!”

After a long, drawn out pause, Jens eventually agreed to consume the herb at some point in the near future, much against his better judgement. A few seconds later he said,

“I need more wine.”​