---- To battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone.
By each gun a lighted brand,
In a bold determined hand,
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.
Nelson was the chief in command of the English ships engaged on this
eventful day, for Sir Hyde Parker could not possibly come up with his
portion of the fleet, as wind and tide were both dead against him. Of
Nelson, then, and his ships, it is that Campbell sings:
It was ten of April morn by the chime;
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
And well might the boldest hold his breath! It was no ordinary foe
that British valour had to contend with, but one of the bravest and
most skilful both by sea and land in the whole world. At length the
dread signal flew 'along the lofty British line,' and each gun--
From its adamantine lips,
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
The appalling roar of a thousand cannon answered on the part of the
Danes, and soon the very wind of heaven was stilled by the thundering
reverberations of the artillery. We leave the historian to describe
minutely the progress of the fight, and turn to the ship of Anton
Lundt.
We have already said that this ship was the outermost in the inner
harbour, and as the combat deepened, she was exposed to the heavy
broadsides of two English seventy-fours. She was moored stem and
stern, but her stern moorings were shot away, and she consequently
drifted in such a position, that both the English ships poured in an
awful fire that raked her fore and aft. In a few minutes, her bowsprit
was cut to shivers; her foremast was splintered and tottering; her
main-yard broken up; her mizen-mast entirely carried away, and
drifting under her counter; her bows riddled with shot; and her upper
decks strewn with dead and dying. Only about half a dozen of her guns
could be brought to bear, and although the crew made every possible
attempt to manoeuvre the ship, so as to recover her original position,
they entirely failed in doing so; and it was obvious that the
unfortunate vessel would soon be a mere floating shambles, if not
altogether shattered to pieces, and sent to the bottom.
If a boat could have been sent ashore with a hawser, the ship would
speedily have hauled, so as to avoid being raked, and also her own
broadside would have been available; but it would have been hopeless
to send off a boat, as every yard of intervening water was ploughed up
with round and grape shot, and a boat would have been specially aimed
at, and sunk before she had gone a couple of lengths. Moreover, every
boat in the ship had been staved or knocked to atoms already.
In this horrible crisis, Anton Lundt, who was stationed on the
quarter-deck, stepped up to the captain, stripped to the waist, all
begrimed with powder, and sprinkled with the blood of his messmates,
and said: 'I will leap overboard with a line, and swim ashore to that
battery, and then you can bend a hawser to the line; and when we have
hauled and secured it ashore, you will heave upon it, and get the ship
back to her moorings!' The captain gazed a moment at the intrepid
mariner who made such a chivalrous proposal, and then, without a word
of reply, sadly shook his head, and significantly pointed to the
water, which was all alive with hissing balls.
'I know it, captain,' rejoined the undaunted volunteer; 'but there is
a God above all!' Without further parley, Anton seized a coil of small
white line, and with the dexterity of a seaman, knotted the end over
his neck and beneath one arm, bringing the bight over his shoulder for
convenience in swimming. He then slipped off his trousers--the only
garment he had on--and took a few loose coils in his hand, his
messmates undertaking to attend to the running out of the bight after
him. All was the work of a minute; and without pause, he plunged
head-foremost into the sea from the taffrail, shouting, as he clave
the air: 'For Rosine og gamle Danmark--hurrah!'
He rose some dozen yards or more from the ship's stern, having dived
straight for his bourne, which was not more than eighty yards distant
at the most. The general surface of the harbour would have been
perfectly calm, had it not been for the continuous swells created by
the oscillations of the Danish ships, as they rocked to and fro under
their heavy broadsides. Just as Anton Lundt emerged, a twenty-four
pounder struck the water within a few yards of his back, but
ricochetted exactly over his head, merely stunning him for a moment
with the spray. He swam straight as an arrow, with the long and
powerful strokes of a first-rate swimmer; and occasionally, when the
grape and musket shots whistled thick as hailstones around him, he
dexterously dived. Thus swimming and diving alternately, he very
quickly sped two-thirds of the perilous distance, amid the cheers of
his countrymen. At length, however, the nearest English ship observed
him, and probably guessed his object; for the marines on her poop
fired a close volley at him, and a scream of rage and despair from his
messmates arose, when they beheld him wildly throw up his left arm in
unmistakable agony, and flounder in what appeared his death-flurry.
Then his body rose perpendicularly, till his shoulders were a foot or
more clear above the water, and he slowly fell backward, with his head
pointing to the Danish battery. Contrary to expectation, he did not
sink, however, but floated at full length, with nothing but a portion
of his face visible. After a pause, he was observed to be propelling
himself with his feet--swimming on his back, in fact--and his
messmates on board the ship, and his countrymen at the battery, now
cheered louder than ever. Two minutes of breathless suspense followed,
and then a dozen hands were stretched forth, and he was lifted up the
stony slope that led to the level of the battery. A moment he turned
round, and faced towards his ship--his right arm hanging helplessly
down by his side, shattered above the elbow by a ball, and his naked
body streaming with blood from several wounds--then he waved his left
arm in the air, and feebly hurrahing, fell senseless in the arms of
the soldiers. By the order of one of their officers, he was
immediately conveyed out of further danger. Meanwhile, had victory to
the Danish arms depended on poor Anton Lundt's single heroic effort,
Denmark would assuredly have triumphed, for his scheme succeeded
perfectly. A hawser had been attached to the end of the line aboard
the ship, the soldiers promptly hauled it ashore and secured it, and
then the man-o'-war was easily hauled out of her critical position.
Let us now briefly glance at the progress of the main battle. It
commenced exactly at five minutes after ten A.M., and in about an
hour it was general on both sides. The Danes fought--as they ever have
fought, and ever will fight--like worthy descendants of their
Scandinavian forefathers, and for awhile the result seemed doubtful.
As already mentioned, Sir Hyde Parker could not get to Nelson's aid;
and it is related that this excellent man--who was as generous-minded
as brave--endured dreadful anxiety on account of Nelson and Graves. In
another half hour he could bear it no longer, and resolved to make a
signal for the recall of the two subordinate admirals, remarking to
his own captain, that if Nelson, whose extraordinary character he well
understood, really felt himself in a position to continue the battle
with a prospect of ultimate victory, he would heroically disobey the
signal.
The signal of recall was accordingly hoisted, just at the time when
the fire of the Danes had reached its acme, and it was yet a matter of
considerable uncertainty to which side victory would incline. Nelson
was swiftly pacing his quarter-deck, moving the stump of his lost arm
up and down with excitement, and the balls of the foe whizzed thickly
around him, stretching many a brave fellow lifeless at his feet. The
splinters flew from the main-mast, which a ball perforated; and then
it was that Nelson is said to have smilingly observed: 'Warm work!
this day may be the last to any of us at a moment! But, mark you--_I
would not be elsewhere for thousands!_'
The lieutenant whose duty it was to attend to the signals, now
informed him that No. 39--'Leave off action!'--was hoisted on board
the commander-in-chief. Nelson heard this unmoved, and made no reply.
A second time the signal-lieutenant reported it to him, and asked if
he should answer it in turn. 'No!' was the stern reply; 'but
acknowledge it.' He then asked if his own signal for 'close action'
was duly flying, and being affirmatively responded to, said: 'Mind you
keep it so!' Let us quote the characteristic scene that immediately
ensued:--
'"Do you know," said he to Mr Ferguson, "what is shewn on board the
commander-in-chief! No. 39!" Mr Ferguson asked what that meant. "Why,
to leave off action!" Then, shrugging his shoulders, he repeated the
words, "Leave off action? Now, ---- me if I do! You know, Foley,"
turning to his own captain, "I have only one eye--I have a right to be
blind sometimes!" and then, putting the glass to his blind eye, in
that mood of mind which sports with bitterness, he exclaimed: "I
really do not see the signal!" Presently he exclaimed: "---- the
signal! keep mine flying for closer battle! That's the way I answer
such signals! Nail mine to the mast!"'
The action continued with increased vigour, for Admiral Graves,
probably taking his cue from Nelson, also disobeyed Sir Hyde Parker's
signal. At one P.M., the fire of the Danes grew weaker, and by degrees
it slackened, so that at thirty minutes past two P.M., it had ceased
altogether in many parts of their shore defences, and most of their
ships struck to the English, although the Crown Batteries, and a few
men-o'-war ahead of Nelson's position, still fought with desperation,
and fired on the English boats sent off to secure the prizes. Some of
the surrendered ships were, in fact, placed between two fires--that of
friends and foes, and the unfortunate crews suffered proportionately.
Nelson was both angry and grieved at this; and he immediately went
into the stern-gallery, and addressed a world-renowned note to the
crown-prince, couched in these words:--
'Vice-Admiral Lord Nelson has been commanded to spare Denmark when she
no longer resists. The line of defence which covered her shores has
struck to the British flag; but if the firing is continued on the part
of Denmark, he must set on fire all the prizes that he has taken,
without having the power of saving the men who have so nobly defended
them. The brave Danes are the brothers, and should never be the
enemies, of the English.'
He sealed this in an unusually formal manner, saying, that 'it was no
time to appear hurried.' Captain Sir Frederick Thesiger carried this
letter ashore,[1] with a flag of truce, and delivered it to the
crown-prince, at the Sally Port. The latter sent to know the precise
meaning of Nelson, and he replied thus:--'Lord Nelson's object in
sending the flag of truce was humanity; he therefore consents that
hostilities shall cease, and that the wounded Danes may be taken on
shore. And Lord Nelson will take his prisoners out of the vessels, and
burn or carry off the prizes as he shall think fit. Lord Nelson, with
humble duty to his Royal Highness the Prince, will consider this the
greatest victory he has ever gained, if it may be the cause of a happy
union between his own most gracious sovereign and his majesty the king
of Denmark.'
The immediate result was a total cessation of hostilities, and a most
complete victory to the English. When the contest was over, the
wounded were gradually collected and removed to the hospitals and
private houses of the city--to the latter when their personal friends
claimed them. Many of the Danish soldiers and sailors engaged were
natives of Copenhagen, or had relatives and dear friends therein, and
the scenes that ensued during the afternoon, evening, and night, were
heart-rending in the extreme. Parents, wives, brothers, sisters, and
sweethearts, franticly ran from place to place, alike hoping and
dreading to learn certain tidings of the fate of those so dear to
them. All Copenhagen was a city of wo and wailing. Everybody had
sustained a loss. Mothers and fathers wept for their brave sons
killed, wounded, or prisoners; sisters for their brothers; girls for
their lovers; the patriot for his poor conquered country and his
slaughtered countrymen. Tremendous, in our estimation, was the moral
responsibility of the English ministry for 'letting slip the dogs of
war' for a slight cause--nay, strictly speaking, for no valid cause
whatever. Our firm conviction is, that had England left Denmark to her
own honourable instincts, the latter nation would never have given
real occasion for an appeal to arms. Even yet more cruel and criminal
was the bombardment of the city of Copenhagen itself, only six years
subsequently to Nelson's _raid_--for it was nothing better. But they
managed matters fifty years ago in a different manner from what the
enlightened spirit of the age would now tolerate. No British ministry
of the present day would dare or wish to act as did the ruling sachems
in the early part of this century.
Anton Lundt--as true a hero as Nelson himself, although incomparably a
humbler one--was, as already related, conveyed to the rear of the
battery, and his wounds were attended to as well as circumstances
would admit. Later in the evening, his father, an old invalid
man-o'-war's-man, found him, and had him removed to his own humble
home. The poor fellow had never recovered consciousness, and for many
long hours he lay moaning, and occasionally struggling convulsively,
under his natal roof, and in the same little room where he was born.
His aged parents and a few friends wept around him; but there was one
other watcher by his side, whose grief, although silent, surpassed
theirs. It was his betrothed _Pige_, or sweetheart, Rosine
Boerentzen--she whose image had excited his heroism, she whose name
was coupled with Denmark as his battle-cry. She shed not a tear--her
anguish was too deep for that--but sat by his lowly pallet,
supporting his head on her bosom, and wiping away the light foam from
his bubbling lips. Ever and anon the dying sailor--for, alas! dying he
was--would utter sea-phrases, or affecting words of friendship or of
love, yet not even the voice of Rosine, continually murmuring in his
ear, could recall him to sensibility.
The midnight hour approached: a medical man had just been in, and
departed with the brief but decided assurance that the patient could
not possibly survive many minutes. A worthy clergyman was kneeling
with the family around the couch, praying to God to receive the
parting spirit. In the midst of their supplications, the countenance
of Anton Lundt was illumined with a gleam of unearthly triumph, and
springing half-upright, he tossed his left arm aloft, and in
soul-thrilling tones pealed forth his battle-cry of 'Rosine og gamle
Danmark--hurrah!' He then instantly fell back a corpse on the bosom of
his betrothed.
In the suburb of Oesterbrö, at Copenhagen, is a naval cemetery, and it
generally attracts the eye of the stranger, as it most forcibly did
our own, by a number of rough, picturesque fragments of unhewn
granite, strewn over the mortal remains of the brave men who fell
fighting for old Denmark against Nelson. The simple words, '_Anton
Lundt, död 2 April 1801_,' may be seen on one of them.
Rosine Boerentzen never smiled again. On the first anniversary of the
battle, she returned home from the cemetery, where she had been to
place a wreath of _immortelles_ on the grave of her betrothed, after
the fashion of her country, and ere morning dawned, her soul had fled
to rejoin her hero in heaven. Peace to the souls of the brave, and of
all who loved and were loved of the brave who fell at the Battle of
the Baltic!