I SERVE IN A DANISH CAMPAIGN WITH SMALL GLORY.
For some days the most friendly intercourse was maintained between the
inhabitants and the British officers. Parties from the fleet landed
daily, were hospitably received, and both liberally and cheerfully
provided with all such articles as could contribute to their comfort;
no suspicion of our hostile intentions was even conjectured by the
deluded Danes. At length, the true object of our designs being
suspected, a Danish frigate which lay near us slipped her cable on the
night of the 13th and contrived to get away in the dark; but on her
escape being discovered at daybreak, the _Comus_ sloop of war was sent
in pursuit. Since it was a dead calm, she was towed out by the boats of
the fleet.
The scene is still fresh in my memory, and I fancy that I see the long
line of boats manfully urged forward, our brave jolly tars, after
every two or three strokes of the oars, crying out, “Hurrah! hurrah!
for the Danish black frigate!” At length the _Comus_ came up with
her in the Cattegat on her way to Norway, and after a short conflict
brought her back a prize into her own port, and this hostile act put an
end to all further intercourse on friendly terms. Some English boats
which approached the shore next morning were fired at, and none were
thenceforward allowed to land.
On the 15th we dropped down to Humlebek, a village about seven miles
distant from Copenhagen; and on the following day, covered by seventeen
ships of the line, a proportionate number of frigates, gunboats, etc.,
commanded by Admiral Gambier, the military commanded by Lord Cathcart
landed with fire and sword upon ground suddenly considered hostile. No
previous intimation of intended hostility was given, as is customary
amongst all civilised nations, when real injuries have been suffered,
or imaginary ones held forth as a pretext for political aggression.
At this village (Humlebek) it was that a hundred and seven years
previous to this our attack the Alexander of the north landed from the
_King Charles_, the largest ship then known to the waves and carrying
one hundred and twenty guns. Here it was that this extraordinary man
heard for the first time the whistling of bullets. Ignorant of the
cause, he asked General Stuart by whom he was accompanied; and the
general with characteristic frankness answered, “It is the whistling
of bullets fired at your Majesty.” “Good,” replied the warlike young
monarch; “henceforth it shall be my music.”
But how different were the motives which urged the hostile descent in
1700 from those which inspired our attack in 1807--as different as was
the beardless Charles, not yet eighteen, in the bloom of youth, with
the fiery martial genius which soon made him the terror of Europe,
and burning with anger at national aggression and personal insult,
from our leader, who was already descending into the vale of years,
and who could have felt no greater stimulus than military discipline
in strictly obeying orders which he probably disapproved! Military
excitement there was none. On our landing, no whistling bullets
greeted the veteran’s ear, nor inspired the young soldier to deeds of
deathless glory. Laurels there were none to reap, for the defence of
the capital depended principally on undisciplined militia and young
students at college. To add still further to the contrast, the Swedes
landed as open and declared foes, whereas we, coming with no less
hostile intent, professed ourselves bosom friends.
On the night of our landing (August 16th) we advanced through a
lofty forest. During our march an alarm was given that the foe were
approaching. Orders were instantly issued to load with ball and fix
bayonets, when many a sleek-chinned boy lost or gained the flush on
his cheek. I now forget in which class I ranked, as, with many others
present, it was the first time I expected to come in contact with a
national foe, for such the Danes were some few hours before declared.
The alarm proved false, and we felt grievously disappointed or happily
consoled, according to the feelings of the individual.
[Sidenote: A SECOND LESSON IN CHIVALRY.]
Next morning we continued our march towards the capital; but ere
we reached the immediate vicinity of Copenhagen our march was
interrupted by an occurrence not ordinary in warfare. A dense column
of dust proclaimed the advance of some large body, which we naturally
considered to be hostile. Horsemen were soon discovered, when we
immediately formed in battle array; but we soon learned that the
approaching foe were no other than a civic cavalcade, who escorted
the Royal Princesses of Denmark to a place of safety, having been by
special permission allowed to retire from the scene of premeditated
slaughter. The royal carriages slowly advanced, accompanied by many
of the principal nobility of Denmark, and attended by a small escort
of dragoons. The unfortunate Princesses wept bitterly, as did many
of the nobles who were with them. In witnessing their grief it was
impossible to remain unmoved. The whole appeared a sorrowful funeral
procession, although all were living bodies. As the royal mourners
passed between our hostile ranks, arms were presented, colours dropped
and bands played the National Anthem, “God save the King,” thus adding
to the poignancy of their woe by vain pageant and heartless courtesy.
This distressing ceremony being ended, we pushed forward, and, having
arrived before the destined town, each corps took up their proper
position.
Our station was near the village of Frederiksborg, in a wheatfield
whose golden ears o’ertopped the tallest grenadier; the stems we
trampled down for bedding, giving the grain to our sumpter animals.
This being the first time I ever adventured from the shores of Great
Britain, everything was new to me and consequently enjoyed. I saw
the first Congreve rockets ever fired against an enemy. They seemed
reluctant to add to the conflagration, many of them in the midst of
their orbit turning back to whence they were sped. I witnessed the
fall of the lofty and majestic steeple, bearing the three crowns,
awfully tumbling down among the blazing ruins. The loud and tremendous
crash, heard for miles around, was terrific; and it must have been a
heartrending spectacle to the proud and patriotic Danes, who witnessed
the destruction of such a noble monument of national grandeur.
Immediately after the deafening crash, still growling in the distance,
suddenly there arose an immense body of fire, which, detaching itself
from the ruins, illumined the whole island, blazing in spiral form
towards the heavens, as if to demand retribution. I saw well the
splendour of the scene, being that night an outlying piquet with
Captain (now Sir Frederick) Stovin. In the meantime the inhabitants
were most liberally served with shells, shot and rockets.
While the siege was thus actively carried forward, a report was made
that some Danish troops, so called, had occupied in hostile array an
eminence in our immediate vicinity. A detachment were immediately sent
against them, of which one wing of the 28th Regiment formed a part,
and in this wing I was a feather. On our arrival at the base of this
eminence we did actually discover a confused multitude congregated on
the summit; but upon our preparing to charge they instantly took flight.
[Sidenote: ABANDONED PONTOONS.]
The affair, although of no consequence, was not unattended with
trophies. On the ground occupied by the discomfited Danes were found
many old rusty sword-blades, and very many pairs of wooden shoes, with
which the Danish troops were loosely shod, for, becoming nervous at the
threatened charge, they freed themselves from those encumbrances and
fled in light marching order, determined, if closely pursued, rather
to attempt swimming across the Belt than carry further their cumbrous
pontoons. The proud victors returned to the trenches.
For what took place in the interior of the island, since I was not
there, I will refer the curious to the despatches written home on the
occasion, wherein these skirmishes or manœuvres, if I recollect right,
are in glowing language fully detailed. All our batteries--constructed
generally in the most beautiful and highly cultivated gardens,
belonging to the nobility and wealthy citizens of Copenhagen--opened
their fire on September 1st, which with but little intermission
continued until the 6th. On the 7th, when about to be stormed, the
capital surrendered, after having four hundred houses, several
churches, and many other splendid buildings destroyed, and eleven
hundred inhabitants of all ages and sexes killed.
As soon as the first paroxysms of furious excitement, wild despair
and just indignation of the unfortunate inhabitants had somewhat
abated, a certain number of officers from each regiment, with written
passports, were permitted to visit the still smoking city. The
spectacle was lamentable and well calculated to rouse every feeling
of sympathy. Many houses were still smouldering, and in part crumbled
to the ground; mothers were bewailing the melancholy fate of their
slaughtered children, and there was not one but deplored the loss of
some fondly beloved relative or dearly valued friend. Yet they received
us with dignified, though cool courtesy, in part suppressing that
horror and antipathy which they must have felt at our presence, though
some indeed exclaimed that their sufferings were the more aggravated
as being inflicted contrary to the laws of all civilised nations. The
unfortunate sufferers seemed not to reflect that war was will, not law.
In less than six weeks after the fall of Copenhagen (which time was
occupied in rendering the Danish ships seaworthy, and spoiling its
well-stored arsenal to the last nail and minutest rope-yarn) we
departed, carrying away with us, as prizes, eighteen sail of the line,
fifteen frigates, five brigs, and twenty gunboats.
[Sidenote: ETHICS FOR STATESMEN.]
It would be useless to enter into further detail on this painful
subject. The partial conflagration of the Danish capital, and the rape
of her fleet by her friends the British, are already too well known
throughout Europe, as well as the reasons adduced in vindication,
namely “precaution”--surely a most unjustifiable policy. The great
Aristides, characteristically called the “just,” would have spurned
the proposal of such ignoble policy, as may be seen by his celebrated
reply to the treacherous proposition of Themistocles to burn the fleet
of their allies. Aristides, being deputed by the assembly to ascertain
the proposition of Themistocles, who would deliver it only in secret,
on his return declared that nothing could tend more to the advantage
of Athens than the proposition of Themistocles, nor could anything
be more unjust. The high-spirited people of Athens, indignant that a
proposition of such nature should be mooted, rejected it with contempt,
not deigning even to listen to its import.
The descent on Copenhagen was a flagrant outrage of that divine precept
which inculcates that “that which is morally wrong can never be
politically right.”