Peymann nodded agreement. Like all the others in the room he now wished that the government had spent more on Copenhagen’s defenses in the last few years, but even so the ramparts were adequate. The walls were massive and reinforced by bastions, batteries and forts. To the west the city looked over its own wealthy suburbs, but between those houses and the city there was an open space for the guns to kill attackers and a ring of canal-like lakes that served as a wide moat. The walls were not in the best of repair, but they mounted nearly two hundred guns, while out in the suburbs, wherever high ground might offer British batteries a vantage point, new strongholds were being constructed of earth, stone and timber. The city had a garrison of five and a half thousand troops, which was not enough to man all those new forts, but Peymann had four thousand well-trained seamen who had been the crews of the warships secured in Copenhagen’s harbor, and the militia was being overwhelmed by volunteers. “We can give a good account of ourselves for two months,” Peymann declared.
“So long as we are not betrayed,” the newly promoted Major Lavisser intervened. His words cut across the room’s mood of optimism. He shrugged, as if to suggest that he was reluctant to be the bearer of bad news. “There are British spies in the city, Your Majesty,” he explained, “and they should be dealt with.”
“Spies?” The Prince’s protuberant eyes exaggerated his look of alarm.
“I made inquiries before leaving London, sire,” Lavisser lied, “and ascertained one name. I wish I could have discovered more, should more exist, but I still urge that this one man is arrested, put in the Gammelholm cells and interrogated.”
“Indeed he should!” the Prince agreed vigorously. “Who is he?”
“A man called Skovgaard, sire,” Lavisser said.
“Not Ole Skovgaard,” Peymann boomed. “Do you mean Ole Skovgaard?”
“I do.” Lavisser was taken aback by Peymann’s sudden vigor.
“You can rest assured he’s no spy.” The General spoke confidently. “He wrote to me this morning”-Peymann was talking to the Prince now-“and confessed he has helped the British in the past, but only in their struggle against France and I dare say there are a dozen men in this room who have done the same.”
The Prince looked down at the map. He had a British mother and had been well known for his pro-British sentiments, but he did not want to be reminded of those things now.
“Skovgaard assures me of his loyalty,” Peymann went on stolidly, “and I believe him. He’s known to me by reputation. A worthy man, he worships at Our Savior’s, he’s a Commissioner of the Poor and he is, as are we all, disgusted by the British behavior. Arresting such a man will not help morale in the city, sire. This attack should unite us, not divide us.”
The Prince tapped his fingers on the map. “You are sure of his loyalty?”
“He worships at Our Savior’s!” Peymann repeated, as though that answered the Prince’s question. “He volunteered this information, sire. He is no spy, but merely a merchant whose business suffered from French depredations. He tried to protect himself by assisting the enemies of France. We would punish a man for that?”
“No,” the Prince decided. “We shall leave him alone.” He smiled at Lavisser. “Men are finding their true allegiances in these hard times, Major. You did! And the same is true of this man Skovgaard. So let us not worry about past loyalties, eh? We should join hands to fight the real enemy!” He led his entourage toward the wide stairs. “Hold for three months,” he encouraged Peymann, adding a month to his expectations, “and don’t forget we have Castenschiold!”
“Castenschiold,” Peymann exclaimed. General Castenschiold was raising troops in southern Zealand, but Peymann doubted there would be enough to make any difference.
“I have great hopes of Castenschiold,” the Prince declared. “He can raid the British lines. He can harry them. Our enemies have not reckoned on Castenschiold!” He smiled as he emerged from the palace door to be greeted by a great cheer.
A huge crowd of Copenhagen’s citizens had come to bid the Prince farewell. They filed the quays and crammed every window that overlooked the harbor wile some of the younger ones had even swarmed up the two mast cranes which towered above the tallest church steeples. Ole Skovgaard and his daughter had been offered a vantage point on the balcony of the West India Company warehouse from where they could look down on the Prince as he walked to the water’s edge. Sharpe had insisted on accompanying the Skovgaards, dressed again in his civilian clothes that were torn, soot- and mud-stained. Ole Skovgaard had not wanted him to come. “This is Copenhagen,” he said, “we are safe.”