Bannersson looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
“Admiral Cronstedt,” replied the colonel. “I don’t like the way he’s been acting lately. He worries me.”
“In what way?”
Anttonen shook his head. “His orders. The way he talks.” The tall, lean Finn gestured towards the city in the distance. “Remember when the Russian siege began in early March? Their first battery was dragged to Sveaborg on a sledge and mounted on a rock in Helsinki harbor. When we replied to their shelling, every shot told on the city.”
“True. What of it?”
“So the Russians ran up a truce flag, and negotiated, and Admiral Cronstedt agreed that Helsinki should be neutral ground, and neither side should build fortifications near it.” Anttonen pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, and waved it at Bannersson. “General Suchtelen allows officers’ wives from the city to visit us at times, and through them I got this report. It seems the Russians have moved their guns all right, but have established barracks, hospitals, and magazines in Helsinki. And we can’t touch them!”
Bannersson frowned. “I see what you mean. Does the admiral know of this report?”
“Of course,” said Anttonen impatiently. “But he will not act. Jägerhorn and the others have persuaded him that the report is unreliable. So the Russians hide in the city, in perfect safety.” He crumpled the report savagely, and jammed it into his pocket in disgust.
Bannersson did not reply, and the colonel turned to stare out over the walls again, mumbling under his breath.
There were several moments of strained silence. Captain Bannersson shifted his weight uneasily, and coughed. “Sir?” he said at last. “You don’t think we’re in any real danger, do you?”
Anttonen looked at him blankly. “Danger?” he said, “No, not really. The fortress is too strong, and the Russians too weak. They need much more artillery and many more men before they would dare an assault. And we have enough food to outlast their siege. Once the ice melts Sweden can easily reinforce by sea.”
He paused a moment, then continued. “Still, I’m worried. Admiral Cronstedt finds new vulnerable spots every day, and every day more men die trying to break up the ice in front of them. Cronstedt’s family is trapped here with all the other refugees, and he worries about them to excess. He sees weakness everywhere. The men are loyal and ready to die in defense of Sveaborg, but the officers—”
Anttonen sighed and shook his head. After a moment of silence he straightened and turned from the ramparts. “It’s damn cold out here,” he said. “We had better be getting inside.”
Bannersson smiled. “True. Perhaps Suchtelen will attack tomorrow, and solve all of our problems.”
The colonel laughed, and clapped him on the back. Together they left the battlements.
And at midnight, March became April. And still Sveaborg waited.
“IF THE ADMIRAL PLEASES, I WOULD LIKE TO DISAGREE. I SEE NO REASON to negotiate at this time. Sveaborg is secure against assault, and our supplies are adequate. General Suchtelen can offer us nothing.”
Colonel Anttonen’s face was stiff and formal as he spoke, but his knuckles were white where his hand curled around his sword hilt.
“Absurd!” Colonel F. A. Jägerhorn twisted his aristocratic features into a sneer of contempt. “Our situation is highly dangerous. As the admiral well knows, our defenses are flawed, and are made even more imperfect by the ice that makes them accessible from all sides. Our powder is running low. The Russians ring us with guns, and their numbers swell daily.”
Behind the commandant’s desk, Vice-Admiral Carl Olof Cronstedt nodded gravely. “Colonel Jägerhorn is right, Bengt. We have many reasons to meet with General Suchtelen. Sveaborg is far from secure.”
“But, Admiral.” Anttonen waved the sheaf of papers clutched in his hands. “My reports indicate no such thing. The Russians have only about forty guns, and we still outnumber them. They cannot attack.”
Jägerhorn laughed. “If your reports say that, Colonel Anttonen, they are in error. Lieutenant Klick is in Helsinki, and he informs me that the enemy greatly outnumber us. And they have well over forty guns!”
Anttonen whirled towards his fellow officer furiously. “Klick! You listen to Klick! Klick is a fool and a damned Anjala traitor; if he is in Helsinki it is because he is working for the Russians!”
The two officers eyed each other angrily, Jägerhorn cold and haughty, Anttonen flushed and impassioned. “I had relatives in the Anjala League,” began the young aristocrat. “They were not traitors, nor is Klick. They are loyal Finns.”
Anttonen snarled something unintelligible, and turned back to Cronstedt. “Admiral, I swear to you, my reports are accurate. We have nothing to fear if we can hold out until the ice melts, and we can easily do that. Once the sea is open, Sweden will send help.”
Cronstedt rose slowly from his chair, his face drawn and tired, “No, Bengt. We cannot refuse to negotiate.” He shook his head, and smiled. “You are too eager for a fight. We cannot be rash.”
“Sir,” said Anttonen. “If you must, then, negotiate. But give up nothing. Sweden and Finland depend on us. In the spring, General Klingspor and the Swedish fleet will launch their counteroffensive to drive the Russians from Finland; but control of Sveaborg is vital to the plan. The army’s morale would be smashed if we should fall. A few months, sir—hold out a few months and Sweden can win the war.”
Cronstedt’s face was a mask of despair. “Colonel, you have not been reading the news. Everywhere Sweden is being routed; her armies are defeated on all fronts. We cannot hope to triumph.”
“But, sir. That news is from the papers that General Suchtelen sends you; they are largely Russian papers. Don’t you see, sir, that news is slanted. We cannot rely on it.” Anttonen’s eyes were wide with horror; he spoke like a desperate man.
Jägerhorn laughed, coldly and cynically. “What matters it if the news is true or false? Do you really think Sweden will win, Anttonen? A small, poor state in the far north hold off Russia? Russia, which extends from the Baltic to the Pacific, from the Black Sea to the Arctic Ocean? Russia, the ally of Napoleon, who has trod upon the crowned heads of Europe?” He laughed again. “We are beaten, Bengt, beaten. It only remains to see what terms we can get.”
Anttonen stared at Jägerhorn in silence for a moment, and when he spoke his voice was harsh and strained. “Jägerhorn, you are a defeatist, a coward, and a traitor. You are a disgrace to the uniform you wear.”
The aristocrat’s eyes blazed, and his hand sped to his sword hilt. He stepped forward aggressively.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Cronstedt was suddenly between the two officers, holding Jägerhorn at bay. “We are besieged by the enemy, our country is in flames, and our armies are being routed. This is no time to fight among ourselves.” His face grew stern and hard. “Colonel Jägerhorn, return to your quarters at once.”
“Yes, sir.” Jägerhorn saluted, whirled, and left the room. Admiral Cronstedt turned back to Anttonen.
He shook his head sadly. “Bengt, Bengt. Why can’t you understand? Jägerhorn is right, Bengt; the other officers agree with him to a man. If we negotiate now we can save the fleet, and much Finnish blood.”
Colonel Anttonen stood stiffly at attention. His eyes were cold, and looked past his admiral as if he were not there. “Admiral,” he said sternly. “What if you had felt this way before Ruotsinsalmi? What would have become of your victory then, sir? Defeatism wins no battles.”
Cronstedt’s face became harsh, and there was anger in his voice. “That is enough, Colonel. I will not tolerate insubordination. I am compelled by circumstance to negotiate for the surrender of Sveaborg. The meeting between Suchtelen and myself has been arranged for April sixth; I will be there. And in the future, you will not question this decision. That is an order!”
Anttonen was silent.
Admiral Cronstedt stared at the colonel for a brief moment, his eyes still mirroring anger. Then he turned with a
snort, and gestured impatiently towards the door. “You are dismissed, Colonel. Return to quarters at once.”
CAPTAIN BANNERSSON’S FACE MASKED HIS SHOCK AND DISBELIEF. “IT can’t be true, sir. Surrendering? But why would the admiral do such a thing? The men, at least, are ready and willing to fight.”
Anttonen laughed, but it was a hollow, bitter laugh, totally without humor. His eyes held a wild despair, and his hands flexed the blade of his rapier nervously. He was leaning against an elaborately carved tomb, in the shadow of two trees within one of the central courtyards of the Vargön citadel. Bannersson stood a few feet away in the darkness, on the steps that led up to the memorial.
“All the men are willing to fight,” said Anttonen. “Only the officers are not.” He laughed again. “Admiral Cronstedt—the hero of our victory at Ruotsinsalmi—reduced to a doubting, fear-wracked old man. General Suchtelen has played upon him well; the newspapers from France and Russia he sent him, the rumors from Helsinki carried here by the officers’ wives, all served to plant the seed of defeatism. And then Colonel Jägerhorn helped it to grow.”
Bannersson was still stunned, and puzzled. “But—but what does the admiral fear?”
“Everything. He sees weak points in our defenses no one else can see. He fears for his family. He fears for the fleet he once led to victory. He claims Sveaborg is helpless in the winter. He is weak and apprehensive, and every time he doubts, Jägerhorn and his cronies are there to tell him he is right.”
Anttonen’s face was distorted with rage. He was nearly shouting now. “The cowards! The traitors! Admiral Cronstedt wavers and trembles, but if they would only be resolute, he would find his courage and his mind also.”
“Sir, please, not so loudly,” cautioned Bannersson. “If what you said is true, what can we do about it?”
Anttonen’s eyes lifted, and focused on the Swedish captain below. He considered him coldly. “The parley is set for tomorrow. Cronstedt may not yield, but if he does, we must be prepared. Get all the loyal men you can, and tell them to be ready. Call it mutiny if you will, but Sveaborg will not capitulate without a fight so long as there is a single man of honor to fire her guns.” The Finnish officer straightened and sheathed his sword. “Meanwhile, I will speak with Colonel Jägerhorn. Perhaps I can stop this madness yet.”
Bannersson, his face dead white, nodded slowly and turned to leave. Anttonen strode down the steps, then halted. “Carl?” he called. The departing Swedish officer turned. “You understand that my life, and perhaps the future of Finland, are in your hands, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Bannersson. “You can trust us.” He turned again, and a few seconds later was gone.
Anttonen stood alone in the dark, staring absently at his hand. It was bleeding from where it had gripped the sword blade. Laughing, the officer looked up at the tomb. “You designed your fortress well, Ehrensvard,” he said, his voice a soft whisper in the night. “Let’s hope the men who guard her are equal to her strength.”
JÄGERHORN SCOWLED WHEN HE SAW WHO WAS AT THE DOOR. “YOU, Anttonen? After this afternoon? You have courage. What do you want?”
Anttonen stepped inside the room, and closed the door. “I want to talk to you. I want to change your mind. Cronstedt listens to you; if you advise against it, he will not capitulate. Sveaborg will not fall.”
Jägerhorn grinned and sank back into a chair. “Perhaps. I am a relative. The admiral respects my opinion. But it is only a matter of time. Sweden cannot win this war, and the more we prolong it, the more Finns will die in battle.”
The aristocrat stared at his fellow officer calmly. “Sweden is lost,” he continued, “but Finland need not be. We have assurances from Czar Alexander that Finland will be an autonomous state under his protection. We will have more freedom than we ever had under Sweden.”
“We are Swedes,” said Anttonen. “We have a duty to defend our king and our homeland.” His voice was brittle with disdain.
A thin smile played across Jägerhorn’s lips. “Swedes? Bah! We are Finns. What did Sweden ever do for us? She taxed us. She took our boys and left them dying in the mud of Poland, and Germany, and Denmark. She made our countryside a battleground for her wars. For this we owe Sweden loyalty?”
“Sweden will aid us when the ice melts,” answered Anttonen. “We need only hold out till spring, and wait for her fleet.”
Jägerhorn was on his feet, and his words rang with bitterness and scorn. “I would not count on Swedish aid, Colonel. A look at their history would teach you better than that. Where was Carl XII during the Great Wrath? All over Europe he rode, but could not spare an army for suffering Finland. Where is Marshal Klingspor now, while the Russians lay waste to our land and burn our towns? Did he even fight for Finland? No! He retreated—to save Sweden from attack.”
“So for the Swedes who do not aid us fast enough, you would trade the Russians? The butchers of the Great Wrath? The people who pillage our nation even now? That seems a sorry trade.”
“No. The Russians treat us now as enemies; when we are on their side things will be different. No longer will we have to fight a war every twenty years to please a Swedish king. No longer will the ambitions of a Carl XII or a Gustav III cost thousands of Finnish lives. Once the Czar rules in Finland, we will have peace and freedom.”
Jägerhorn’s voice was hot with excitement and conviction, but Anttonen remained cold and formal. He looked at Jägerhorn sadly, almost wistfully, and sighed. “It was better when I thought you were a traitor. You’re not. An idealist, a dreamer, yes. But not a traitor.”
“Me? A dreamer?” Jägerhorn’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “No, Bengt. You’re the dreamer. You’re the man who deludes himself with hopes of a Swedish victory. I look at the world the way it is, and deal with it on its own terms.”
Anttonen shook his head. “We’ve fought Russia over and over through the years; we’ve been foes for centuries. And you think we can live together peacefully. It won’t work, Colonel. Finland knows Russia too well. And she does not forget. This will not be our last war with Russia. Not by any means.”
He turned away slowly, and opened the door to leave. Then, almost as an afterthought, he paused and looked back. “You’re just a misguided dreamer, and Cronstedt’s only a weak old man.” He laughed softly. “There’s no one left to hate, Jägerhorn. There’s no one left to hate.”
The door closed softly, and Colonel Bengt Anttonen was alone in the darkened, silent hallway. Leaning against the cold stone wall in exhaustion, he sobbed, and covered his face with his hands.
His voice was a hoarse, choking whisper, his body gray and shaken. “My God, my God. A fool’s dreams and an old man’s doubts. And between them they’ll topple the Gibraltar of the North.”
He laughed a broken, sobbing laugh, straightened, and walked out into the night.
“—SHALL BE ALLOWED TO DISPATCH TWO COURIERS TO THE KING, THE one by the northern, the other by the southern road. They shall be furnished with passports and safeguards, and every possible facility shall be given them for accomplishing their journey. Done at the island of Lonan, 6 April, 1808.”
The droning voice of the officer reading the agreement stopped suddenly, and the large meeting room was deathly quiet. There were mumblings from the back of the room, and a few of the Swedish officers stirred uneasily in their seats, but no one spoke.
From the commandant’s desk in front of the gathering of Sveaborg’s senior officers, Admiral Cronstedt rose slowly. His face was old beyond its years, his eyes weary and bloodshot. And those in the front could see his gnarled hands trembling slightly.
“That is the agreement,” he began. “Considering the position of Sveaborg, it is better than we could have hoped for. We have used a third of our powder already; our defenses are exposed to attack from all sides because of the ice; we are outnumbered and forced to support a large number of fugitives, who rapidly consume our provisions. Considering all this, General Suchtelen was in a position to demand o
ur immediate surrender.”
He paused and ran tired fingers through his hair. His eyes searched the faces of the Finnish and Swedish officers who sat before him.
“He did not demand that surrender,” continued Cronstedt. “Instead, we have been allowed to retain three of Sveaborg’s six islands, and will regain two of the others if five Swedish ships-of-the-line arrive to aid us before the third of May. If not, we must surrender. But in either case the fleet shall be restored to Sweden after the war, and the truce between now and then will prevent the loss of any more lives.”
Admiral Cronstedt halted, and looked to the side. Instantly Colonel Jägerhorn, sitting beside him, was on his feet. “I assisted the admiral in negotiating this agreement. It is a good one, a very good one. General Suchtelen has given us very generous terms. However, in case the Swedish aid does not arrive in time, we must make provisions for surrendering the garrison. That is the purpose of this meeting. We—”
“NO!” The shout rang through the large room and echoed from its walls, cutting off Jägerhorn abruptly. At once there was a shocked silence. All eyes turned towards the rear of the room, where Colonel Bengt Anttonen stood among his fellow officers, white-faced and smoldering with anger.
“Generous terms? Hah! What generous terms?” His voice was sharp with derision. “Immediate surrender of Wester-Svartö, Oster-Lilla-Svartö, and Langorn; the rest of Sveaborg to come later. These are generous terms? NO! Never! It is little more than surrender postponed for a month. And there is no need to surrender. We are NOT outnumbered. We are NOT weak. Sveaborg does not need provisions—it needs only a little courage, and a little faith.”
The atmosphere in the council room had suddenly grown very cold, as Admiral Cronstedt regarded the dissident with frigid distaste. When he spoke, there was a hint of his old authority in his voice. “Colonel, I remind you of the orders I gave you the other day. I am tired of you questioning each of my actions. True, I have made small concessions, but I have given us a chance of retaining everything for Sweden. It is our only chance! Now SIT DOWN, Colonel!”