The Norse Directive
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Authors: Ernest Dempsey
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Copenhagen, Denmark
August 1807
Francis Jackson peered through the darkness of the dim candlelight, unable to pull his eyes away from the target of his stare. He and his men had been digging relentlessly, taking two-hour shifts in pairs while two rested and two kept watch. They’d found the cave entrance exactly where they’d thought it would be, a small miracle in itself, considering it had been covered up by dirt, brush, and stones. The person who’d hidden the cavern had done a remarkably thorough job. It had almost gone unnoticed, save for the marker. The object was inconspicuous, and would have been invisible to the casual observer, but when Jackson had seen the oddly shaped piece of granite jutting from the ground, he knew he was in the right place.
Jackson had come to Copenhagen three days prior, officially on a mission of diplomacy for his majesty, the king of England. On the record, Jackson was there to offer terms to the Danish crown prince that would basically serve as an alliance between Great Britain and Denmark. What the British really wanted was a clear route into the Baltic for trade and supply purposes.
Rumor had it that Napoleon wanted the same thing, and it was purported that he’d already arranged a secretive deal with the Danes. Of course, that was the reason everyone believed Francis Jackson had come to Denmark, to arrange terms and secure the peninsula against the French. The surface story worked perfectly, giving Jackson just enough time to pursue what his majesty really desired.
Before entering the service of the Royal Court of Great Britain, Jackson had spent years of his life studying history. His appreciation of the past led him to become one of the foremost experts in the subject, a badge of honor that quickly resulted in an appointment with the king. Becoming an emissary for king and country was a natural fit for Jackson. His knowledge of cultures, people, and their heritage resulted in a great deal of travel to foreign countries as a delegate.
It wasn’t the first time the king had sent a representative to Copenhagen. Six years prior, Great Britain had attacked the Danish Navy in the straits on the edge of the city. It had been a strange battle, and one that the Danes seemed to be able to win, despite their much heavier losses. They’d kept many ships in reserve as reinforcements, and were about to send them into the battle when a flag of truce was raised.
While Parliament debated whether or not the first Battle of Copenhagen was a worthwhile venture, behind closed doors another discussion took place.
One of the men aboard the HMS
Agamemnon
, a young sailor named Jonathan Stuart had been ordered to go ashore when the ship ran aground while trying to make it through the channel. He and eleven others were to get to land and scout ahead to make sure there were no enemy vessels lurking in the bends along the shoreline. Such a force meant the disabled vessel would be a sitting duck, and the captain did not intend to let anything happen to his ship or his crew simply because they were temporarily stranded.
Francis Jackson recounted the tale in his mind as he took a wary step toward the darkened hollow in the cavern, leaving the flickering yellowish light of the candles behind. Behind him, a stomach grumbled, echoing through the cave. They’d not eaten since breakfast. The tea, biscuits, and thick slices of salted ham had long since been worked off through the labor of the day.
As he crept steadily forward into the recess of the chamber, Jackson wondered what Jonathan Stuart must have felt when he’d discovered the cave six years before. Stuart’s platoon had stumbled across a Danish militia encampment, and while trying to reconnoiter the enemy force, a routine patrol and the bulk of the troops in the camp had sandwiched them in.
The element of surprise had helped the small British force, and they sent a volley of musket balls into the confused militia patrol. The targets had dropped almost instantly, clearing a path. Stuart’s platoon made a break for it, dashing into the woods in the hope the trees would provide cover from enemy fire, and maybe give them a chance to escape.
As the story went, all the men in Stuart’s platoon were cut down in the fighting. He alone escaped by sheer luck, falling into the very chamber where Francis Jackson now stood. According to the story, Stuart had discovered what he described as an ancient room, carved out of the rock of a small hill. He’d at first believed it to be some kind of burial mound, and when he felt his way to the stone sarcophagus in the deepest cavity of the room, he was certain it was the tomb of someone important. He hoped his eyes would adjust enough so he could see his surroundings. The darkness pervaded though.
With Danish militia in pursuit, Stuart didn’t dare light a match. For hours, he waited in the pitch-black darkness of the cave until he felt safe enough to take a look outside. He poked his head just past the lip of the cave and checked his surroundings. The clearing and the forest had returned to silence. A bright half moon shone down from the heavens among a blanket of stars.
The Danes were nowhere to be seen. Stuart’s first thought was to make a run for it and head for the beach. If he were lucky, he would find the remnants of the British fleet and catch up to them. He shook his head at the idea. How could he catch up to a ship out at sea? It was a fanciful notion. A sinking feeling clouded his heart as he realized he might very well be stuck. Rather than panicking, he returned into the depths of the cave to investigate. He pulled a leather pouch out of his damp uniform and found what he was looking for. The small flint and metal would be useless if he couldn’t find something to burn.
Risking another trip outside the cave, Stuart had stumbled upon a few sticks, which he used to create a small fire once he’d returned to the dark chamber.
Now, Francis Jackson stared around at the ancient room, allowing another reverent moment to pass. It had been in this room where Jonathan Stuart made his accidental discovery. Jackson’s eyes beheld what Stuart’s had seen in the warm glow of a makeshift fire several years before.
The sarcophagus was unlike anything Jackson had seen during any of his journeys. The long, smooth box had been carved from black stone. He wasn’t entirely sure, but Jackson believed it to be onyx. The object was smooth and shaped to conform to a human figure. The top half featured the image of a bearded man with arms folded across the handle of a sword.
Jackson cast a sideways glance at his most trusted assistant. “The perimeter is secure?” he barked.
The assistant, a man in a dirty bandana, weatherworn vest, and trousers, nodded. “Aye, sir.”
“Good.” Jackson looked around at the men surrounding him in the room. “Gentlemen, shall we retrieve the king’s prize?” He motioned to the sarcophagus with both hands.
The men stepped forward with iron bars and wedges. Two held heavy ropes attached to a metal hook at the end. Within a few seconds, Jackson’s crew was heaving at the lid, prying it from the base of the black box with all their might. The group’s leader watched with intense curiosity as the lid loosened after several mighty pulls. A short burst of air and dust escaped from the sarcophagus, spewing into the air and causing a few of the men to jump back momentarily.
Jackson stepped in, grabbing one of the iron bars and pushing down hard onto it. He was close now, and couldn’t let the fears and superstitions of his men slow their progress. The lid continued to slide, grinding across the top edges of the box until it began to teeter.
“Get out of the way!” Jackson shouted. The last thing he needed was some of his crew to have their feet crushed under the enormous weight.
The men on the other side obeyed and jumped back just as the sarcophagus top crashed to the cave’s floor. Another plume of dust shot into the air, making it difficult to see anything for a few moments. As the air began to clear, Jackson grabbed a torch from one of his crew and took a wary step forward.
Ever since he’d heard the legend, he’d striven for this moment, this time when he would uncover one of the greatest weapons known to the ancient world. Jackson would be called a hero back in England. The king would, no doubt, honor him with great riches, land, titles, and anything else Jackson desired.
For Francis Jackson, all of those things were great, but he understood what his discovery really meant for his king and country. England would be an unstoppable military force for a thousand years.
The dust cleared before the light of Jackson’s torch as he shoved the blazing end of the shaft into the space over the sarcophagus. His eyes blinked rapidly as he peered into the hollow box. He swallowed hard, hoping his eyes deceived him. His vision, however, was fine. A terrible reality instantly swelled in his heart.
Save for the skeleton of an unknown Viking, the sarcophagus was empty. Jackson leaned over and examined the covering once more. A simple image of a long shaft with a pointed blade at the end had been engraved into the stone. He stood up straight again and examined the tattered clothing of the ancient warrior. The shield displayed the intricate braids known to the Norsemen.
A cannon fired off in the distance, shaking his mind from its heavy despair.
Jackson’s men turned to him simultaneously, confusion filling their eyes.
“That wasn’t one of ours,” Jackson’s voice weighed heavy with the realization.
“Whoever it is, they aren’t targeting us, sir,” the second in command reported what Jackson had already surmised.
“They must have spotted our ships.”
Another cannon fired, this time from a greater distance. It was followed by several more like it.
“The battle for Copenhagen has begun,” Jackson said. “We must return to our ship at once.”
“But sir,” one of the men protested, “we can’t just leave empty handed.”
Jackson surveyed the room. There were a few trinkets of historical value lying around: pieces of armor, some ancient swords and knives, a helmet or two. No treasure though. “Take what you like, gents, but travel light. We have to hurry. I don’t know how long this bombardment will last, and they’re only doing it to cover our tracks. Amidst the chaos, we should be able to make our way back out to the ship undetected.”
The men grabbed what they could, scattering to the far edges of the room like pigs scrambling for the last scraps of slop a farmer throws out. Jackson watched them carefully to ensure no one was eyeing his movements. Slowly, he lowered his hand down into the sarcophagus and pried loose a small disc from the ribcage of the skeleton. His eyes shot around quickly, still wary someone would notice what he’d done. The round object fit easily into his jacket pocket. It was no larger than the palm of his hand, and only about a quarter of an inch thick, seemingly made of pure gold.
He handed out orders in rapid succession, directing several of the men to move the covering stone back into place over the narrow entrance. It had taken several hours of work to get it out of the way. Only minutes would be required to put it back. “Once you’re done, make your way back to the ship, lads. They won’t wait for us all night.”
Jackson’s crew obeyed and quietly slipped back out of the cave and into the cool night air. He made sure all of his men were clear before he took one last glance around the room. His mission had failed. The king would be extremely disappointed. Jackson would be deemed more than a failure. He would be called a charlatan for having promised so much, only to discover an empty tomb.
The crown’s resources were extensive, and sending a fleet to Copenhagen for a second siege of the city wouldn’t hurt the British finances. The king’s most trusted military advisers told Jackson that even though they believed him to be crazy, they would be more than happy to keep the rambunctious Danes in their place with another attack on their prized city.
It was of little solace to Jackson. His career would be over. He wondered about the strange object in his pocket. Jackson prayed silently that it would give him a second chance.
