Admiral Thunderbolt: The Spectacular Career of Peter Wessel, Norway’s Greatest Sea Hero

By Col. Hans Christian Adamson

“A Sea Cadet in 1711 and a Vice Admiral in 1718, young Wessel barged into battle against his Swedish foes wherever he found them, often in direct violation of orders issued by timid souls in the Admiralty. But Frederik IV, King of Denmark-Norway, loved a winner. He gave his youthful fighting cock promotion after promotion, over scores of officers of senior vintage. The result was that Peter had almost as many enemies among officers in the Danish-Norwegian Navy as he had in that of Sweden.

“So great were his battle conquests and his services to the nation that Captain Wessel, soon after his twenty-fifth birthday, was given a Patent of Nobility and the name Tordenskjold. Roughly translated, this means (Torden) The Thunderbolt that Strikes and (Skjold) The Shield that Defends. In actions on land and sea, Tordenskjold lifted his nom de guerre to deathless and stratospheric heights.

“While this book is based on historical events and peopled by real persons, it is by no means a definitive history. The Great Northern War, which ran from 1709 to 1719, sucked Denmark-Norway, Russia, Poland, and England into conflict against the then mighty Sweden. Its pattern is too complicated for compression into a one-volume book dedicated to pinpointing the career of a single participant. For that matter, the historical facts, folklore, and legends that have been built up over the centuries around Vice Admiral Peter Tordenskjold are so voluminous that, in themselves, they could cover quite a spread of bookshelf! The problem has not been what to put into this book, but what to leave out and still do justice to its subject.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Normanby Press
• Release date: Feb 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781787203914

Col. Hans Christian Adamson

Hans Christian Adamson (July 20, 1890 - September 11, 1968) was a Danish-born American writer, who, along with Eddie Rickenbacker, survived adrift for 24 days in the Pacific Ocean in 1942. In October 1942, Eddie Rickenbacker was sent on a tour of air bases in the Pacific Theater of Operations. After visiting several air and sea bases in Hawaii, Rickenbacker was provided an older B-17D Flying Fortress (s/n 40-3089) as transportation to the South Pacific. The bomber strayed hundreds of miles off course while on its way to a refueling stop on Canton Island and was forced to ditch in a remote and little-traveled part of the Central Pacific Ocean. For 24 days, Rickenbacker, his friend and business partner Hans Christian Adamson (then an Army Captain), and the rest of the crewmen drifted in life rafts at sea. Rickenbacker was still suffering somewhat from his earlier airplane crash, and Capt. Adamson sustained serious injuries during the ditching. The other crewmen in the B-17 were hurt to varying degrees. The crewmen’s food supply ran out after three days. They lived on sporadic rain water and food such as seagulls. A U.S. Navy patrol OS2U-3 Kingfisher float-plane spotted and rescued the survivors on November 13, off the coast of Nukufetau in Tuvalu. All were suffering from hyperthermia, sunburn, dehydration, and near-starvation. After retiring from the US Air Force as a full colonel, Adamson wrote a number of radio drama scripts and books, including Eddie Rickenbacker (1946), Hellcats of the Sea (1955) with Charles Lockwood) and Rebellion in Missouri, 1861: Nathaniel Lyon and His Army of the West (1961). He died in 1968 at the age of 78.

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Text originally published in 1959 under the same title.

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Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

ADMIRAL THUNDERBOLT:

THE SPECTACULAR CAREER OF PETER WESSEL, NORWAY’S GREATEST SEA HERO, WHO IN EIGHT YEARS OF NAVAL WARFARE SAILED, SHOT, AND STORMED HIS WAY FROM SEA CADET TO VICE ADMIRAL

(A.D. 1711 TO 1718)

BY

HANS CHRISTIAN ADAMSON

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 5

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 6

MAPS 6

DEDICATION 7

PROLOGUE 8

1—FLAGSHIP HAS UNEXPECTED BOARDER 11

2—SEA CADET WESSEL REPORTS 19

3—A VIKING RETURNS TO TRONDHEIM 22

4—PETER A RUNAWAY WITH KING’S ESCORT 28

5—SEAMAN ON SLAVER AND INDIAMAN 34

6—POOR SCHOLAR BUT FINE SAILOR 39

7—ON CONVOY DUTY IN SKAGERRAK 45

8—LOVENDAL GIVES PETER FIRST SHIP 51

9—HE TERRORIZES COAST OF SWEDEN 58

10—CAPTURES PRIVATEER ON TRIAL RUN 72

11—DEFIES DEATH AND ADMIRALTY IN BALTIC 87

12—BATTLE ENDS FOR LACK OF POWDER 104

13—FOILS DESTRUCTION OF SWEDISH SHIPS 111

14—LONE FRIGATE TACKLES SUPERIOR FOES 124

15—ADMIRAL JUDICHAER GIVES FATHERLY ADVICE 138

16—CUTS SWEDISH LIFELINE AT DYNEKILEN 146

17—TORDENSKJOLD MADE COMMODORE 159

18—HEADS OWN NORTH SEA SQUADRON 167

19—HIT-AND-RUN ATTACK ON GOTEBORG 178

20—FIGHTS HIERTA AT STROMSTAD 190

21—MOUSE PLAYS CAT IN KATTEGAT 209

22—PETER HEARS ABOUT MISS NORRIS 225

23—ENTERS MARSTRAND IN DISGUISE 236

24—TORDENSKJOLD TAKES FORT CARLSTEN 244

25—GOTEBORG NIGHT ATTACK SUCCEEDS 254

26—RED SKY IN MORNING, SAILOR TAKE WARNING 264

EPILOGUE 273

NAUTICAL NOTES ON THE 1710’S 275

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 278

BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Keepers of the Lights

Lands of New World Neighbors

Captain Eddie Rickenbacker

Through Hell and Deep Water

Zoomies, Subs and Zeros

Hellcats of the Sea (with Vice-Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, USN, Ret.)

Empire of the Snakes

Out of Africa (with F. C. Carnochan)

Knights of the Air (with L. J. Maitland)

Exploring Today (with Lincoln Ellsworth)

Sportsman’s Game and Fish Cookbooks (with Helen Lyon Adamson)

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

All drawings and pictures are reproduced through the courtesy of Commodore Olav Bergersen, Royal Norwegian Navy (Retired), from his book, Vice Admiral Tordenskiold

Plate I. Sea Cadet Peter Wessel (ca 1711)

Plate II. Admiral Tordenskjold’s Coat of Arms

Plate III. Vice Admiral Peter Tordenskjold (ca 1719)

Plate IV, Christian Kold, Tordenskjold’s Friend and Servant

Plate V. King Frederik IV of Denmark-Norway

Plate VI. Tordenskjold’s Notebook with the Norris Portrait

MAPS

Eighteenth-Century Scandinavia Before the Great Northern War

The North Sea Theater of War

The Baltic Theater of War (Eastern End)

The Baltic Theater of War (Western End)

The Battle of Dynekilen (General Diagram)

The Battle of Dynekilen (Situation Chart)

The May 1717 Attack on Gøteborg

The Battle of Strømstad (Situation Chart)

The Battle of Marstrand (Situation Chart)

The October 1719 Attack on Gøteborg

DEDICATION

To My Best of Friends

Vice Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, USN, Ret.

A Sturdy Mariner to Have Aboard

Be the Weather Fair or Foul

PROLOGUE

There should be enough sea-borne adventure and the roar of booming guns aboard men-o’-war under fighting sail in this true story of a runaway boy—who became a Vice Admiral in his late twenties—to satisfy the man who dwells in every youth as well as the eternal youth in every man.

Back in 1690—when Denmark and Norway were a united kingdom under a single autocratic ruler—Peter Wessel was born in Trondheim, Norway. Three short decades later, he was to stand forth as the greatest sea-fighter, produced by a nation of sea-fighters, since the days of the Vikings. He was also to gain enduring worldwide renown as a resourceful improviser of naval strategies and as being lightning-swift in developing tactics that met combat demands of the moment during the Great Northern War.

From the age of twenty-one, when he was given his first command in the Danish-Norwegian Navy, Peter Wessel showed almost super-human aptitude for winning naval battles, thanks to sixth, seventh, and eighth senses that endowed him with superior seamanship and masterful gunnery techniques, plus an instinctive capacity to strike with audacious daring.

A Sea Cadet in 1711 and a Vice Admiral in 1718, young Wessel barged into battle against his Swedish foes wherever he found them, often in direct violation of orders issued by timid souls in the Admiralty. But Frederik IV, King of Denmark-Norway, loved a winner. He gave his youthful fighting cock promotion after promotion, over scores of officers of senior vintage. The result was that Peter had almost as many enemies among officers in the Danish-Norwegian Navy as he had in that of Sweden.

So great were his battle conquests and his services to the nation that Captain Wessel, soon after his twenty-fifth birthday, was given a Patent of Nobility and the name Tordenskjold. Roughly translated, this means (Torden) The Thunderbolt that Strikes and (Skjold) The Shield that Defends. In actions on land and sea, Tordenskjold lifted his nom de guerre to deathless and stratospheric heights.

While this book is based on historical events and peopled by real persons, it is by no means a definitive history. The Great Northern War, which ran from 1709 to 1719, sucked Denmark-Norway, Russia, Poland, and England into conflict against the then mighty Sweden. Its pattern is too complicated for compression into a one-volume book dedicated to pinpointing the career of a single participant. For that matter, the historical facts, folklore, and legends that have been built up over the centuries around Vice Admiral Peter Tordenskjold are so voluminous that, in themselves, they could cover quite a spread of bookshelf! The problem has not been what to put into this book, but what to leave out and still do justice to its subject.

Another reason why this is not a definitive history is because the black and white of precise historical delineation would fall far short of conveying a lifelike image of Admiral Thunderbolt to the reader. Therefore, I have attempted to recreate the Peter Wessel story in the form of a narrative biography—a vehicle intended to transport the reader to the early decades of the 18th century when Peter, Dame Fortune’s favorite, played his spectacular, dramatic, and vividly colorful roles on the aquatic stages of the Baltic Sea and the North Sea in the Great Northern War.

My personal acquaintance with the Peter Tordenskjold of fact and legend dates back to my boyhood days in my native Denmark. For more years than I like to remember, the idea of introducing this valiant son of the Vikings to the English-reading public lay more or less dormant in my mind. Peter stands as his country’s counterpart of Admiral Lord Nelson and a salt-water brother of Jean Bart, the naval hero of France whose deeds earned him the title Admiral of the North Sea.

Oddly enough, the format for the presentation of the Admiral Thunderbolt story was crystallized on a rubber raft adrift in the South Pacific. In order to free my mind from the anxieties and the boredom that arose during twenty-four days of drifting, after our U.S. Army Air Force bomber was ditched and we, the survivors, were talked out, I began to concentrate on Tordenskjold and outlined, as I remembered it, his career in my mind. It was an interesting piece of backtracking. However, I did not resent the interruption when Eddie Rickenbacker, Johnny Bartek, and I were discovered and rescued by a Navy plane piloted by Lieutenant Bill Eadie. That was in November, 1942.

Since then, off and on, I have been collecting Scandinavian books, articles, and other papers on Tordenskjold and associated subjects. I soon discovered that even as he was a controversial figure in life so has he remained one in death. Hardly two writers—Danish, Norwegian, or Swedish—have seen eye to eye on the Admiral Thunderbolt theme. The prism of his personality seems to have had an unlimited number of facets. This is not surprising in the make-up of a fighting sailor who specialized in doing the impossible and who spoke his mind without regard to rank or consequences.

I am indebted to many men and institutions in this country and abroad for the help I have received in the gathering of material for this book. Among these are Commodore Olav Bergersen, Royal Norwegian Navy, Retired; Mr. Ragnar Halle, of Halle & Petersen, Oslo, Norway; and Vice Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, U.S. Navy, Retired. Commodore Bergersen is, beyond a doubt, not only the greatest living student of Peter Wessel but that of all time. He is the author of a two-volume study of his subject, titled Vice Admiral Tordenskiold, published by him in Trondheim, Norway, and to which I have had free access. By giving me every possible co-operation, even to the extent of initiating original research, he has helped me lay and maintain a proper course through countless shoals of controversy.

Similarly, Mr. Halle—who has spent much thought, time, and travel in his research into the dramatic closing days of Peter Tordenskjold’s life—has been most generous with his time and counsel. Lastly, I turn with not the least of my gratitude to Vice Admiral Charles A. Lockwood, U.S. Navy, Retired. Uncle Charlie, as he was affectionately known to the submariners he directed as Comsubpac during World War II, cheerfully helped me in making the ships and sailing segments of this story as shipshape and Bristol fashion as possible.

My roster of thanks would be incomplete unless it included Mrs. Hugh W. Davies, of Los Gatos, California. She has an uncanny way of turning my hemmings and hawings into readable manuscript. And, of course, my dear wife, Helen—she combines the tact of a gentle reader with the scalpel-sharp eye of a discerning editor.

HANS CHRISTIAN ADAMSON

Colonel, USAF, Ret.

The Francesca,

Nob Hill,

San Francisco

1—FLAGSHIP HAS UNEXPECTED BOARDER

The Flag-Captain, a perturbed frown on his usually serene brow, took his time as he came down the wide and sweeping steps of the stern companionway. It lay aft of the thick-boled mizzenmast on the huge expanse of spotless main and quarter-decks that topped the three gun decks and the still lower orlop deck of this towering three-masted 90-gun ship of the line.

A sentry, stationed at the ornate entrance to the great cabin, which served as home-at-sea for Vice Admiral Barfoed, swung his musket to stiff attention. The Flag-Captain acknowledged with an absent-minded nod. He stopped before the heavily carved door and knocked twice in quick succession.

In answer to a brisk Come in, the Captain removed his gold-braided cocked hat and entered the large, luxuriously furnished cabin, consisting of three compartments.

On the starboard side, a bulkhead partitioned off the Admiral’s sleeping and dressing cabin where at the moment his valet was putting fresh curls into the Admiral’s formidable wig. To larboard, another bulkhead provided space for a well-appointed guest cabin.

In the main cabin, massive armchairs were grouped around a large rectangular table of flawless white oak. Secured against the bulkheads, which were decorated with many-colored flags and banners, stood big brass-studded bureaus and heavy chests as well as silver-trimmed buffets and mirror-bright mahogany dressers. The quarters could have been aboard a rich man’s pleasure craft but for the sharp military note struck by a brace of 9-pounders of solid bronze. They were long-snouted chase guns mounted on scarlet cannon carriages. These two business-like weapons—their red recoil ropes in place—stood well secured before their respective gun-ports. Each of the latter—as did all gun-ports on Danish-Norwegian men-o’-war of that era—displayed a white cross on a red background, thus showing the colors of Denmark-Norway when port covers were flung open to run the guns into firing position.

In Admiral Barfoed’s cabin, the red-and-white gun-ports not only were closed but also hidden by the rich folds of damask hangings and fine lace curtains. These covered the row of tall windows that ran across the entire after-gallery of the wide-beamed, broad-quartered, and high-hulled flagship. This bright parade of small, heavily leaded, circular windowpanes was broken by an open door that led to a rather narrow balcony which extended beyond the carved, brightly painted, and gilded woodwork that covered the entire stern of the vessel. This highly decorative and expensive display started just above the steerage gun-ports that lay immediately above the rudder and swept aloft to a towering height that ended at the poop deck’s taffrail. Spaced along the latter were three gargantuan lanterns covered with carmine and gold.

In all fairness, the Admiral’s expensive balcony (or gallery, as it was called) was not entirely for show or for secluded privacy. It started just aft of the larboard mizzen chainwales, ran across the stern, and swung forward to stop just short of the starboard mizzen chainwales. Thus the Admiral had quick access to a three-sided view of the sea, the ships on it, and any land that might be near.

As the Flag-Captain entered the cabin and closed the door behind him, Admiral Barfoed waved a hand in his direction in brisk greeting and continued dictating to his Writer, a pedantic-looking olding who appeared as dehydrated as a yellow pea. While he waited, the Flag-Captain let his good left eye wander through the open balcony door. Through it, and exactly astern, he noted that the stem-to-stern formation maintained by the five 50-to 60-gun ships of the line—that constituted the heaviest striking power of Barfoed’s North Sea Squadron—was as straight as a mainstay. If the Captain were cheered by this inspiring sight, his dour expression gave no sign of it. And yet, the sight was a maritime cavalcade to make even a landlubber’s heart beat faster with justifiable pride: five great hulls with gilded gallions—or figureheads—on their beakheads; their bulging sides studded with two tiers of gun-ports behind which thick-lipped 32-pounders, 24-and 18-pounders lay in sinister rows from lower to upper gun decks; fifteen tall masts with scores of slim yards which, braced to the quartering wind, climbed skyward in graduated lengths; the intricate cobweb of black strands formed by standing and running rigging; the acres of wind-taut sails rounded by a steady south-west breeze and gleaming snow-white in the rays of the morning sun against the background of a cloudless sky as blue as a cornflower—a sky to be found nowhere on earth but in Scandinavia on rare days toward the end of summer. And this was just such a day on the edge of the harvest season in the year of 1710.

The Flag-Captain, as he continued his wait, ran a mental check of the work to be done this day, in preparation for picking up a Norway-bound convoy at Fladstrand on the east coast of Skagen on the northern tip of Jutland the following day. Next, his gaze turned to Admiral Barfoed. The latter was a competent and straight-thinking mariner. These were qualities too often lacking in 18th century admirals, many of whom attained their rank by virtue of birth and influence. Barfoed was a thick-set man in his middle sixties. His deeply furrowed face had a weathered look. It was a massive face touched by the guidemarks of iron will, and yet, in repose, it was genial rather than stern. Being without his wig, the Admiral displayed a poll of stubbly gray hair and, for the sake of further morning comfort, he wore a velvet dressing robe.

The Flag-Captain was yanked out of his surreptitious inventory of his chief when the latter suddenly broke off his dictation and threw himself back into his armchair. He looked at the Captain with his small, blue, and bulging eyes and snapped in a loud, rather booming voice:

Well, Hr. Captain, why this early morning visit?

The Captain coughed to express a small measure of embarrassment and replied in a somewhat apologetic tone: Perhaps I should not have disturbed you, Hr. Admiral. And yet, I decided that I should report an incident that took place this morning during the Fourth Glass of the Day Watch.

Amused at the note of concern disturbing his Flag-Captain’s usually urbane attitude toward naval problems, be they of ship, squadron, or fleet scope or cause, Barfoed replied with a grin:

Don’t tell me that we sighted the enemy and that he slipped away? Or that Wachtmeister and his Swedish sea devils have broken out of the Baltic and are on the rampage in our waters?

No, Hr. Admiral—no, nothing as simple as that, answered the Flag-Captain as he nervously pulled the black patch into place over his blind eye. The frigate, screening us up ahead on our starboard bow, was spoken this morning by a Dutch man-o’-war out of Marstrand for Amsterdam, She asked our ship to take aboard a young Nordman who had slipped aboard in Marstrand. He gave his name as Peter Jansen Wessel, a native of Trondheim, Norway. He said that he is a Sea Cadet assigned to the Royal Danish Naval Academy and that he sneaked aboard the Hollander in Marstrand because the Swedes were on his heels. He also said that he just escaped capture and death as a spy by the nape of his neck.

But, how in the name of Holy Olav should that interest me? inquired the Admiral. His voice was edged with annoyance. Barfoed had employed his early morning start to write some important convoy reports for the Admiralty in Copenhagen before the rising and appearance of his most distinguished guest, His Excellency, General Baron Valdemar von Løvendal, en route to Norway where he was to represent the King as Governor of Norway and Commander-in-Chief of its forces of land and sea. A guest of that caliber rated royal treatment by even a Vice Admiral.

Resentful of lost time, the Admiral’s bulging blue eyes bulged just a little more as they glared briefly at the Flag-Captain. Barfoed repeated with frigid calm, Yes, I’d like to know just how that should interest me!

That is just it, placated the Flag-Captain. It should not, Hr. Admiral. But the young man, who is not a day over twenty, just cannot be budged. He insists on speaking directly to the highest authority in the squadron. We have had nothing but trouble since he climbed up the Jacob’s ladder from the frigate’s cock boat to the poop deck about an hour ago. As a Sea Cadet, he was naturally interviewed by the senior member of your flagship’s contingent of Sea Cadets. He was polite but uncommunicative and insisted on speaking to you, Hr. Admiral.

The Admiral compressed his lips, glared again but said nothing. The Flag-Captain continued:

In proper order, he was interviewed by higher authority—the Fifth Lieutenant, the Fourth Lieutenant, the Third Lieutenant, the Second Lieutenant, and the First Lieutenant. In each case, the outcome was the same—negative. However, he did tell First Lieutenant Vosbein that he has important information about Swedish operational plans. As a last recourse, the man was brought to me. He would not talk. I threatened him with disciplinary action for insubordination. To that he replied that he would write a direct report to the King.

At this news, the Admiral popped his eyes to such an extent that he looked like a surprised bullfrog. The Flag-Captain drew breath and continued:

It seems, Hr. Admiral, that this young person writes quite frequently to His Majesty and that His Royal Highness not only reads his correspondence, but actually encourages it. A frosty smile slid like a ray of arctic sun over the Flag-Captain’s thin mouth. Admiral Barfoed nodded. He pursed his lips as he whistled soundlessly.

Appears that we have a rather unusual youngster aboard, he said after a protracted pause.

Unusual! echoed the Captain. Unusual does not describe him, Hr. Admiral. In the first place, he is, for a Royal Danish Sea Cadet, in the weirdest rig I ever laid eyes on. From hat to breeches, he’s in the gear of a common English sailor. Not only that, but I never saw a Sea Cadet who had the weathered face, the horny hands, or the bull-throated t’gallant bellow of this obstreperous lad.

I see, ventured the Admiral, although, in truth, he did not see. Stalling for time, he added, But, Hr. Captain, what does it all boil down to?

To this, Hr. Admiral! This Peter Wessel claims that, during his stay in Marstrand, he obtained detailed information with respect to the fortifications that protect the town and harbor, as well as data that deal with Swedish plans for the employment of sea forces in the Baltic.

Well, well, came a cheerful but authoritative voice from the door in the larboard bulkhead. I believe that you will agree with me, Hr. Admiral, that it sounds as though this young person, whatever his name or status may be, has more than just a skull under his hat. Why don’t we take a look at him and find out, eh?

As he talked, the speaker advanced from the door to the table.

Good morning, Your Excellency, smiled Barfoed as he rose in greeting. Please sit down, Hr. General. As Løvendal complied, the Admiral went on: That is just what I was thinking. Yes, indeed, Hr. General. But, I do hope that you will agree with me that he’ll keep until after breakfast?

Baron Løvendal nodded.

Right! acknowledged the Flag-Captain. In the meanwhile, I’ll see that the boy gets some decent duffel.

Oh, no, Hr. Captain—I believe that we want to see him just as he came aboard, in all his British glory. Not so, Hr. Admiral? The latter nodded his assent to Baron Løvendal’s proposal.

The Flag-Captain took his leave. Admiral Barfoed disappeared into his sleeping cabin to complete his attire. The Writer left to instruct the Admiral’s chief steward to notify the Admiral’s chef to prepare breakfast. Meanwhile Baron Løvendal headed for the balcony where he stood in deep thought. As Governor and Commander of a Norway that had been drained of much of its military manpower and its economic resources by frequent and bloody wars during the 17th century between Denmark-Norway and Sweden, he would have a tough road to travel. Before Løvendal left for Norway, the King had promised him full support in the realization of the Baron’s tentative plan to invade the west coast of Sweden for the purpose of restoring to Norway the province of Bohuslen—a strip of coastal land that runs south-ward from the Norwegian border at Svinesund to Gøteborg. He had further plans, but this was his chief project. And any information, up-to-date and reliable, with respect to Marstrand and Gøteborg in particular, and the Bohuslen coast in general, was of prime importance to Løvendal and his plans.

Being of Norwegian birth, the welfare of that much-neglected country stood close to Løvendal’s heart. For that reason alone, he had given up his office of Finance Minister of Saxony on the pleas and promises of King Frederik IV. The Baron was not only an able administrator but a top-rank soldier who had risen to increasingly higher commands during wartime services with various continental armies during and before the War of Spanish Succession.

Løvendal looked what he was: a seasoned professional campaigner. Six feet tall, he was lean but not gaunt and straight as a ramrod. A compact, white, English-style military wig covered his smooth black hair. He had a long, thin, somewhat pale face, dominated by deep-set and thoughtful eyes. He wore his green and silver uniform as General of Grenadiers as only a veteran wears a uniform; and a serviceable sword hung in its leather scabbard at the left side of his highly polished black leather belt.

With eyes downcast and hands clasped behind his back, Norway’s new commander wondered what news the strange young man might bring.

Rising from the ocean to the balcony where the Baron stood came the hiss and gurgle of foaming water rushing past the rudder into the ship’s broad wake; from above, and seemingly from afar, sounded the constant creak and crackle of timbers, masts, and rigging characteristic of a ship of the line making way under full sail. To complete the picture, the clear and carrying note of the ship’s bell sounded the turning of the First Glass in the Forenoon Watch. Contemplating the sun-light dancing brightly over the silver-topped waves, the Baron wondered how bright Norway’s future, and his own, might be.

The General was drawn out of his reverie by the return of Admiral Barfoed. His brush of gray hair was now covered by a wig, whose long and glossy curls, black as midnight, framed his head and reached below his shoulders. He wore a long, full-skirted coat made of silk. It matched, in color, the blue of the Vice Admiral’s flag that flew at the staff above the fore-topgallant mast. Frothy Belgian lace foamed at Barfoed’s throat, neck, and wrists. A long-pointed white silk vest, embroidered with golden buttercups, covered a well-rounded center. Yellow satin knee breeches, white silk stockings, and black shoes with high red heels completed his attire. The gold and ivory haft of a fine French court sword peeked, at the waist, from beneath his coat.

In the early decades of the 18th century, admirals did not wear uniforms in the Danish-Norwegian Navy. Or, for that matter, in any other European fleet. Instead, they wore whatever garments they thought befitted their exalted station. Or, as Barfoed, they went in for coats in colors that bespoke their flag rank—green for Fleet, blue for Vice, and red for Rear Admiral. Many of them were men of fashion. If not actually foppish, their seagoing garments were as formal and gaudy as those they wore ashore.

Officers below flag rank wore uniforms, but they displayed no insignia of grade. Navy blue had not come into use in the 1710’s. Instead, naval officers wore single-breasted steel-gray coats with red reverses and red facings. The coat was edged with gold braid, as were its fifteen buttonholes. There were large holes for huge metal buttons that were seldom used. The four top and the six bottom buttons of the almost knee-length coat were customarily left unbuttoned. Two large side pockets were covered by enormous gold-edged flaps and kept closed with big metal buttons—three for each pocket. The sleeves had enormous cuffs or reverses, with red facings and more gold buttons and gold braid. These reached from the wrist almost halfway up the forearm. Around his neck and down the chest, the officer wore a neckpiece—lace on formal occasions; ordinary white linen for everyday use.

Conspicuous features of an officer’s appearance were his waistcoat, knee breeches, and stockings—all a bright red. His footwear was in black, while the sword belt around his waist and his long leather gauntlets were made of red leather.

In this striking uniform, the Flag-Captain had entered and departed from the grand cabin to execute the orders of his superior. As the heavily carved entrance door swung shut behind the stiffly erect figure, Admiral Barfoed stepped toward the gallery door and joined Løvendal on the balcony. After commenting on the beauty of the morning, he added:

If Your Excellency agrees, how about a glass of real Flensburg aquavit—just to put an edge on our breakfast appetites?

Fine idea! exclaimed the General, genially. Yes, indeed! But what’s wrong with two glasses?

Not a thing, not a thing, Your Excellency, replied Barfoed with a smile as bright as the morning itself.

2—SEA CADET WESSEL REPORTS

All traces of the morning meal had vanished when the Flag-Captain returned to the great cabin. A junior lieutenant followed in his wake. They found Baron Løvendal and the Admiral seated side by side at the large oak table on which a chart, showing the Bohuslen coast from Marstrand to Svinesund, was unrolled and cornered with tacks. The Writer sat at his desk, quills and paper ready. With a glance at the Flag-Captain, Admiral Barfoed pointed toward an armchair to the left of the General: Sit down, Hr. Captain. We are ready for Hr. Sea Cadet Wessel.

Without waiting for instructions from the Captain, the Lieutenant strode toward the cabin door. He vanished momentarily, only to return with a young man dressed in the coarse garb of an English seaman. Instead of hanging back, waiting for orders, this new arrival walked within a pace or two of the large table and took his stance, feet placed squarely on the carpet that covered the highly varnished and polished deck. He neither moved nor spoke as he awaited the opening gambit. If he were impressed by the array of rank that confronted him, he showed no sign of it. There was unmistakable self-confidence in his bearing.

As the Flag-Captain had said, the lad was about twenty years old. From his rather large, poorly shod feet to his prominent Adam’s apple, he was merely a medium-tall, extremely well-proportioned youth of muscular build. The hands that held his stiff-crowned, flat-brimmed hat pressed against his stomach, were large-knuckled, brown, and work-worn. They were indeed the tools of a tar—made for handling stubborn sails in heavy weather, made for quick knockout blows in a brawl. His shoulders were straight with the easy grace of a well-squared yardarm.

From the moment he laid eyes on him, Baron Løvendal liked the cut of Wessel’s jib. Still a boy, certainly. But an oak of a man in the making. The Baron, whose years of soldiering had made him a quick and clever judge of men, let his gaze sweep to the young man’s face. It was quite a handsome face, but there was character in every feature. Strength showed in the deeply dimpled but solid, jutting chin; in the sharply defined cheekbones; in the lean, hard planes that rose to his temples and forehead. The thinly bridged nose was slightly hooked. This, plus the keen, cool eyes under thick straight brows gave him an alert hawk-like look. His long, curly, darkish blond hair was in need of a trimming.

So your name is Peter Jansen Wessel? You are from Trondheim, Norway? And you are a Sea Cadet at the Royal Naval Academy? Have you any papers to prove your identity? The Admiral’s voice was gruff but not at all hostile.

Before Wessel could answer, the Flag-Captain cut in: Hr. Admiral, before we hear this young man, may I say that I asked the chaplain to inquire among Sea Cadets on duty aboard your flagship, as well as recently commissioned Sub-Lieutenants, if they knew or had heard about this young man at the Academy. Not one knew or had heard about Peter Wessel of Trondheim.

Admiral Barfoed gave General Løvendal a significant glance. The Academy was a very small and very closely knit community. The Admiral swung his gaze to Wessel with lifting eyebrows. And, as they rose aloft, his eyes bulged outward in their sockets so far that their small blue irises appeared like dots on a field of white. It was a most disconcerting sight. The Admiral was well aware of this and he used it frequently for purposes of intimidation. But the Sea Cadet—as he claimed to be—did not quail. On the contrary, it actually looked as though a smile were trying to escape from around the corners of his red, somewhat heavy lips.

We are fully aware that most Bohuslen people still speak Norwegian, although the Swedes stole this province half a century ago, said the Admiral slowly and evidently for Løvendal’s benefit. We are also aware that countless Bohuslen families are still loyal to Norway. But we are not ignorant of the fact that there are traitors in Bohuslen who side with Sweden. The fact that you may speak Norwegian is no more impressive than your seagoing British garb. You could still be a Swedish agent sent aboard this vessel for an ulterior purpose.

That could be the case, Hr. Admiral. But it isn’t! answered Wessel with an ear-to-ear grin that revealed two rows of strong white teeth. It was the warming grin of an honest man. Løvendal, for one, believed the boy, as he indicated when, smiling slightly, the Baron said:

How would it be, Hr, Admiral, if we let that aspect of the case go by the board for the moment and hear what the boy has to report? We need not act on his information. And, you can, at the proper time, ship him to Copenhagen for full identification.

Admiral Barfoed gave ready consent and Løvendal continued, speaking to Wessel:

Tell us first, as a matter of background, how you got into Marstrand and who sent you there?

No one sent me there, Hr. General, answered Wessel. I was beached at Marstrand by accident. I had a berth aboard a British vessel bound from Bergen for the Baltic by way of Copenhagen. A heavy storm drove us to seek shelter in Marstrand. I thought that, as long as I was in enemy territory, I might as well be hung for a fox as trapped like a mouse, if the Swedes caught on to me. So I bought some gear from the Captain’s slop chest, went ashore, and cruised about town like any ordinary jack-tar to count the ships in the harbor and the cannon on Fort Carlsten as well as those in the shore batteries.

Admiral Barfoed gauged the youngster’s accent with considerable surprise. His Danish bore but faint overtones of his native Trondheim dialect. And still, there seemed to be something fishy on the Dogger Banks. He barked:

How did you come to be a seaman on a British ship out of Bergen?

"You see, Hr. Admiral, I was Third Officer on Fredericus Quartus bound for Copenhagen from the East Indies. When the Captain learned, in May of this year, that war had been declared in 1709 and that the waters south of Norway to Copenhagen swarmed with Swedish privateers, he ran for Bergen and dropped hook to save his cargo. I quit my berth and sought passage for Copenhagen."

Be that as you say, how can a Third Officer on a merchantman be a Sea Cadet?

"Well, Hr. Admiral—when Fredericus Quartus sailed for East India in October 1708, from Copenhagen, I had been assured by His Majesty the King that I would get the first available Sea Cadet appointment to the Academy. I had written to His Majesty on the subject several times before I sailed on Christianus Quintus for Africa and the Virgin Islands in the Caribbean in October 1706. But I did not know that I had been appointed to the Academy in January 1709, until I heard the news a month or two ago from one of my uncles in Bergen. I know that the appointment was made a year and a half ago, but Dr. Peter Jespersen, the King’s Chaplain, had also sent word that His Majesty would hold the appointment open for me until I returned to take up my studies. So that, Hr. General and Hr. Admiral and Hr. Captain, was why I was in a hurry to get to Copenhagen."

In the course of this monologue, the three officers at the table had sat spellbound. Now they looked at each other with varying degrees of wonder. The Flag-Captain was fortunate. He had but one eye with which to betray his utter bewilderment.

You certainly let us in for something when you had this fellow come aboard, said Admiral Barfoed sourly to the Flag-Captain. I can’t make head or tail of his yarn!

Perhaps it would be better, injected General Løvendal soothingly, if we, instead of going backward in time, started at the beginning. It is probably a long story, but I believe that it would provide a clearer picture. If you, Hr. Admiral—and your Flag-Captain—have more pressing things to do, I would be most happy to conduct the examination and report to the Admiral later.

The offer was accepted with speed and enthusiasm. The Admiral was eager to escape responsibility in solving an unexpected problem—and Lord, how he hated unexpected problems! Besides, it left him free to return to the large volume of squadron paper work that was the very lifeblood of the Admiralty. Quite genially, now that his yardarm was not in the sling, he asked his Flag-Captain if Wessel had been fed. When the latter answered in the affirmative, Barfoed turned to the Baron for further suggestions. They came quickly.

To be out of the way, as well as for the sake of privacy, Løvendal decided to take his young charge into the guest cabin. He pointed to a transom beneath a window that looked out over the larboard portion of the gallery’s balcony. Wessel sat down. The Writer, who had followed, seated himself at a small corner table. With a grin, the Baron looked at Wessel and pointed to a rack of clay pipes on the bulkhead. Wessel shook his head with an answering smile. The older man filled one of the long-stemmed fragile pipes. He lit it by means of a flint-lock removed from a horse pistol, a tinderbox, and a wax taper. With a satisfied sigh, he slumped into an armchair opposite Wessel, pulled on the pipe with deep contentment, and waved his slim-fingered left hand toward Peter.

Well, he said genially, for the sake of the record and just to see how the pieces hang together, we may as well hear your story all the way through from the very beginning—from Trøndelag to Marstrand.

3—A VIKING RETURNS TO TRONDHEIM

Halfway between Christiania and the Arctic Circle—climbing up hill and skidding down dale over the rough and narrow trails that served as roads two and a half centuries ago—lies Trøndelag, the country of the Trønders. Since the dawn of historic times, these hardy Nordmen have occupied a wide swath of Norway that stretches eastward hundreds of miles from the shoal-filled, storm-swept, and fjord-indented North Atlantic coast to the high-crested mountain ranges that form the Swedish-Norwegian border. Some forty miles inland from Atlantic waves and weather, on a deep and wide elbow of the fjord that bears its name, lies Trondheim, meaning the home of the Trønders. This ancient citadel of the Trøndelag Vikings was established about one thousand years ago by Olav Trygvason, one of the great leaders of the piratical fraternity which not only fought with berserk courage against enemies at any odds but also, on very slight provocation, among themselves.

The Vikings departed eons ago. But, despite changes in men wrought by Father Time, there are occasions when Mother Nature stages a reversion to an ancestral type; and such a throwback arrived in Trondheim on October 28, 1690, when Peter Jansen Wessel was born. He was the son of Jan and Maren Wessel, a happy, prosperous, and productive couple who lived in one of the largest houses in the select waterfront section of Trondheim. They needed a spacious home. Peter was their fourteenth child, and, in time, four