The Northman: Three Sheets to the Wind

By Tore Hoyem

Imagine a time when a fifteen-year-old is expected to take on adult responsibilities, to go to war, and to consider marriage.
Imagine a time when only a few consider slavery to be evil; when imperial France flexes its muscle and the sailing ship is the pinnacle of human engineering.
That time was the year 1800, a mere 220 years ago.

A romantic encounter with a disastrous outcome. A suspicious accident. An unexpected voyage. Young Martin finds himself an active participant in the African slave trade.
Copenhagen, to Portsmouth, to Madeira, to Freetown, to Accra, to St. Croix. Martin meets new friends and enemies, romance, deadly peril, and personal tragedy.

On the scorched soil of Africa, he reaches his breaking point.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tore Hoyem
• Release date: Jul 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005598235

Tore Hoyem

An avid reader from an early age, I often pondered writing stories of my own. But only towards the end of my life did I try my hand at the craft. Initially, I believed writing a novel would be rather easy.How naïve of me. It was anything but.Two years and many, many revisions, including deleting at least 25000 words, later I was done.Could the book have benefitted from further revisions?Likely. But eventually one has to conclude that enough is enough and start a new project.

Book preview

Prologue - St. Croix, 1801

Canons on the walls belch fire and smoke, creating a bloody pulp of the men in the courtyard.

A severed head raised above a savage face howling in triumph.

The knife slides across the assailant’s throat, spraying the cowering girl in arterial blood.

The dreams came every night, and fragments such as these still lingered when I woke, soaked in sweat from the night terrors. Darkness still pooled in the room, but from experience, I knew it was no use trying to go back to sleep. A single step took me across the cell to the small table, and I pulled the rickety chair closer after lighting a fresh candle. My manuscript lay as I’d left it last night, showing the first page:

St. Croix,

The Danish West Indies,

April 1801.

As I write this, I am enjoying the hospitality of the British occupation force.

I’m sixteen years old, and I will probably hang for my crimes.

The woman I love is dining with the occupation commander.

I have killed at least four men and a child, traded in slaves. I have partaken of strong drink and enjoyed the intimate company of whores.

My name is Martin Nore, and this is my diary.

To keep my sanity, I will spend my remaining hours reconstructing the events which led me here. May God have mercy on my soul.

Not Shakespeare, but it would have to do. There wasn’t much time to complete my story, so I fumbled around for a fresh page.

❖

Nine days and a stack of paper filled with my scribblings later, I tossed the final blunted pen to the floor. I would never need it again. The sounds of heavy boots marching down the corridor left no doubt the time had come.

A key rattled like dry bones inside a coffin, and an English sergeant threw open the door. Mr. Nore, please come with us.

I grimaced. Whatever came next, my story was done. Perhaps someone would read it and find some redemption among the pages.

Part I - Childhood Ends, 1800

Chapter 1

Christiania, Norway.

Martin, are you listening? Mother’s voice, usually soft, held a shrill undertone.

I’d been daydreaming about summer. This year Grandfather would surely let me take a musket on my first solo hunting trip, and it would be glorious. Now Mother jerked me back to reality.

She pushed the remains of the meal away and played with her napkin. Father feigned disinterest and pretended to savor his dessert while studying the gathering dusk outside. I’d seen this scene play out on multiple occasions, with minor variations on the theme: my father had made some profound decision and commanded Mother to announce it. The room was warm, but chills of dismay tip-toed along my spine.

So, I finally have your attention. Her voice was pleasant once more. She could never stay vexed at her firstborn for long unless my latest transgression was severe—which it frequently was.

Yes, Mother. I’m sorry, Mother.

Whatever unpleasantness was coming my way, buttering up to her would help soften the blow. Was this about the shoe I’d lost last week or the tiny crack in her favorite vase?

I said, it is high time we discuss suitable marriage prospects, Martin. Her expression dashed all hope I was the victim of some ghastly joke. I blinked and tried to focus, but all I saw was an avalanche hurtling toward me.

I … What? I tried once more. Marriage? I’m only fifteen.

Mother drew a deep breath. We need to review opportunities, dear.

But I don’t love anyone. It could take years and years to find a girl good enough for your only son, Mother. I knew I was laying it on thick, but in my defense, I was unprepared for this conversation. Father harrumphed, warning me not to push my luck.

Love does not enter this. Marriages tie families together and bring considerable benefits if properly arranged.

The situation was worse than I had imagined. My parents were proposing to trade me off like a piece of meat. I felt sick—Mother was perfect in every way. But I had never met a girl I’d found even remotely interesting.

But why me? None of my friends have to endure such a fate.

Listen! Your friends don’t come from families with aspirations. Father had decided to participate. Rest assured, your mother and I are only considering the finest families in Christiania and Fredrikshald.

I could tell he wanted me to prompt him for some big reveal, but I was too flabbergasted to respond appropriately. With a slight frown, he continued. And who better than the Ankers—the wealthiest and most influential family in the country?

Mother stepped in on cue and delivered what she saw as a winning argument. Christiane Andrea, the daughter of Herr Peder Anker, is a beautiful woman.

What am I supposed to do? I said, struggling to keep my tone neutral.

Your father and I want you to meet the young lady. We are attending Herr Bernt Anker’s first summer party in a few weeks, and his niece will be there. Well, how convenient.

I don’t want to go to a boring party. You can’t force me. Desperation made me sprout nonsense at this point—I had no say in the matter, and we all knew it.

You will do what we tell you. You are not too old for the cane, so watch your tone. Father looked flushed as he turned to Mother. This is what comes from your spoiling the boy, Josephine.

Martin, this is important to the family. Things are not going well for us right now, she said, ignoring his comment.

Father made dismissive gestures. It’s not appropriate to discuss such matters in front of Martin. He’s a child. His pitch had risen by an octave.

Really, Gustav. You consider our son old enough for marriage but too young to hear about matters of finance? This was a side of Mother I had not seen before. In the past, she had always demurely concurred with whatever he announced. At least in my presence. Now she leaned forward and met my gaze. Martin dear, the truth is your father has made several poor investments, and we need a solid business alliance. And that is best achieved through marriage. Do you understand?

I nodded mutely. At the head of the table, Father sputtered in outrage at the overt criticism, but no one paid him any attention.

The Ankers can pick and choose when it comes to matches for their family. So, it will take considerable effort to make them even consider the Nores. You are a smart and handsome young man, and if you play your part and find favor in the girl’s eyes, we have a stronger argument when we discuss the matter with her parents. All we expect from you is to be on your best behavior and be mindful of my etiquette lessons. Can you do this for me?

Yes, Mother.

My parents spoke at great length after this, but I’d stopped listening. They had just handed me a sentence that meant bondage, as surely as if a magistrate had pronounced it. All aspirations for a happy, carefree life lay shattered and ground to dust.

❖

As March waned, the sun once more dominated the sky. The subject of courtship was not broached again, and naively I let the unpleasant event fade from memory. Don’t speak of the Devil, and he will not show himself.

My immediate concern was the revelation that our finances were in trouble. The Nores had always been well-to-do, and I had not endured any hardship, unlike some of my less fortunate friends. I approached Mother as she sat by the fireplace, intent upon her crocheting.

Mother, how severe are our difficulties?

She finished the thread she was working on and deliberately placed the embroidery on the table next to her chair. Things are more serious than your father lets on, I’m afraid. We might lose the farms, including this one, and the lumber mill.

For a moment I felt numb all over. Losing the farm where I’d spent my tender years was unimaginable. That would leave us with only the wine and tobacco shop, living as shopkeepers inside Christiania town?

She ruffled my hair. Don’t fret, dear. Your father is working on a plan that shows some promise. He will tell you about it when the time comes.

But isn’t it Father’s fault we’ve come to this? Why would this latest idea work better than his previous ones?

Now, that’s enough from you, young man. Whatever her thoughts were, Mother was fiercely loyal to her husband. We must all play our part for the good of the family. Which reminds me, the new suit I ordered for you from Copenhagen arrived today.

Chapter 2

A month later, Father gave me the eye and switched from voicing outrage at yet another report of Russian agents operating freely in Norway’s northern territories. Until this point, supper had progressed without me attracting unwanted attention, but my luck had run out.

Martin, he said. You passed your confirmation last year, and you are now an adult. Your mother and I agree it’s time you paid attention to the family business.

Mother smiled encouragingly, and I stifled a groan. Here it comes—the big plan. Father tended to drone on and on once he got started. But I knew full well what he expected and looked him in the eye while feigning interest. Splendid news, Father. My fifteenth birthday finally made me a man. For a second, I feared I’d overdone it with my flippancy, but he failed to notice.

As you know, I have worked purposefully since your grandfather left the family businesses to me. My goal has been to elevate the Nores to the position we deserve—to have us counted among the city’s finest.

Mother made a discrete gesture. The one which meant pay attention, dear. Likely, she had suffered through this lecture already, possibly several times. But when the head of the family shared his thoughts, he expected everyone to sit straight and look sharp.

I have considered many ways to bolster our fortunes. Now I have settled on a plan that can’t fail. Can you guess what it is?

Gustav Nore was what one charitably referred to as a man of books, although he could be charming on occasion. His peers liked him well enough, and he enjoyed some respect among the upper levels of society. My father was not a practical man in any sense of the word, and his business acumen was not the best. He saw himself as an astute merchant prince, but he never made much profit from his many ideas and ventures. The financial troubles my parents had hinted at were a testimony to his abilities.

Whatever it might be, I suspected his idea would not be a practical one. However, to suggest such heresy would not be wise. I furrowed my brows and shook my head, pretending I was giving the question serious thought.

Sugar! he said, clearly not expecting an answer. Sugar, he repeated, in case I missed it the first time. If there is one commodity that creates fortunes, it’s sugar. If you control it, it’s like minting coin of your own.

What about timber and fish, Father? Don’t people make a lot of money selling those? I asked. Both were abundant here—sugar probably less so.

Clearly, this wasn’t worthy of a response. Do you have any idea where sugar comes from, Martin? This time it sounded as if he expected a reply.

I had no clue where the stuff originated. To avoid looking ignorant, I mumbled, Everyone knows … I was pretty sure he’d answer his own question shortly.

The West Indies. Specifically, our colonies there, he said, right on cue.

The Kingdom of Denmark-Norway owns three small islands in the Caribbean Sea; all had names starting with Saint. This immediately conjured images of pirates, Spanish treasure galleons, and tropical island paradises.

Father must have noticed my thoughts drifting, for he rapped the table. Wake up, boy!

Mother, ever the diplomat, smiled at him. Please continue, dear. I am sure Martin has your undivided attention.

His eyes narrowed, but he pressed on. Most people think no further than the sugar refineries. There are two in operation: one north in the city of Trondhjem and another to the south in the town of Fredrikshald. There was a third in Bergen, but it was so ineptly managed, they had to close after a short time—which wasn’t unexpected. For reasons unknown, he held a low opinion of Bergen and its citizens.

The national market for sugar is insatiable, and I see no reason to import a single gram from Denmark or England. But our refineries face a huge problem: they depend on imports of crude sugar. The powerful Danish merchants control the flow, and they always favor their local factories and markets before ours.

I nodded to show I was hanging on his every word. The dinner lecture had turned out to be just as much of a bore as I’d feared.

My brilliant idea is to manage all business segments involved: production, transport, and refining.

The soft dusk of spring spread through the room while the servant girl cleared away the dishes. As she returned to light the candles, Father elaborated on his Grand Strategy. I have spoken to several local businessmen. All agree my plan is solid, and we’ll establish a refining business here in Christiania.

With a look of smug satisfaction, he delivered his coup de force. I have approached Herr Bernt Anker on the matter, and he’s expressed great interest. When they learned of his involvement, several smaller investors, previously on the fence, have also joined the venture.

Mention of the Anker family and the meaningful looks sent my way made me nervous. Dear God, no more talk of marriage. I’ll be good from now on.

A while back, my old friend Casper Meyer of Copenhagen learned of a sugar plantation for sale on the island of St. Croix. The seller quoted a favorable price—citing health reasons. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, I suspect another explanation: the man senses trouble for the sugar business in the next few years.

Why would we want to spend money on trouble?

I’ll get to that later, but it ties into the core of this opportunity. Father seemed pleased I’d come up with a sensible question. With an eye on purchasing this property, I have exchanged letters with Herr Meyer, and we have agreed to purchase the plantation together. Herr Meyer’s influence with von Schimmelmann, the King’s Minister of Finance, ensures the necessary permits to buy and run the estate. He’ll also make sure our Christiania refinery receives the Letter of Privilege it needs to operate.

To my surprise, Father’s enthusiasm had rubbed off, and I voiced my honest approval. Bravo, Father. Bravo! I cried. Praise always put him in an amiable mood.

I learned another crucial component of his idea the next day. It was one he neglected to mention earlier, possibly due to Mother’s presence. She had watched his monolog in silence, and I suspected she had misgivings about the entire affair. But if so, she kept them to herself while I was in the room.

The king has decreed that from 1803, Danish ships can no longer carry slaves from the African coast to the West Indies. As slaves are essential to the profitable production of raw sugar, both challenges and opportunities present themselves, Father said.

We bent over his favorite world map, now spread over the big desk which dominated his study. The king’s proclamation doesn’t cover ownership and trade with slaves within the Caribbean island region, but it will drive prices up. Getting fresh stock out of Africa while the law still allows it means both savings and profit in the long run, he continued, tapping the map. The present owner has decided to free his slaves when he sells the property. From what I hear, this is not a bad thing, because his workforce is old or ill-disciplined. He looked grim, as if envisioning the horror of owning unproductive people. Instead of sailing directly from Copenhagen to the Caribbean, my trip follows the Triangle Route: Europe to Africa to the West Indies. Then back to Norway with our first cargo of unrefined sugar.

He pointed to spots on the hand-colored map, bearing exotic names like Bristol, Portsmouth, Madeira, Guinea, and St. Croix. If all elements of the plan prove as successful as I expect, we’ll make one or two more trips before the ban goes into effect. By then, the Norwegian sugar market should be in our hands. He smacked his lips. Should our refinery not be ready when I return, we’ll sell the first shipment to the factory in Fredrikshald for a tidy profit. The only downside is I’ll be absent for at least twelve months to manage all proceedings, he concluded. Perhaps more, if I must wait for the new slaves to harvest our first crop.

I had no objections to getting away from under his eye and saw no downsides to the plan at all. Happy with what he told me, I again expressed the expected amount of enthusiasm.

❖

At the time, we still owned a lumber mill, a few dairy farms, and a shop dealing in imported tobacco and wines. Everything purchased with loot brought home by Grandfather from his various military campaigns. These yielded enough income to make us well-to-do. However, Christiania society never considered Gustav Nore more than a wealthy merchant. Ever ambitious, Father inevitably schemed to climb the social ladder.

He was as God-fearing as the next man, bowing head in church on Sundays and saying grace at every meal. On weekdays, he left God alone to go about His business. I never saw him drink excessively, and he disliked violence. That said, when he applied his cane to his offspring’s backside, he often showed too much zeal for my liking.

My greatest issue with Father was his determination to give me the best education available in Christiania. Which meant him tutoring me in mathematics, geometry, and the mysteries of probability calculation. As the sole heir, he also expected me to learn the basics of bookkeeping, a subject I considered far beneath my notice. When the mood struck him, he would lecture on the topics of history, natural science, religion, and politics. The former two held my interest to some degree, but I dreaded his speeches on the latter subjects. He possessed considerable knowledge, but to call him a talented teacher would be entirely too charitable.

In all fairness, I’d say he was no worse than most patres familias and a damn sight better than some.

Chapter 3

Life on our farm had changed little during my childhood years. As with most semi-rural properties, not much actual farming took place anymore—apart from Mother keeping a few chickens around for eggs. Whenever the household required fresh supplies, all necessities were obtainable within a twenty-minute leisurely trip. Double that time in winter, when the snow piled up.

The town of Christiania, with its roots going 800 years into the past, sat two kilometers to the west of our place. A quiet provincial settlement in the shadow of Akershus Fortress, its population was well below ten thousand. Compared to cities like Bergen, or even Trondhjem, the town had little worth mention. Still, we had our elite social circles that included industry magnates, officials, wealthy merchants, and the odd foreigner. The latter were usually assumed to be of noble blood, whatever their actual background.

Rural setting or not, summer parties were commonplace among the upper strata. True to custom, Herr Bernt Anker hosted a string of spring parties. Because grandfather Einar was a retired but well-known military commander and because the Christiania elite had re-elevated Mother to French nobility, he usually invited the Nore family. An RSVP for April 20th arrived weeks ago, and Father wanted to cultivate his business relations. Everyone who matters will be there, he promised to spur my enthusiasm.

As the heads of the family pointed out, at fifteen, society considered me an adult—which meant attending social events in the company of my parents. I’d rather spend Sunday afternoon loafing about, but Mother dismissed my arguments out of hand. This party is your first opportunity to be noticed, and I know Frøken Anker will be present, she said. Mind your manners and don’t embarrass the Nore name, thank you very much! I got that a lot and agreed, out of habit, without giving the matter further thought.

Mother had ordered my first real suit—Directoire style—from a Copenhagen tailor in anticipation of upcoming social events. A local seamstress had taken all my measurements, and Mother dispatched them to the capital via her sister. Despite the careful preparations, she had worried about the delivery for weeks. Much to our relief, we found it fit me splendidly. I cut quite the dashing figure, and a new stylish top hat completed the attire. Underneath the topper, I sported a mop of light blond hair and a wiry build with shoulders broadening with the promise of manhood.

Every time you go on an expedition with your grandfather, you come back more handsome, Mother gushed. And your teeth are the envy of most women. You’re such a good-looking boy; you’ll soon have to fight the girls off.

As there was no wriggling my way out of attending, at least I would make a great impression. But she had to spoil what little enthusiasm I’d mustered by adding, Keep in mind, ladies do not consider a man unless he’s well-mannered. A gentleman.

In summer, Sunday events started with the midday meal, which meant the guests began trickling in after church services. Liberal amounts of wine and liquor accompanied all food. I was under strict orders to keep away from these—a command I had no intention of obeying. What use was adult status if one couldn’t enjoy the benefits?

❖

When the day arrived, blue skies and only the mildest of breezes promised perfect party weather. However, the snow on the surrounding hilltops proved winter had not given up the struggle. The festivity took place on the opposite side of town, and Father summoned our best city carriage.

We do not engage in any discussion of family finances, Father warned as we enjoyed the ride. This is only a bump in the road, and all will be better than ever by next year. Then to me, Martin, you remember your instructions? We merely expect you to present a favorable face. Meaning: No smart mouthing, no pranks, and no silliness.

Just mind my lessons, dear, Mother chimed in. Frøken Anker is sure to look favorably on our handsome boy. I’m sure she believed what she said, but Father pursed his lips and sent me a baleful stare.

The property could have served as the model for a painting, with its sprawling, well-tended garden perfect for such occasions. A large, white three-story main house dominated the grounds, with the obligatory secondary buildings scattered close by. Two hundred meters to the south, the fjord sparkled as the breeze created brief ripples. A copse of trees hid the gardens from riffraff on the nearby road. Off in the distance to the east, the flag on top of the Akershus Fortress fluttered lazily.

The minute I stepped from the carriage, I abandoned all hope. Stuffy ancients in their Sunday fineries cluttered the driveway and gardens. The only guests anywhere near my age were two young officers from the fortress. They noticed me staring at them, lifted their noses, and turned away. There would be no relief from tedium there.

Our hosts greeted arrivals by the mansion, and their group included a young girl—obviously Christiane Andrea Anker. There was no denying she was pretty, but the vacant eyes and complacent smile made her as appealing as the freakishly small dog on her arm. Dear Lord, strike me dead now.

I was about to declare the day beyond salvage, steal a bottle of wine, and sneak off, when something piqued my interest. The Anker family clumped next to the driveway to greet arrivals. Behind them, the large French doors leading into the house framed another young woman. Her dress looked expensive, but she did not appear to be part of Herr Anker’s household. A Nordic beauty in her early twenties, she wore a green summer dress complimented by a purple scarf draped over her shoulders and left arm. More important—there were curves, which the soft material of her garments made no effort to conceal. It was also apparent from her she wished to be anywhere but here.

I was unprepared for what happened next: my heart raced uncontrollably, my palms felt moist, and my knees threatened to buckle. At the same time, I desperately wanted to catch her eye.

I briefly considered hiding in our carriage, but Father’s firm hand propelled me forward. Don’t dawdle, boy.

Whatever my feelings on the matter, etiquette demanded we greet the hosts. There was no alternative but to follow the stream moving toward Herr and Fru Anker and the girl in green. Herr Anker was a pleasant man with a quick line and a friendly smile for everyone. I first met him last summer when the Englishman Thomas Malthus visited the country, and Christiania society scrambled to arrange parties in his honor. Anker was a scholar and quite the philosopher. His anecdotes and stories stuck with me—even to this day. His wife, Mathia, was a stern and formidable woman in her sixties. Today she played the role of hostess to perfection, with a polite greeting for each guest. I strained to catch one more glimpse of my mystery woman, but found my view blocked.

My parents greeted the Ankers and formally presented me as the family’s pride and joy. Another nudge in the small of my back reminded me of my assigned role: Christiane Andrea. As long as I remained under my parents’ watchful eyes, I had to perform according to custom.

I bowed to each adult before attending to the Anker girl. Martin Nore, at your service. I desperately tried to deliver something original and witty as a follow-up, The stories of your beauty don’t do you enough justice.

Dear God, that was just awful.

Christiane Andrea blinked in surprise at my familiarity and then let out a high-pitched giggle. I felt myself blush, while Father sounded like a man choking. I prayed the green-clad one hadn’t noticed.

Luckily Herr Anker took pity on me and grinned jovially. Young master Nore, eh? I seem to remember you breaking a stack of plates, last we met. He laughed, and I found his demeanor encouraging. His wife did not look pleased, though—her mouth formed a thin line at the mention of the mishap.

The crowd shifted, and I caught a glimpse of my heart’s desire—she was studying me with open amusement. The introductions had left me no wiser as to her identity, and when we finally disengaged from the throng, she was gone.

❖

Mother couldn’t resist one last lecture. Really, Martin. Whatever got into you? That’s not how you greet a well-bred woman. Give it a little time. Then I want you to seek out Frøken Anker and show her your best manners.

There was only one possible answer. Yes, Mother dear.

The midday meal won’t be served for another hour. You should mingle but mind your behavior. And you will explain about those plates tomorrow!

If she left me in charge of the mission’s success, she had only herself to blame. When she turned her attention to a group of matrons, I was freed from her watchful gaze and nonchalantly drifted toward the main building.

I noted the two officers casting not so furtive glances in the Anker girl’s direction. A plan emerged: If I held back, the pair of them would surely engage the lady, which would give me time to find my blonde angel.

I strolled between the tables and sought to clear my mind, bowing and smiling—not that anyone noticed. The Ankers had finished with the stragglers and dispersed among the guests. The girl in the green dress still made herself scarce, and I began obsessing over her.

After I skirted a group of portly gentlemen puffing fat cigars, I ended back in Mother’s field of view. She raised an eyebrow—always a dire