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  “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 our 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!”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the officers around the room. Anttonen regarded them with disgust, then turned his gaze back to the admiral. “Yes, sir,” he said. “But, sir, this chance you have given us is no chance at all, no chance whatsoever. You see, sir, Sweden can’t get ships here fast enough. The ice will not melt in time.”

  Cronstedt ignored his words. “I gave you an order, Colonel,” he said, with iron in his voice. “Sit down!”

  Anttonen stared at him coldly, his eyes burning, his hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically at his sides. There was a long moment of tense silence. Then he sat down.

  Colonel Jägerhorn coughed, and rattled the sheaf of papers he was holding in his hands. “To continue with the business at hand,” he said, “we must first dispatch the messengers to Stockholm. Speed is essential here. The Russians will provide the necessary papers.”

  His eyes combed the room. “If the admiral agrees,” he said, “I would suggest Lieutenant Eriksson and—and—”

  He paused a second, and a slow smile spread across his features.

  “—and Captain Bannersson,” he concluded.

  Cronstedt nodded.

  The morning air was crisp and cold, and the sun was rising in the east. But no one watched. All eyes in Sveaborg were fixed on the dark and cloudy western horizon. For hours on end officer and soldier, Swede and Finn, sailor and artilleryman all searched the empty sea, and hoped. They looked to Sweden, and prayed for the sails they knew would never come.

  And among those who prayed was Colonel Bengt Anttonen. High atop the battlements of Vargön, he scanned the seas with a small telescope, like so many others in Sveaborg. And like the others, he found nothing.

  Folding his telescope, Anttonen turned fr
om the ramparts with a frown to address the young ensign who stood by his side. “Useless,” he said. “I’m wasting valuable time.”

  The ensign looked scared and nervous. “There’s always the chance, sir. Suchtelen’s deadline is not until noon. A few hours, but we can hope, can’t we?”

  Anttonen was grim, sober. “I wish we could, but we’re just deluding ourselves. The armistice agreement provides that the ships must not merely be in sight by noon, but must have entered Sveaborg’s harbor.”

  The ensign looked puzzled. “What of it?” he asked.

  Anttonen pointed out over the walls, towards an island dimly visible in the distance. “Look there,” he said. His arm moved to indicate a second island. “And there. Russian fortifications. They’ve used the truce to gain command of the sea approaches. Any ship attempting to reach Sveaborg will come under heavy attack.”

  The colonel sighed. “Besides, the sea is dogged with ice. No ship will be able to reach us for weeks. The winter and the Russians have combined to kill our hopes.”

  Glumly, ensign and colonel walked from the ramparts into the interior of the fortress together. The corridors were dim and depressing; silence reigned everywhere.

  At last, Anttonen spoke. “We’ve delayed long enough, Ensign. Vain hopes will no longer suffice; we must strike.” He looked into his companion’s eyes as they walked. “Gather the men. The time has come. I shall meet you near my quarters in two hours.”

  The ensign hesitated. “Sir,” he asked. “Do you think we have a chance? We have so few men. We’re a handful against a fortress.”

  In the dim light, Anttonen’s face was tired and troubled. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just don’t know. Captain Bannersson had contacts; if he had remained, our numbers would be greater. But I don’t know the enlisted men like Carl did. I don’t know who we can trust.”

  The colonel halted, and clasped the ensign firmly on the shoulder. “But, regardless, we’ve got to try. Finland’s army has starved and been frozen and watched their homeland burn all winter. The only thing that has kept them going is the dream of winning it back. And without Sveaborg, that dream will die.” He shook his head sadly. “We can’t let that happen. With that dream dies Finland.”

  The ensign nodded. “Two hours, sir. You can count on us. We’ll put some fight in Admiral Cronstedt yet.” He grinned, and hurried on his way.

  Alone in the silent corridor, Colonel Bengt Anttonen drew his sword, and held it up to where the dim light played along its blade. He gazed at it sadly, and wondered in silence how many Finns he’d have to kill in order to save Finland.

  But there was no answer.

  The two guards fidgeted uneasily. “I don’t know, Colonel,” said one. “Our orders are to admit no one to the armory without authorization.”

  “I should think my rank would be sufficient authorization,” snapped back Anttonen. “I am giving you a direct order to let us pass.”

  The first guard looked at his companion doubtfully. “Well,” he said. “In that case perhaps we—”

  “No, sir,” said the second guard. “Colonel Jägerhorn ordered us not to admit anyone without authorization from Admiral Cronstedt. I’m afraid that includes you, too, sir.”

  Anttonen regarded him coldly. “Perhaps we should see Admiral Cronstedt about this,” he said. “I think he might like to hear how you disobeyed a direct order.”

  The first guard winced. Both of them were squirming with unease, and had focused all their attention on the angry Finnish colonel. Anttonen scowled at them. “Come along,” he said. “Now.”

  The pistol shots that rang out from the nearby corridor at that word took the guards completely by surprise. There was a cry of pain as one clutched his bleeding arm, his gun clattering to the floor. The second whirled towards the sound, and simultaneously Anttonen leaped forward to seize his musket in an iron grip. Before the guard had quite grasped what was happening, the colonel had wrenched his gun from startled fingers. From the corridor on the right issued a group of armed men, most bearing muskets, a few holding still-smoking pistols.

  “What shall we do with these two?” asked a gruff, burly corporal at the head of the group. He leveled his bayonet suggestively at the chest of the guard still standing. The other had fallen to his knees, holding his wounded arm tenderly.

  Handing the guard’s musket to one of the men standing beside him, Anttonen regarded his prisoners coldly. He reached forward and yanked a ring of keys from the belt of the chief guard. “Tie them up,” he said. “And watch them. We don’t want any more bloodshed than can be helped.”

  The corporal nodded and, gesturing with his bayonet, herded the guards away from the door. Stepping forward with the keys, Anttonen worked intently for a moment, then opened the heavy wooden door on the fortress armory.

  Instantly there was a rush of men through the doorway. They had prepared for this moment for some time, and they worked quickly and efficiently. Heavy wooden boxes creaked in protest as they were forced open, and there was the rasp of metal on metal as the muskets were lifted from the boxes and passed around.

  Standing just inside the door, Anttonen surveyed the scene nervously. “Hurry up,” he ordered. “And be sure to take plenty of powder and ammunition. We’ll have to leave a good number of men to hold the armory against counterattacks, and—”

  Suddenly the colonel whirled. From the hall outside came the sounds of musket fire, and the echo of running footsteps. Fingering his sword hilt apprehensively, Anttonen stepped back outside of the door.

  And froze.

  The guards he had posted outside of the armory were huddled against the far wall of the corridor, their weapons thrown in a heap at their feet. And facing him was a body of men twice as numerous as his insurgents, their guns trained on him and the armory door behind him. At their head, smiling confidently, was the lean, aristocratic form of Colonel F. A. Jägerhorn, a pistol cradled in his right hand.

  “It’s all over, Bengt,” he said. “We figured you’d try something like this, and we’ve been watching every move you made since the armistice was signed. Your mutiny is finished.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” said Anttonen, shaken but still resolute. “By now a group of my men have taken Admiral Cronstedt’s office, and with him as prisoner are fanning out to seize the main batteries.”

  Jägerhorn threw back his head, and laughed. “Don’t be a fool. Our men captured the ensign and his squad before they even got near Admiral Cronstedt. You never had a chance.”

  Anttonen’s face went white. Horror and despair flickered across his eyes, and were replaced by a coldly burning anger. “NO!” he cried from behind clenched teeth. “NO!” His sword leaped from its sheath and flashed silver in the light as he sprang forward towards Jägerhorn.

  He had taken but three steps when the first bullet caught him in the shoulder and sent his sword skittering from his grasp. The second and third ripped into his stomach and doubled him up. He took another halting step, and sank slowly to the floor.

  Jägerhorn’s eyes swept over him indifferently. “You men in the armory,” he shouted, his voice ringing clearly through the hall. “Put down your guns and come out slowly. You are outnumbered and surrounded. The revolt is over. Don’t make us spill any more blood.”

  There was no answer. From the side, where he was being held under guard, the veteran corporal shouted out, “Do as he says, men. He’s got too many men to fight.” He looked towards his commander. “Sir, tell them to give up. We have no chance now. Tell them, sir.”

  But the silence mocked his words, and the colonel lay quite still.

  For Colonel Bengt Anttonen was dead.

  A few short minutes after it had begun, the mutiny was over. And soon thereafter, the flag of Russia flew from the parapets of Vargön.

  And as it flew above Sveaborg, soon it flew above Finland.

  EPILOG

  The old man propped himself up in the bed painfully, and stared with open curiosity at th
e visitor who stood in the doorway. The man was tall and powerfully built, with cold blue eyes and dirty blond hair. He wore the uniform of a major in the Swedish army, and carried himself with the confident air of a hardened warrior.

  The visitor moved forward, and leaned against the foot of the old man’s bed. “So you don’t recognize me?” he said. “I can see why. I imagine that you’ve tried to forget Sveaborg and everything connected with it, Admiral Cronstedt.”

  The old man coughed violently. “Sveaborg?” he said weakly, trying to place the stranger who stood before him. “Were you at Sveaborg?”

  The visitor laughed. “Yes, Admiral. For a good while at any rate. My name is Bannersson, Carl Bannersson. I was a captain then.”

  Cronstedt blinked. “Yes, yes. Bannersson. I remember you now. But you’ve changed since then.”

  “True. You sent me back to Stockholm, and in the years that followed I fought with Carl Johan against Napoleon. I’ve seen a lot of battles and a lot of sieges since then, sir. But I never forgot Sveaborg. Never.”

  The admiral doubled over suddenly with a fit of uncontrollable coughing. “W-what do you want?” he managed to gasp out at last. “I’m sorry if I’m rude, but I’m a sick man. Talking is a great strain.” He coughed again. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Bannersson’s eyes wandered around the small, dirty bedchamber. He straightened and reached into the breast pocket of his uniform, withdrawing a thick sealed envelope.

  “Admiral,” he said, tapping the envelope gently against the palm of his hand for emphasis. “Admiral, do you know what day this is?”

  Cronstedt frowned. “The sixth of April,” he replied.

  “Yes. April 6, 1820. Exactly twelve years since that day you met with General Suchtelen on Lonan, and gave Sveaborg to the Russians.”

  The old man shook his head slowly from side to side. “Please, Major. You’re awakening memories I had sealed up long ago. I don’t want to talk about Sveaborg.”