Hero Tales of the Far North | Page 8

was no longer reason for caution, they raised
a racket that woke the sleeping town up in a fright. The commander of
the other fort sent out a boat to ascertain the cause. It met the Admiral's
and challenged it, "Who goes there?"
"Tordenskjold," was the reply, "come to teach you to keep awake."
It proved impossible to warp the ships out. Only one of the seven lost
ones was recovered; all the rest were set on fire. By the light of the
mighty bonfire Tordenskjold rowed out with his men, hauling the
recovered ship right under the guns of the forts, the Danish flag flying
at the bow of his boat. He had not lost a single man. A cannon-ball
swept away all the oars on one side of his boat, but no one was hurt.
At Marstrand they had been up all night listening to the cannonading
and the crash upon crash as the big ships blew up. They knew that
Tordenskjold was abroad with his men. In the morning, when they
were all in church, he walked in and sat down by his chief, the old
Admiral Judicher, who was a slow-going, cautious man. He whispered
anxiously, "What news?" but Tordenskjold only shrugged his shoulders
with unmoved face. It is not likely that either the old Admiral or the
congregation heard much of that sermon, if indeed they heard any of it.
But when it was over, they saw from the walls of the town the Danish
ships at anchor and heard the story of the last of Tordenskjold's exploits.
It fitly capped the climax of his life. Sweden's entire force on the North
Sea, with the exception of five small galleys, had either been captured,
sunk, or burned by him.
The King would not let Tordenskjold go when peace was made, but he
had his way in the end. To his undoing he consented to take with him
abroad a young scalawag, the son of his landlord, who had more money
than brains. In Hamburg the young man fell in with a gambler, a
Swedish colonel by name of Stahl, who fleeced him of all he had and
much more besides. When Tordenskjold heard of it and met the
Colonel in another man's house, he caned him soundly and threw him

out in the street. For this he was challenged, but refused to fight a
gambler.
"Friends," particularly one Colonel Münnichhausen, who volunteered
to be his second, talked him over, and also persuaded him to give up
the pistol, with which he was an expert. The duel was fought at the
Village of Gledinge, over the line from Hanover, on the morning of
November 12, 1720. Tordenskjold was roused from sleep at five, and,
after saying his prayers, a duty he never on any account omitted, he
started for the place appointed. His old body-servant vainly pleaded
with his master to take his stout blade instead of the flimsy parade
sword the Admiral carried. Münnichhausen advised against it; it would
be too heavy, he said. Stahl's weapon was a long fighting rapier, and to
this the treacherous second made no objection. Almost at the first thrust
he ran the Admiral through. The seconds held his servant while Stahl
jumped on his horse and galloped away. Tordenskjold breathed out his
dauntless soul in the arms of his faithful servant and friend.
His body lies in a black marble sarcophagus in the "Navy Church" at
Copenhagen. The Danish and Norwegian peoples have never ceased to
mourn their idol. He was a sailor with a sailor's faults. But he loved
truth, honor, and courage in foe and friend alike. Like many seafaring
men, he was deeply religious, with the unquestioning faith of a child.
There is a letter in existence written by him to his father when the latter
was on his death-bed that bears witness to this. He thanks him with
filial affection for all his care, and says naïvely that he would rather
have his prayers than fall heir to twenty thousand daler. His pictures
show a stocky, broad-shouldered youth with frank blue eyes, full lips,
and an eagle nose. His deep, sonorous voice used to be heard, in his
midshipman days, above the whole congregation in the Navy Church.
In after years it called louder still to Denmark's foes. When things were
at their worst in storm or battle, he was wont to shout to his men, "Hi,
now we are having a fine time!" and his battle-cry has passed into the
language. By it, in desperate straits demanding stout hearts, one may
know the Dane after his own heart, the real Dane, the world over.
Among his own Tordenskjold is still and always will be "the Admiral
of Norway's fleet."

HANS EGEDE, THE APOSTLE TO GREENLAND
When