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An eerie silence clung to the air, as the clock steadily ticked towards seven thirty on that dark autumn night. Raja, the 17-year-old girl who wanted nothing more than to leave this place, couldn’t help but feel like something was brewing. Her stomach was in knots and her heart was threatening to beat clean through her chest. She felt the prickling of the skin on her arms and legs, along with the rest of her body. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t sit still. They needed to flee this place as quickly as possible, but they were still waiting for a few people to take their seats in the lifeboat. A few of her younger brothers were still missing, and her father and husband had left to go find them. If she went to look for them, chances are she’d find them close to the streets filled with long lines of British soldiers in red coats, unable to contain their curiosity. She’d walked past the soldiers earlier and noticed them preparing for something, most likely another attack on Copenhagen. It seemed like they were waiting for the signal to start firing. This godforsaken war seemed to follow her no matter where she went. It had only been a few months since they fled Moldova and travelled up through war-torn Europe to the peaceful haven of Denmark. They had settled down in Copenhagen, and Raja had come to love the beautiful city. What was once a place that always seemed to be brimming with life was now surrounded by tens of thousands of British soldiers, leaving the residents trapped in its limits.

The church bells chimed to tell them it was seven thirty. Raja fixed her gaze on a group of soldiers as they jumped into action, lighting the fuses of their cannons.

“Oh, God,” she said, pulling some of her younger siblings close in an attempt to protect them from what was about to come. A violent cannonade erupted, and skyrockets flew up into the night sky with a cacophonous hiss. It felt like all the lightning bolts and thunderstorms in the world were gathered in the same place and ravaging the earth at once. Clouds of smoke hovered above the ground like a veil between her and the occupied city as din and lights surrounded them. The world around her faded to an indistinct grey mass. The smell of sulphur invaded her nose and made her eyes burn, just as the youngest of the children started coughing and crying.

“What’s taking them so long?” Raja’s mother asked with obvious frustration. If Raja had to hazard a guess, she’d assume they were simply watching the chaos unfold while the young children sat in the boat and suffered.

Raja climbed out of the boat and onto the dock before she disappeared into the manmade mist. It didn’t take her long to find the men. All four of them were standing in the middle of the havoc, engrossed in the macabre scene playing out right before their eyes. The skyrockets in particular had caught their interest. They’d never seen anything like them before. Sure, they’d seen fireworks on New Year’s Eve, but nothing like this. The skyrockets flew along a curve and into the city where multiple fires had already broken out. The night sky was illuminated by a flickering, yellow glow. All of it felt surreal.

“What are you standing around for?” Raja shouted at the top of her voice, to no avail. She marched towards her father and pulled him by the arm. “Come on, we’re waiting for you. We want to leave.”

“No, you’ll be there right now. Mum might explode otherwise...” She started to drag him away, but he ripped his arm from her grip in one determined motion.

“Calm down. I’m coming,” he said with a laugh, before a sight in the middle of the city caught everyone’s attention.

“Woah!” the group roared in unison. “Look at that!” A skyrocket had propelled itself into the tower of Our Lady Church. There was a flash as the rocket hit its target, and seconds later, the tower went up in flames. Everyone stood in awed silence.

“Is this really happening?” Raja said to herself. It was as though a great, big dragon had come to life inside the church, recklessly breathing its infernal fire out through any opening it could find. The flames climbed higher and higher until they were far above the church tower itself. The sky looked as though it had been set aflame. It was a terrifying sight, but Raja felt the hairs on her neck stand up when the bells began to chime by themselves. It didn’t take long after that for the heavy church bells to come lose and crash down into the tower, destroying everything in their path on the way down.

The whitewashed stone church on Kirkeøy, an island on the outskirts of Christianiafjord, was filled to the brim with villagers dressed in their Sunday best. Twenty-year-old Willy Lauer daydreamed his way through the majority of the service, which mainly consisted of an unengaging sermon about Adam and Eve and the snake in the Garden of Eden. The priest spoke of the fall of man and the rise of sin in the world. He even talked about whether Cain killed his brother, Abel, but none of his arguments were of the slightest interest to Willy. As far as he was concerned, the sound of the priest’s voice was just background noise - a humdrum that he was used to hearing, much like the sound of a coffee grinder. But all of a sudden, something made him sit up straight on the bench. What was that the priest just said? The sermon was clearly coming to an end, and it was time for the prayer.

“Pray for our brethren in Copenhagen,” he implored of the churchgoers. There had been bad news from the other side of Skagerrak. Willy learned more about what had happened when everyone gathered on the hill after the service.

Pilot Fritjof Jensen had recently spoken to a Danish messenger who was on one of the ships that had managed to escape, and he was now talking excitedly to a group of men.

“It’s terrible,” he said. “The entire Dano-Norwegian fleet has been confiscated by the British, and most of Copenhagen has been reduced to ash and ruins. Many are dead and many more are wounded. I’ve even heard that Our Lady Church has been burnt to the ground, but thankfully the Round Tower and the university library remain undamaged, thanks to the efforts of the soldiers and inhabitants of Holmen.”

“How is all this even possible?” someone asked. “Why hasn’t the Crown Prince done anything? It’s unheard of!”

“Rumour has it he’s in Kiel with his ailing father. The Crown Prince has left General Ernst Peymann and Commander Steen Bille in charge. But Peymann maintains that surrendering the city is out of his hands. He thinks that decision is for the King to make.”

“I can’t believe my ears,” someone else interrupted. “In other words, Peymann is prepared to sacrifice the lives of all the residents in Copenhagen? How can he live with that decision? It’s beyond me...”

“Blame the Crown Prince,” one of the old fishermen said. “He’s the one who landed the Danes in this mess in the first place when he led his forces south towards Prussia. He can’t seem to decide who to side with – Napoleon or the British.”

Pilot Fritjof Jensen nodded. “Choosing the right side in times like these is harder than it looks. They threaten people with war and God knows what other unpleasantries. The Crown Prince must have seen this coming, though. After all, he took the family heirlooms with him when he left...”

“Honestly,” someone else said, “the British can’t keep this up. Denmark is a neutral country with no interest in warfare. The British know that, and still they continue to fire on Copenhagen and steal our ships.”

“It’s true,” the pilot said. “But the British fear that Napoleon will use it.”

“We won’t allow that. We have control of the majority of the army on the Prussian border, so Napoleon can’t command our fleet. A clear signal if ever there was one, but that still isn’t enough for the British.”

A couple of days later, Willy was mending the fishing net by the boatshed, something he had mastered as a child. Out here on Nord Lauer, an island ravaged by winds and unsupported by the barren earth, he had to survive on what the ocean was willing to give him. The edges of the rocky island had long since been smoothed over by the constant beating of the waves, and there were barely any trees or grass to speak of. The few green specks on the island were populated by sheep, and there were a few hens walking around near the house, which was hidden in the shelter of a small valley. When he wasn’t tending to his fishing equipment, Willy Lauer would sometimes help his dad pilot ships. That was his favourite task because there was a competitive element to it. The fishermen on the outskirts of Christianiafjord, on both sides of the bay, competed with one another whenever a ship came in from sea. First come, first served.

For that purpose, Lauer had an advantageous position on the outskirts of the archipelago. The fact that Willy was a talented rower was also an advantage. He could beat practically anyone he came up against, and he rarely lost. Other than that, though, he didn’t stand out much. He had blond hair, blue eyes, and was of average height and build in comparison to the other islanders. In short, he was a relatively handsome, young man of marriageable age.

Despite that, finding a wife was easier said than done. At the end of the day, he was a bad match for most of the maidens in town. Who in their right mind would want to marry a poor fisherman? Nobody. Or at least, he hadn’t found anyone who would yet and that worried him. It was easier to conquer a ship than a bride, Willy thought to himself, as he threaded the mending needle into the boxes of the fishing net that had been tied to the dock. The work was mindless, and his thoughts strayed elsewhere.

He thought about all the young women in the village that he would love to marry. Amalie, Gudrun, Karin, and Olga. Amalie was the prettiest of the four. She was the daughter of Hans Brun, a merchant with a sizeable fortune who liked to flaunt it, so she was out of the question. He might stand a chance with Olga, however. She spent most of her time in clogs, and her blonde hair was usually down. She was the youngest daughter of Sven Olavesen, a fisherman from Asmaløy who was as poor as a church mouse. So, Olga wasn’t quite as elegant and high and mighty as Amalie. Not only had the brown-haired beauty never so much as looked in his direction, but they’d never spoken either. He had settled for admiring her from a distance, never daring to get too close to her and her fashionable attire. Her wardrobe consisted of dresses Olga could only dream om, Willy sighed to himself, imagining Olga in a pretty dress. She’d be just as beautiful as Amalie. Even more so, in fact. He’d had numerous conversations with her, and even though it had been a while, he knew that she had a kind heart and emanated joy. They’d had a great time together, flirting almost to the point of indecency. Once, they’d even crossed the line. When they both were confirmands in Hvaler Church, she’d flashed her breasts for a second, while the priest wasn’t looking of course. After that, they only saw each other at Sunday service, both of them shy and blushing. Their acknowledgement of the other never amounted to anything past a nod and a ‘Hello’. He didn’t have the courage to go up to her at parties and celebrations, not even on Saint John’s Eve when everyone was playing games and dancing around the bonfire. Instead, Willy just stayed by the fire, watching as one suitor after another asked her to dance. He never followed suit out of fear of rejection.

As he stood there, lost in his melancholy thoughts, he spotted a boat in the shallows a little further out. To his horror, it was headed straight towards him. He watched as the boat filled with strangers manoeuvred its way towards the narrow bay. Why were they heading towards him? How strange... He wasn’t expecting visitors.

Willy could barely believe his own eyes. By the time it reached the dock, he hadn’t moved an inch. The boat was filled with men, women, and children, along with loads of luggage. As far as he could tell, this was a family on the run. Two men in shabby, worn coats and felt hats were at the oars, and three women in colourful dresses and headscarves sat in the back surrounded by children of various ages. A man was lounging at the front of the boat. He half-sat up and looked towards the island, only to lie straight back down. Willy noticed that the man had a scar on one of his cheeks.

“Good morning,” Willy said, when the boat came to a stop a few fathoms away and the men—possibly father and son—rested on their oars.

The elder of the two turned to face him, baring a row of darkened teeth. “Good morning,” he said in broken Danish. “Are we in Norway?”

“Yeah, you’ve crossed the border,” Willy confirmed. He assumed they’d fled the war and rowed all the way from Denmark, hoping to avoid Sweden altogether. The border to Sweden was no more than a few stone’s throws away, and chances were that they had crossed the border moments ago. They could’ve easily gone to Sweden if they wanted to, Willy thought to himself. He’d spent a lot of time in his neighbouring country over the years, but not since they’d allied themselves with Great Britain.

“Skjærhalden,” Willy said, pointing in the direction of Kirkeøy. “Behind that headland, twenty minutes from here.”

The man tipped his felt hat and smiled again. “Thank you. We’ll head that way,” he said, and the two men grabbed their oars. Meanwhile, Willy’s eyes were glued to one of the women at the back of the boat.

Oh, God, she’s smiling at me, Willy thought. She was beautiful, with an inviting smile on her lips and a flirtatious gleam in her brown eyes.

Willy was rooted in place, watching as the dark beauty turned around multiple times to look back at him.

Raja couldn’t stop thinking about the young man on the dock: the first Norwegian she’d met in all her 17 years. Something about his honest, blue eyes had been imprinted on her mind, but she couldn’t pinpoint it. All she knew was that the feeling was something magical. All the same, she knew that she had to forget him out of respect for Maxim, her husband who was 12 years her elder. Maxim was an incredibly jealous man and had no qualms beating her to a pulp over the smallest thing. Sometimes a single look from a stranger was enough for him to turn violent. It was enough in this case, too.

It started on the way from Lauer to Kirkeøy. “You were smiling an awful lot at that man,” he said in an accusatory voice, loud enough for everyone in the boat to hear. She noticed the look in his gaze. Things took a turn for the worse when they reached Skjærhalden, where some of the villagers received them with marked coolness. They struggled to find a place to spend the night. In the end, they set up camp on a beach in Storesand, under the shelter of the pine trees on the dunes. By then, Maxim had had enough.

While the others were fetching their luggage from the boat, he finally took his jealous exasperation out on her. Out of nowhere, he slapped her across the face.

“You spend too much time looking at other men,” Maxim barked at her, practically foaming at the mouth. He was gearing up to hit her again as her hands flew up to protect her face.

Someone tapped Maxim’s shoulder, prompting him to turn around and stare straight into a face distorted by anger. The next thing he felt was a strong hand around his neck, lifting him from the ground as if he weighed nothing. There was no use fighting.

“Fight someone your own size,” the man said, his outstretched arm locking Maxim in its iron grip, cutting off his air supply and making him dizzy. He tried frantically to free himself from the man’s grip, but his strength failed him.

“Let Maxim go right now, or I’ll shoot you!” Raja’s father was standing there, aiming his musket at the man he perceived to be Maxim’s assailant. Two of her younger brothers were brandishing their knives, leaving the stranger with no choice but to let go. Maxim fell onto his back, heaving for air like a fish out of water. He massaged his throat as his dark eyes fought to stay focused.

“Look what you’ve done, you crook. Do you want me to report you to the sheriff? Huh? How dare you show up here and assault my dear daughter and son-in-law ...”

“Assault? Me? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! Just ask your daughter—she knows what happened, right?” the man said, turning to Raja. She was sitting on the ground, tending to her nosebleed and crying silent tears. “Right?” he repeated. But she remained silent and refused to look at him.

The stranger gestured dismissively and struggled to find the words. “But, but...”

It was a lovely morning in mid-September. Willy and his father, Ulf, were harvesting the crops, the sun beating down on them from a cloudless sky. The seagulls were soaring above their heads and screaming in the wind coming from the south. The air around them smelled like heather flowers and seagrass. Few crops could survive the conditions on Lauer, but the new root vegetable from America was growing against all odds. Potato.

Willy had been raised on a diet of potatoes and herring. As long as there were enough potatoes and barrels of herring in the cellar, neither hunger nor scurvy could touch him during the long winter months.

The father-son duo was working their way along the rows of potato haulms with their picks and pails. The pair had been at it for hours, and Willy’s father was starting to feel the effects of the exertion. He wasn’t 30 anymore, and his 54-year-old body was in dire need of a break.

“Right,” Ulf said, as he straightened up, his back sore and his head heavy. “I think it’s time for coffee.”

Ulf caught himself smiling at his son, who was the spitting image of himself at that age. He looked wistfully at the small, white house—The Castle, as they called it. This what where he’d experienced some of the best and worst days of his life. He and Bodil had lived there together and survived through thick and thin. She’d borne them four beautiful children and took their fifth with her to the grave. Ulf had subsequently lost two of the remaining children: Olivia and Conrad. He still had Gustav and Willy, although Gustav had moved four years ago to become the Ammunition and Equipment Manager at Fredriksten Fortress. Perhaps Willy would end up finding an heiress to wed and leave Lauer as well.

Ulf walked through the potato field, passed some free-range hens in the garden, and reached the house. He opened the door and stepped inside.

Fifteen minutes later, he found himself back in the field, carrying a large copper kettle filled with coffee, along with a basket full of pork, apples, and crispbread.

He came to a stop beside his son. “Coffee’s ready. How about we take a seat in the sun, in the shelter of the wood shed over there?”

Willy turned to face Ulf and insisted on carrying the kettle. “Let me take that, Dad.”

“Olga? Oh, I’m far too shy, Dad. Besides, I don’t know a thing about women.”

They sat down in the dry grass behind the wood shed, placing the basket and the kettle between them.

Ulf fished a couple of mugs out of the basket, grabbed the kettle, and filled them. “Who’s this other woman?” he asked, signalling for his son to help himself. “That elegant one? I forget her name. Amalie?”

“No, not her.” Willy shook his head as he grabbed one of the mugs. “Let me finish,” he begged in a slightly upset tone of voice.

He took a sip of the scalding hot coffee while Ulf tried in vain to contain his curiosity.

“Right, here goes. A boatful of refugees stopped at the dock to ask for directions to the nearest safe harbour the other day, and I pointed them towards Skjærhalden. There was a woman aboard who flashed me the most amazing smile, Dad. She was like something out of a fairy tale, she was so beautiful. I couldn’t help but feel like she might be interested in me, so I followed them. But when I found her on Storesand, after looking for hours, I saw something that greatly dismayed me.” He took out the sheath knife attached to his belt, grabbed a slab of pork from the basket, and wolfed down the chunk, his eyes fixed on Storesand.

“Something that dismayed you?” Ulf was talking into his mug and proceeded to blow on the coffee to cool it down. “What happened? Did you talk to her?”

Ulf’s jaw dropped, and his eyes doubled in size. “Oh, my Lord. How can it be...”

“I know,” Willy growled, clenching his fists. “I saw it with my own eyes, and when I jumped in to stop the man, the rest of them threatened to gang up on me. Her dad even went so far as to point his musket at me. But that wasn’t even the worst part...”

“She refused to talk, even though she knew full well who’d been beating her. She knew that it wasn’t me, and still she let me take the blame. They chased me away.” Willy had a furious gleam in his eyes, and his voice sounded more like a roar than anything else. “She’s evil, Dad. That’s what she is... Evil through and through!”

“Please, don’t blame her. Listen to me, my son. She was too scared to speak up out of fear of another beating. The man who hit her was probably her husband, and it sounds like she’s accepted her own fate. So just forget her. There are other women out there, my son. Focus on them instead...” Ulf was worried for his son. He knew how dangerous jealous husbands could be. Just three years ago, a man on Vesterøy had killed his wife and her lover.

Willy stared in the direction of Storesand. He gripped the sheath knife so hard, his knuckles started turning white. Every muscle in his body was tense, and his eyes were lit up by undiluted wrath.

Darkness came early up north and the autumn felt much colder than she’d been used to in Moldova, where she’d spent the majority of her life. However, the unsettled state of the country, with all its warfare and drastic changes, had made life ever more difficult. That is why she and her family had decided to leave their home in search of a more peaceful place to live.

Bogdana, the 33-year-old mother of six, spread the woollen blanket over her cold, naked feet. Then she tamped her clay pipe and gazed at the dying bonfire. “Throw on some more firewood, Raja,” she said to her eldest daughter, who was walking amongst the pine trees, picking up cones and wooden branches that had fallen onto the hillside. She broke off some of the drier branches and placed them in her apron. The landowner had forbidden them from chopping down any of the trees in his forest, as well as from hunting birds and small game. Lobster-fishing was out of the question, too, so the rest of the family was out hunting for something—anything—they were allowed to eat. The rest of the children were out searching for mussels and starfish by the shoreline. The men were out on the boat, trying their hand at fishing now that most of the fishers had gone home. Raja stuck to the campsite, making sure that everything was in order.

Bogdana didn’t feel too well. She’d been under the weather for a while, and her waning hunger had caused her weight to dwindle. Not only that, but she had also contracted a cold that didn’t seem to be getting any better. She barely had enough energy to simply sit up and lie down.

“Coming, Mum,” Raja said, as she ran down towards her mother, holding out the apron full of twigs and pine cones. She had quite far to run, as they’d already burnt everything in their immediate surroundings. The distance between the campsite and the dry branches grew greater with every passing day. Still, it didn’t take Raja too long to reach her mother. She placed some of the thin twigs on the bonfire and blew on the embers.

“God bless you, my child.” Bogdana gently stroked her cheek. “What would I do without you...”

Raja nodded, placing her hand in her mother’s frail hand. Bogdana was nothing but skin and bones, her veins bulging against the surface of the flabby skin. Her cheeks and eyes were sunken.

“Yeah, it’s a good thing we have each other, Mum. But...” She interrupted herself from asking whether things would turn out alright. More than anything, she was thinking about the fact that Maxim had beat her and cheated on her. In so many ways, life seemed pointless. Was there any hope of a better future, or would she have to resign herself to this pitiful life? Was she stuck in this living hell for the rest of her days? And what about her mother? Would she die of hunger?

“With him? Absolutely not. He prefers other women; you know that just as well as I do. Besides, I don’t think he’s capable of knocking someone up.”

“Give me something to be hopeful about. You’re psychic. Will you read my future?”

Bogdana reluctantly caved to appease her daughter’s wish. She’d never read a loved one’s future before. Fortune-telling was just something she’d picked up to earn money while they were on the run, and she wasn’t even entirely sure that her predictions were right. As far as she knew, none of her prophecies ever came true. A couple of times, she’d seen that the sitter’s death was imminent, but she’d always kept that to herself.

Bogdana shuffled the cards and placed them in front of her. “Hmm. Let’s see.” She studied them carefully. “No.” She was about to put the cards back in the pile when Raja reached out and grabbed her hand.

“There are some things I have to keep to myself. Let’s leave it at that. What I can tell you is that your life will be dramatic and nomadic.”

“Me? A soldier?” Raja could see it. She had no trouble imagining herself as one of Napoleon’s hussars, riding horseback in a beautiful uniform with a sable in her hand.

“Oh, yes. You’ll be surrounded by powerful men. You’ll have influence over them in ways that most women couldn’t even imagine. Royals aside, of course.”

Her future was starting to sound more and more promising, and Raja felt her spirits being lifted. Perhaps she would become a war hero in Napoleon’s army. What if she became rich and famous?

“America?” Raja guessed hopefully, thinking to herself that she could settle down in America and build a beautiful castle for herself, her mum, and the rest of the family when she became rich and famous. There’d be lots of servants and they would all live happily ever after.

Willy and his father stepped out of the church at the end of the Sunday service and stayed outside for a while as usual, chatting with their friends and acquaintances. Ulf did most of the talking, as Willy preferred to listen and observe. But nothing interesting was happening today, so he decided to take a walk to the nearby graveyard. Everyone was just talking about what happened in Copenhagen. It was all chitchat about the hopelessness of the situation with the confiscated Dano-Norwegian fleet. Not even Napoleon could beat the British forces at sea. They’d proven that at the Battle of Trafalgar two years prior, and their fleet had been a lot smaller back then.

I can’t be bothered with this, Willy thought to himself, instead turning his attention towards what the priest had talked about during his sermon. “Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.” The idea that it paid off to be meek was of great consolation to him because he certainly felt that way after having talked to his father about the event on Storesand. His bitterness and hatred had somehow merged into meekness. His father had talked some sense into him, and as a result, he felt peaceful and prepared to accept injustice. He no longer felt the desire to travel back to Storesand to beat Maxim to a pulp.

As he moved through the graveyard, he was reminded of the dangers of life out at sea. One of the graves was the final resting place of a friend of his: Lukas Jensen, a fisherman who was his age. He died at the age of 19 and his body was found washed-up on the shore. It was a tragic event, but the sad reality was that people disappeared at sea every year. Hvaler was full of widows and fatherless children, not to mention people who’d lost their sisters or brothers, like Willy. He’d lost both Olivia and Conrad to scarlet fever. Death was a frequent visitor with a habit of appearing out of nowhere. But the thought of dying didn’t scare him. It was just a part of life.

Willy lowered his gaze to find a woman sitting on the churchyard wall. His heart skipped a beat when he realised who she was.

“Good morning,” he said meekly, unsure of what to do or say. Willy was a man of few words, and to make matters more difficult, he was also shy—especially when it came to women. Still, he forced himself to spit out another few words. “It was nice seeing...” He stopped himself and felt the blood rush to his face. Now that he thought about it, ‘It was nice seeing you the other day’ didn’t really feel like the right thing to say, so he continued: “Sorry... How are you?”

She jumped down onto her feet and brushed the dried twigs of grass off her dress. “I’m alright,” she said, as she turned to face him. “How about you?”

“I... Uh... I’m fine. I’m Willy Lauer, by the way.” He offered her his hand.

Willy let go of her hand and made to leave. “It was great to meet you, Raja.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Don’t worry about the dirt bag, Willy. He’ll just have to accept that we’re having a chat by the church gate. Besides, it’s broad daylight and we’re standing where everyone can see us.”

“Oh, the trouble I’d get in with my dad if I did that. Forget it, Willy. Can’t we talk about something else?”

“What are you doing here anyway? Are you fleeing Denmark? I thought I heard you and your dad speaking Danish.”

“A Danish province?” Willy guessed. He was thinking of the Danish trading post called Tranquebar in the Far East. The names bore no similarity, but he’d seen a sailor from Tranquebar on a Danish ship once, and something about Raja’s appearance reminded him of the sailor.

“Ah, that’s great! Otherwise we wouldn’t be able to stand here and talk to each other. Thank God for your grandmother.”

Suddenly, they were interrupted by an angry voice. Aggressive bickering ensued in a language that Willy didn’t understand and before he knew it, Maxim had grabbed Raja’s arm. He dragged her away at a brisk pace, a well-stocked kit bag slung over his shoulder.

At the break of dawn on Monday morning, Willy set out for Kirkeøy. He rowed as if his life depended on it, fighting against headwinds and towering waves along the way.

The crests were foaming violently as the boat bobbed in the water. Willy was thrown from side the side and struggled to keep course. It felt like he wasn’t moving an inch, but although his progress was slow, it at least was there. He had to get to Storesand, no matter the cost. He’d decided to take a stand against the careless Maxim once and for all. When they’d met more or less by chance yesterday, Raja had made it clear that she wanted to leave her husband but was scared of her father’s reaction. Time to rescue a damsel in distress, Willy thought, ignoring his father’s innumerable warnings. It hadn’t taken Ulf long to realise what was happening. Willy clearly couldn’t take his mind off the stranger. His final warning came just as Willy was leaving the house. “No, Willy! Don’t go! What if he pulls out a knife and things ends badly? Just look at what happened on Vesterøy where that man killed his wife and her lover. That could happen to you. Do you hear me? For God’s sake, don’t go!” It hurt his heart to see the despair in his father’s face, it really did. It just didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as seeing Raja suffer. He seemed to be the only person who could make the injustice stop.

As he rowed, he began to brace himself for what lay ahead, imagining what would happen once he reached Storesand. If he met Maxim, alone on the beach while the others were at the campsite, he’d go straight for the man’s throat. There was no point trying to talk to him; Willy presumed Maxim didn’t speak Norwegian. If he ran into Raja’s father instead, however, the situation might unfold differently. He’d be able to talk to her father and see where that led, then he’d take it from there. He planned to take the same approach if he met Raja on his arrival. In that case, he’d jump straight into negotiations and was prepared to offer her the world. She could even stay with him if she wanted to. It would all be up to her, not her father or Maxim. The pair of them could go to Hell.

If Raja decided to come live with him—a decision that he was positive would cause outrage and disgust amongst the villagers—the only real problem would be how his father would handle it. Worst-case scenario, he’d slam the door in their faces, but then Willy would just find somewhere else for Raja and him to live.

Willy was blinded by love when he finally found a sheltered bay where he could pull his boat ashore. The bay was a fair way from the campsite and perfect for sneaking in unnoticed. He promised himself to seek out a peaceful solution and be meek, and to that end he hoped he wouldn’t find Maxim first. He traversed the pine forest with the greatest of care, making sure to keep an eye on his surroundings.

No, that won’t happen. She said she wanted to leave Maxim, but that she was worried about her father’s reaction. As long as Willy could talk some reason into her father, there would be no problem finding a solution Raja could live with. If nothing else, he’d make sure that Maxim packed his stuff and left. It was Maxim’s turn to be chased away. Once that was over, all he could do was see what Raja wanted. He would have to be patient. But she did seem to have a weak spot for me, Willy thought in an attempt to ground himself. He thought back to what she’d said the day before.

When he arrived at their campsite ten minutes later, he was surprised by what he found. The campsite was empty, not a soul in sight. The only evidence of occupation was the fireplace, but even the ashes were cold.

Willy turned around to see the landowner approaching him. “What do you mean?”

“All the silver’s gone. They realised after yesterday’s service. It must’ve been the drifter. Who else?”

“Who knows? The sheriff’s fallen ill, so the provost has taken the case to Fredrikstad. We’ll see what happens.”

Later that afternoon, Wily was visited by a gentleman who resembled Napoleon. He was dressed in a uniform reminiscent to the French Emperor, complete with the iconic hat, polished boots, and tight-fitting trousers. He was even wearing the same kind of coat—short in the front and long in the back. As far as Willy could tell, this gentleman was important. His suspicions were quickly confirmed when the elegant man introduced himself as Christian Jeppesen, His Majesty’s Bailiff. He’d travelled a few hours from Fredrikstad and claimed to be on Lauer just to talk to Willy.

“How can I help you, my good sir?” Willy asked. He always made a point of saying ‘can’ rather than ‘may’ to people, regardless of whether they were a bell ringer or a priest. Sometimes he even emphasised the informal word choice just to signal that they were no better than him.

The stately Jeppesen had just been helped out of his boat, which was being rowed by some soldiers from the garrison in Fredrikstad. He was now standing on the dock with a briefcase in his hand.

“You shall see shortly, young man,” Jeppesen said unflinchingly. “Perhaps you might be so kind as to invite me inside...” he continued, as it appeared Willy looked more than happy to discuss the matter where they stood, which wasn’t possible. First of all, the matter was confidential, and second of all, it’d be unwise to open the briefcase outside. There were gusts of wind coming in from the sea, and Jeppesen had to hold his hat to keep it in place as it was. Willy wasn’t interested in inviting an official into the tiny house. He didn’t want to showcase his poverty.

Willy bowed deeply, and offered the gentleman a respectful gesture. “Come on in, my noble lord. Let’s talk over a cup of coffee. You do drink coffee, right?”

“Yes, please, coffee would be lovely. With a smidge of cognac, if possible...”

“Cognac? No, at the Castle,” Willy said, with a sneaky smile on his face, “We just have potato liquor. I’d be happy to offer Sir some of that with his coffee, if he pleases.”

The pair started on their way. They passed the boatshed by the dock and continued down the path between the crags until they reached the Castle: Willy’s tiny house. The place was in visible disrepair, with its white paint chipped off in various places, particularly on the southern wall that was by far the most exposed. The small-panel windows hung on rusty hinges, the paint long since faded and the putty threatening to come loose.

Twenty minutes later, the pair was sitting in the living room with their cups of coffee. Willy used to call the room the grand lounge as a joke. By all accounts, it was a narrow room with a low ceiling.

Willy’s father, Ulf, was sitting with them. He was pale and quiet, his face almost as grey as his hair. To put it mildly, he looked concerned.

“I hope my son hasn’t done anything wrong,” Ulf said with a deep furrow between his brows. He stared at Willy, who showed no signs of either fear or a guilty conscience.

“Well, Mr Lauer,” Jeppesen said. “We’ll hear what your son has to say.”

“Me?” Willy said, pointing to himself. “Am I being accused of ransacking the parsonage? I assume that’s why you’ve come all this way.”

“That’s right. That case is indeed the reason behind my visit, but I should add that you aren’t being accused of having committed the deed. Just so that’s clear.”

“Great. You’re aware I was in church at the time of the theft, I take it?”

“That’s right,” Ulf chimed in to protect his son. “I can attest to that.”

Jeppesen nodded with a smile, as he pushed his cup of coffee aside. “I’m aware. Multiple witnesses have confirmed your whereabouts. That being said, I’m required to make a note of everything, right down to the smallest of details.”

He pulled a notebook, ink, pounce, and quill out of the briefcase beside his chair and placed each item on the table in front of him.

Jeppesen opened the notebook, dipped the pen in the pot of ink, and talked as if to himself as he began to write. “Start of notes; interrogation of Willy Lauer on September 14^th, 1807. Location: Lauer, residence of the above.” The words faded into a series of mumbling sounds. Then he stopped, Willy carefully observed, and continued: “Right, before we start, I would like to make it abundantly clear – to you as well, Mr. Ulf Lauer – that falsehoods of any form could lead to punishment. So, young man. It has come to my attention that you found yourself talking to a girl whose name and origin are as of yet unknown after the service. What we do know is that she belongs to a group of drifters who, for some reason, disappeared from their campsite on Storesand on the day the atrocities in question were committed.”

“She’s innocent, I’m sure of it. Her name is Raja Romanova and she’s a Moldovan refugee. It’s probably...” Willy was about to start talking about Maxim, but Jeppesen interrupted him.

“Great. Allow me to make a note of that, and then we shall proceed to the next question. How did you meet this girl by the name of Raja Romanova?”

Willy couldn’t hold back any longer. He recounted the entire story, right from the first day they met to the moment he discovered the empty campsite. He told the bailiff about trying to rescue Raja from her terrible, abusive husband Maxim, who was probably also the thief. Maxim had been carrying a kit bag on his back, making him the only guilty party. Willy launched straight into a description of the thief’s appearance. A short, stick-thin man with black hair and brown eyes and a prominent scar on his right cheek. It wasn’t easy to pinpoint his age, but Willy estimated it to be somewhere between thirty and forty.

“Thank you, Mr. Lauer. I’ve noted down your story and expect you to be prepared to take the stand as a witness when this case is brought before the court.”

It was shaping up to be a demanding autumn for the poor fisherman, who had no idea that another event was unfolding as he spoke. On the other side of the Skagerrak, a decree that would turn his life upside-down was being issued, but the news didn’t reach him until four days later.

Raja was awoken at sunrise by an infant’s voice. “Potty.” Still half-asleep, she squinted in the direction of the sound to find two round eyes, a pair of chubby cheeks, and an upturned nose. Her three-year-old sister Sonja needed the toilet, and as per usual, she woke up Raja to make it happen. She’d learned to use the potty around the same time her attachment to her blanket began, which she now had to have with her in order to sleep. Yesterday had been an uphill struggle. They’d had to pack their things and leave the campsite on Storesand, and although most of them had not wanted to, they’d fled to Sweden. The whole ordeal was all because Maxim had stolen a bagful of silver from one of the villagers. Even worse, he refused to tell them whose it was. Her father, Budulaj, had been furious, and things had only become worse once they were out at sea. Against all odds, they’d managed to fight their way through the tall waves and strong winds to an uninhabited islet. The group had pulled the boat ashore and turned it upside-down to shelter them against the gales. They kept their belongings protected with an extra sail. Exhausted beyond description, they had all fallen asleep under the open sky.

“Come on, let’s go find your potty.” Raja picked up the three-year-old and went to find the potty among their mess of belongings under the sail. All of their things were cold and most of them were coated with morning dew, including the boat and the canvas. The potty was at the very front, exactly where she’d placed it before they’d gone to lie down.

“Don’t leave,” Sonja complained. Her nose was running and she insisted on being carried at all times, preferably by Raja or their 15-year-old sister Ludmila, though she rarely had the time to do so. Their mother had grown too frail to carry the child, so Raja found herself with two people to nurse.

“Be a good girl. now. I need to go pee-pee and maybe a little poo-poo in the bushes, and then I’ll be right back.”

Barefoot, she made her way across the cold, moist grass that tickled her calves. Raja squatted down behind a juniper just in time and breathed a sigh of relief.

In the end, it turned out she just needed to pee, which was a lot faster than the alternative. Sonja was often blocked up, so Raja knew her sister would take a while. She seized the opportunity to gather some firewood. Her search began amongst the round stones a fair distance from the shore, where flotsam had washed up and subsequently dried in the wind and sunshine. She picked up one object after the other, noting that most of them had been broken into small pieces by the powerful waves, only to have been bleached by the sunlight and saline. She could tell some pieces had come from the lid of a barrel since there were no sharp edges on their rounded shapes. There were also a couple of crates branded with the name of a factory: Fredrikshald Sugar Plant. She even stumbled on a steering wheel from a ship that must’ve either run aground or been sunk in combat. Each of these objects have their own story, Raja thought as she picked them up, along with twigs and branches that she gathered in her apron. Then, she heard a voice over the swooshing sounds of the ocean.

“Gathering firewood as usual, so we can have a little food and heat,” Raja answered with a smile, putting down the firewood. She picked a couple of leaves off an oak shrub, and asked Sonja to stand up. Then she wiped the small behind with the leaves.

Sonja was more than happy to help with that task, mainly because she loved being involved in anything the adults did. She’d even been given her own chores, like whittling the pieces of wood into splints for the fire.

“Here,” Raja said, handing her a knife and a crate from the heap. “Make this into some splints for me.”

“I don’t like our new home,” Sonja said, whittling the wood with a routine hand.

Raja piled her splints on top of one another on the dry grass and tinder at the base of the bonfire. “Me neither, but I don’t think we’re staying for long.”

“I want to live in a house,” Sonja said. She missed life in Moldova, when they lived in a brick house just as beautiful as the buildings she’d seen in Copenhagen, and far bigger than the houses she’d seen on Hvaler. Moldova was so much warmer and inviting. She’d even had her own bed.

Raja sighed, a sudden tender expression in her eyes. If only it were that easy, she thought, knowing full well that it was impossible. Willy Lauer was the man of her dreams that she would never be able to be with.

“Oh, no, sweetheart. We can’t do that,” Raja said, getting out her flint and steel.

“That’s enough!” Raja sputtered angrily, as she struck the flint against the steel creating sparks and breathing new life into the embers. Before they knew it, the bonfire was roaring back to life. The fire started crackling as the family began stirring under their woollen blankets.

A head framed by long hair popped up from under the blankets. “I’m no late riser,” seven-year-old Dana said, slightly offended. She’d woken up at the same time as Raja, but decided to stay in bed a little while longer.

“Oh, shut up, chatterboxes,” 10-year-old Peter interrupted. “I’m trying to sleep.”

A second later, 13-year-old Ivan chimed in to agree with Peter. “Mm,” he groaned, only to roll over.

That was the last straw for 15-year-old Ludmila. “Urgh! This family is driving me insane. That’s it, I’m running away from home,” she said, and made good on her threat. She jumped up and sprinted across the islet. At this point, the head of the family had had enough as well.

“Right, time to calm down,” he said in an authoritative voice. As usual, he got what he demanded. In the newfound calm, he fetched a black iron pot and a pail of full of mussels from the family’s belongings. He put the pot on the fire and filled it with mussels and seawater. The smell of food lured Ludmila back to the campsite, and the family settled down around the fire, waiting impatiently for the mussels to be done.

Bogdana sat down between Raja and Maxim, her appearance paler than ever. She had bags under her eyes and her trembling hand was clutching a white, blood-stained handkerchief. Her mother had been coughing all night, and Raja had pulled her closer in an attempt to keep her warm. She’d put a pouch infused with liquor and herbs on her mother’s chest to soothe her.

“God bless you, my child,” she said, stroking Raja’s dark, thick hair. “What would I do without you taking care of me night and day?”

Maxim extended his arm and pulled his mother-in-law closer. “Dearest Bogdana,” he said in a deep, genuine voice. “You need treatment for this illness as soon as possible, and that’s why we’re here.”

“From a couple of Russians that I met in Skjærhalden. They were talking about a healing spring, the Lion Spring at Surbrunn. People visit from all over Sweden because it’s said to have healing powers. They’ll be able to help you, too, dear mother-in-law.”

“But...” Bogdana started, only to be interrupted by a new coughing fit. “That sounds expensive.”

Maxim’s dark eyes lit up, and a wide smile spread across his lips. “Relax, there’s no need to worry. I’ll sort out the money.” He lifted his bag and placed it in front of her, opening it to show her the contents. Cutlery, plates, and cups – all silver.

Bogdana made the sign of the cross. “Mary, mother of Jesus. Who did you steal this from?”

The revelation reignited Raja’s father’s anger because Maxim had adamantly refused to tell them the source of the silver the day before.

“From the parsonage!” Budulaj Romanov shouted, gesturing frantically with his hands, as his furious eyes fixed themselves on Maxim. “Have you lost your mind? We’ll have the authorities on our backs before we know it. Have you considered that they might put a price on each of our heads?”

Maxim blinked as his smile spread even wider than before. He felt safe sharing the truth now that they had crossed over into Sweden; the risk of his father-in-law forcing him to return the stolen goods had decreased with every nautical mile.

“There’s nothing poor about him,” Maxim grumbled. “He’ll be fine. It would’ve been much worse if I’d stolen from one of the fishermen.”

“No, I don’t like it! No matter how you spin it.” Budulaj gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “You’ll have to fix this yourself.”

A few hours later, the family sailed to the Swedish town of Strömstad and set up shop on Skeppsbron between the various stalls filled with fruits, vegetables, meats, fish, and lobsters. The group braced themselves for the work that lay ahead. Ludmila walked around to find clients for her mother, who was telling people’s fortunes in a tent. Meanwhile, Raja changed into a colourful dress, complete with a selection of bangles and jewellery. Barefoot and light as a feather, she danced to the cheerful sound of her father’s accordion and her brothers’ violins. The younger children walked around, collecting whatever money they could in their hats, whereas Maxim stalked the market with his bagful of silver, looking for potential customers. Strömstad was the perfect place for this endeavour, seeing as the town was popular amongst the rich people of Sweden. Some brought their ill here to be treated at Bojarkilen, the first heated bath house in Sweden, whilst others came to the town to drink from the healing waters of the Lion Spring at Surbrunn. The town was designed to fulfil the desires of the rich and wealthy, to the point that there was a series of beautiful avenues lined with shady tress where the tourists could stroll and maintain their milky white skin. This way, they could never grow tanned like the working class people.

After a couple of failed attempts at selling the silver on Skeppsbron, Maxim changed tactics and went down to the healing spring at Surbrunn. While he was there, he found a ship called The Sea Lion moored at the docks and equipped with two swivel guns – two small cannons mounted on swivelling stands on the transom. The boat looked like it was used for excursions in the archipelago. The captain was standing on the gangway helping his well-dressed guests onto deck.

An hour later, he was brought in for questioning by the sheriff of Strömstad, but seeing as Maxim spoke neither Norwegian nor Swedish, Raja had to interpret. The entire family was standing in front of the sheriff while he leaned back in his chair, observing the group with a serious expression on his face. His eyes shifted from one member of the family to the next, as if they were all guilty.

“Then your husband is a liar. That silver is worth a fortune, and I doubt it’s something you lot have brought from home. So, better cough up an explanation!”

“On one of the islets in the archipelago. He thought it was God showing us mercy...”

“Yes. My mother’s ill, and Maxim heard that Strömstad was home to a holy spring that could cure the ailing. So, he was intending to leave both my mother and the silver at the spring. I assume there are priests here, as well.”

Her response made the sheriff slam his fist down on the desk, the impact making the pot of ink wobble perilously.

“That’s a lie! I have witnesses who have confirmed that he was trying to sell the silver.”

“No, not at all. They must have misunderstood my husband. You see, he speaks neither Norwegian or Swedish. He was just walking around, showing people the silver in the hopes that they would point him in the direction of the spring. Surely we’re not the first to bring offerings?”

Willy trudged along the dark entrance to Fredriksten Fortress, overcome with sadness and exhaustion. He’d spent the past four days searching for the fugitives in the hopes of finding Raja. Over the course of his search, he’d visited every town on the eastern side of the Christianiafjord and walked down more streets than he could count, desperate to find a lead. He’d been to Moss, Fredrikstad, Sarpsborg, and Fredrikshald, all to no avail. There was no trace of the family.

He’d decided that it was time to seek out the support of a good friend - someone he’d been missing. Willy was proud of Gustav for having clawed his way to the top. It’d been four years since his brother had started working as a recruit at the fortress. Gustav had risen through the ranks until he was offered the position that all of the richest people in the country had their eyes set on. The poor fisherman’s son had become the Ammunition and Equipment Manager at the fortress. Gustav had been in the right place at the right time, but he hadn’t gotten to where he was by virtue of luck alone. He’d always been a pedantic man. Ever since his childhood, Willy’s brother had had a knack for keeping his things in order—and God have mercy on the poor soul who didn’t put his things back after using them. They were in for it, to put it mildly. I’d sign off on that, Willy thought as he walked along. He wouldn’t be able to do much beyond signing his name, though. Aside from his name, he couldn’t read or write, and the only reason he knew that much was because Gustav had taught him. At the youthful age of five, Gustav had already mastered those doodles. All by himself, at that.

Willy had always looked up to his older brother with immense admiration. He wanted to be just like him, but he knew he never could be. He wasn’t as intelligent as Gustav and he’d made his peace with that. He hadn’t seen his brother in a couple of years now, though. All the same, he knew where to find him, and before too long, he was knocking on Gustav’s door.

“Come in,” a voice responded, so Willy opened the door and stepped inside. “One moment,” the voice continued in a corner. “I’ll be with you in a second.”

Willy looked around the room. The walls were lined with bookcases overflowing with equipment of various sorts, and as expected, everything was in its place.

“Oh, hi! I didn’t realise it was you!” Gustav’s face lit up. “It’s great to see you.”

“Glad to hear it. To what do I owe this visit, though? Do you need my help?”

“I’m not even sure where to begin,” Willy said as he began recounting the events of the past week to Gustav in just as much detail as he’d given Jeppesen, if not more. In any case, he didn’t make the slightest attempt to hide his feelings for Raja this time.

“Cut it out, it’s plain to see. With this Raja Romanova. Well, I’ll be damned. Right... And now you’re on a quest to find her.”

“I know, I know. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself,” Gustav said. He hadn’t lived at home since Willy was a lanky 16-year-old with peach fuzz and a squeaky voice who was too shy to talk to anyone. If a girl so much as looked at him, he’d be guaranteed to blush. And here he was—a full-grown man on the lookout for a woman. And not just any woman, but a married one whose husband beat her and who was hiding from the long arm of the law.

“But enough about that,” Gustav continued. “You’ll be hearing from Jeppesen soon, I’m sure. I doubt it’ll take long to find them. That should put your mind at ease.”

“Of course. Just relax, things will work out in the end. You’ll see. I promise to be as helpful as I can.”

“Oh, come on, Willy. Do you mean to tell me your dream is to stay on Lauer until the end of your days?”

“Why not? Fishing is the only thing I know how to do. Where else would I even go?”

“I guess I have, yeah. But what am I supposed to do? I’m not like you, Gustav. You’re so outgoing and talented.”

“That’s not what this is about, dear brother. It’s about looking at your options rather than fixating on your limitations. You have to get out and see the world.”

“Yes, at least while he’s still in good health. I’m sure he’ll be fine without you for a couple of years. So, what’s your dream?”

“My dream... I don’t know, perhaps to get married? As long as I can keep fishing, I’ll be happy.”

“Yeah, I can help you get started. I’m sure I could scrounge up some tasks for you at the fortress. That way we’ll even get to see each other more often.”

“I don’t want to be on the mainland. I belong out at sea. Maybe I could become a captain instead. There’d be money and a wife in that, don’t you think?”

“A captain, you say. That’s easier said than done... You could become a privateer.”

“Forget it, I was joking. It is possible nowadays to become a legal pirate, so to speak. I imagine you weren’t aware of that.”

“As I’m sure you can imagine, it’s a deadly profession. You could get killed.”

“Well, if the Swedish besiege the fortress, so could you.”

“Hypothetically speaking, that’s true, but being a privateer is far more dangerous. You’re actively looking for danger. You’re on the open seas with nowhere to hide—an easy target for a British warship. Have you seen them?”

“Neither have I, but I’ve seen drawings of them. I should have one lying around in my desk.” Gustav opened a drawer and pulled out the illustration.

“HMS Victory. That was Admiral Horatio Nelson’s ship in the Battle of Trafalgar. It crushed Napoleon’s fleet. Three full cannon decks. I believe there were 110 cannons altogether. If you come across a ship like that, you’ve got your work cut out for you. Let’s put it like that.”

“That’s where the prisoners go. You would be put in chains on an English warship with nothing but the prospect of a long, painful death to look forward to.”

“That’s true, but it’s not worth it. I’d advise against it, dear brother. Once our father has left this earth, you’ll be all I have left. Remember that. Let me find you something down by the harbour instead. I might be able to get you work on a barge or something. Maybe even on a ferry. That way, you’ll still be out at sea.”

The next day, the brothers found themselves crossing the bridge in Fredrikshald, leaving behind the southside, where the houses lay in the shelter of the imposing cliffside, on top of which the fortress stretched towards the sun and its blue skies. In spite of the sunshine, it was a chilly day. Throughout the hillsides, the leaves upon the treetops were sporting beautiful autumn colours.

Once they reached the middle of the bridge, they stopped to lean against the railing that overlooked the Tista River. From their viewpoint, they could see the rolling hills on the Swedish side of the Iddefjord. Although their several attempts to attack both the fortress and Fredrikshald itself had been unsuccessful, their enemies across the fjord refused to give up. Nowadays, the Swedish were allied with the British.

“Look at all the timber down by the river,” Gustav explained, pointing in the direction of the sawmill. “It’s overflowing with lumber and the piles keep growing. Nothing’s coming in and nothing’s going out.”

“It really is.” Gustav nodded, a grave look cast across his face. “There’s a steady stream of companies going bankrupt. The blockade is threatening to take out pretty much every businessowner in town.”

“In the long run, definitely. But I’m sure I’ll be able to find something for you.”

“That’s funny. You can forget all about that, but there is talk of preparing privateered vessels. A couple of days before you arrived, I heard rumours of a vessel named The Avenger of Wrath.”

“Nothing left to the imagination,” Willy chuckled. “I want to captain that ship. You wouldn’t happen to know the name of the owner, would you?”

“There’s two owners. One of them, businessman Poul Resen Broch, is in Fredrikstad, and the other lives here. It’s Carsten Tank, who I know personally...”

“No way! Are you mad? He lives right over there, but you can forget all about speaking to him today.” Gustav pointed in the direction of the fields out west, where a castle-like house surrounded by a beautiful, English garden resided. For many years, the Tank family had been known for selling timber to England, and Gustav had heard rumours that they had imported English topsoil and used it in their gardens. On a few occasions, he had spoken briefly to Carsten Tank, but their interactions had never been personal.

Despite this, Willy refused to give up. His dream was to become a captain; he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since Gustav put the thought in his head yesterday. Captains earned lots of money, lived in lovely houses, and married beautiful women. If he became a privateer, he’d undoubtedly become stinking rich. He imagined it to be just like the life of a pirate, full of treasure troves filled to the brim with gemstones, coins, and jewellery of the finest gold and silver that money could buy. With all that to his name, he’d be able to propose to the elegant Amalie. He could marry Olga, the poor fisherman’s daughter, and buy her the most gorgeous gowns. But more than anyone else, he wanted to marry Raja, even though she was taken by that horrible man. With all that in mind, nothing could stop Willy from getting his way.

As they began their walk, they met five men from the town militia which, according to Gustav, was under the organisation of First Lieutenant Anders Stang. The men rode along on horseback, dressed in their expensive uniforms - round hats with feathers and pompons, dark green coats with yellow buttons, velvet collars, and yellow epaulets, bandoliers fitted with a sable, light vests, trousers, and half boots. Behind the horseback militia was a motley crew of soldiers, most of whom bore no uniform. These soldiers formed the Prince Christian August Corps, all under the organisation of Johan Henrich Spørck. They spent their days training alongside the crew at the fortress, and the soldiers offered Gustav a nod of recognition as they passed him. Willy straightened his back as they walked, feeling himself grow taller with every step.

They ran into the owner of the privateer vessel just as they approached his home, known as the Red Manor. The noble Carsten Tank had just climbed into the carriage and sat down when Willy stopped the coachman right before he cracked the whip.

“Excuse me, young man?” Tank asked. He was a grey, middle-aged man with a ponytail and a slightly confused expression on his face.

“Willy Lauer from Hvaler. I can use my father as a reference, if you’d like? He’ll vouch for me—as will my brother, Gustav, who I believe you’ve met before. He’s the Ammunition and Equipment Manager at the fortress...”

“I know Gustav Lauer. Good day to both of you. As you can see, I’m just leaving. Send me an application, Mr. Lauer, and I’ll consider you when the time comes.”

Late Sunday night, Ulf was sitting alone in the kitchen. The space was cold and unpleasant, and the darkness dragged the atmosphere down even further. The chilly autumn air was coming in from all the nooks and crannies in the creaking timber. Meanwhile, the storm that had come in from the sea whipped raindrops against the small windows that were threatening to fall down as it was. Ulf was bundled up in a thick woollen sweater and a pair of woollen socks. Lighting a proper fire in the hearth was out of the question. All he needed was enough heat to make himself some coffee. The firewood was to be saved for the winter months, and the same applied to the lighting. He poked the woodchips burning in a pile on the table to get some more light. Although the kitchen remained half-dark, the outside was darker still. Blacker than the coffee he’d made himself, in fact. Or rather, blacker than the decoction of dandelion root that would have to substitute as coffee for now.

Ulf grabbed the copper kettle from the fire and poured himself a cup of the liquid, leaving it to cool while he packed his pipe with dried yarrow and betony. He lifted the pipe to his lips and lit it just as a shadow flitted past the window. He heard footsteps on the wet stoop leading up to the house, and a moment later, Willy stumbled inside looking like a drowned rat.

A billow of smoke seemed to surround Ulf as he shook his head and looked at his son in disbelief. “Good heavens, son. Where have you been these past couple of days?”

Willy looked unkempt to put it mildly. His clothes were drenched, his hair was so wet it stuck to his head, and his beard was a mess. He hadn’t shaved for more than a week, and he’d set out from Fredrikshald at the break of Sunday morning. He’d rowed with such fervour that his thick-skinned knuckles were wounded and blistering.

“I’ve been looking for Raja,” Willy said. “Also, Gustav says hello. I’ve been staying with him since Friday...”

“Right, look at this.” Willy unbuttoned his coat and pulled out a leather bag that he threw onto the table.

“Yes, and I need you to sign it.” Gustav had written the letter of recommendation for him and signed it as the Ammunition and Equipment Manager.

Ulf furrowed his brow and squinted. “Jesus Christ, what kind of ship is that?”

Monday evening at six o’clock, Willy rang the bell of the beautiful front door to Red Manor. A moment later, the door was cracked open and out came the head of one of the servants with slicked-back hair.

Willy had been rowing in the wind without a hat on, leaving his hair like a bird’s nest, the blond locks standing to all sides. His beard was just as unkempt as it had been in his father’s kitchen the night before, mainly because he had wolfed down a serving of pork and drunk a bit of homebrewed beer before heading straight to bed. He’d had five hours of sleep before setting out from Lauer at daybreak, fighting strong headwinds and enormous waves in his attempt to reach the mainland.

“Good evening. Is Carsten home?” Willy acted like he and the master of the house were old friends who addressed each other by first name.

“None of your business, it’s confidential. Just go fetch him. I’ll wait in the hallway. If you let me in, that is.”

Willy pushed the door open and stepped inside before the servant could object. “Go on! Don’t just stand there and stare,” he commanded as he imagined a captain would. The hall he found himself in was bigger than his house on Lauer. In fact, the entire house could fit in this one room. The walls were adorned with invaluable paintings, mirrors, and beautiful sconces, the like of which he’d never seen before.

Suddenly, Willy spotted himself in the mirror and shuddered in horror. He combed his fingers through his unruly hair in a desperate attempt to appear more presentable. As long as he could pass for a captain... Captain? What sort of captain could he ever hope to be? Not the regular kind, that much was certain. The man he saw staring back at him in the mirror looked more like the infamous pirate Blackbeard that he’d seen illustrations of in Gustav’s books. He had a beard, dishevelled hair, and was armed with a sable and no fewer than six pistols. The pirate was a terrifying sight, but another illustration in the book was even more frightening. It showed Blackbeard’s decapitated head suspended from the mast of his ship. Although that was almost a hundred years ago, this Blackbeard had fought the British, just like Willy intended to do. He imagined himself in the role of Blackbeard, onboard Queen Anne’s Revenge, equipped with 40 cannons. That’s right, 40!

Willy stood there fencing with an imaginary sword and tried his best to look mean. Behold Willy Lauer, the fearsome captain of The Avenger of Wrath, the scourge of Skagerrak!

Willy turned away from the mirror sheepishly. “I was... uh...” He cleared his throat. “It’s good to see you, Carsten. Good evening and God be with you, I might say... Right, listen. I’ve finally sorted out a letter of recommendation for you. I’d like to apply for the captaincy of your ship—you know, the privateer vessel we were talking about.”

Willy fished the letter of recommendation out of the leather bag and handed it to the shipowner.

The British had set their sights further north. It was time to confiscate the rest of the Dano-Norwegian fleet. Two ships in particular had come to their attention: Princess Lovise Augusta and Prince Christian Frederik in Norway. Commander Stopford aboard the Spencer was tasked with collecting them. It took Stopford no time at all to locate the Prince Christian Frederik in Kristiansand, but he chose to lay low at first, arresting merchant ships off the Norwegian coast. On September 27^th, he sent one of his men in to Kristiansand to negotiate. Their message was clear: hand over the Prince Christian Frederik at once or we’ll bombard the town. Neither Prefect Thygesen nor Commanding Officer Jessen bowed to the British wishes, and so Stopford and his squadron launched their attach. The British were met with three gun sloops and two gun yawls from the naval base in Stavern, Fredriksvern, under the organisation of Lieutenant Bille. Stopford fired twice from broadside before retreating, in close pursuit by the Norwegian vessels. By all measures, the British had been chased away.

“Fine, you won,” Willy said sheepishly and threw the cord onto the soil of the training ground. Gustav had forced him to his knees in a fencing duel once again, in spite of the fact that Willy had been training almost every day over the past couple of weeks. With that being said, Gustav did have a four-year head start. Willy was a quick learner, though, and he was making steady progress. When it came to shooting muskets, he’d more or less caught up with Gustav. His brother was quicker at loading the gun but Willy had better aim. He didn’t miss often, and when he did it wasn’t by much. Learning to fire the cannons hadn’t been much of a struggle for him either.

Willy was well on his way to becoming a decent soldier, which would be of paramount importance if he were to ever stand a chance of becoming the privateer that he dreamed of being. He hadn’t heard back from the shipowner, however, and Willy was starting to grow impatient. He felt ready for war. He wanted to go out and get rich.

Gustav read his mind. “You’ll get there, brother,” he said and gave Willy a pat on the back. “Before you know it, you’ll be ready to...”

“Become a privateer, I know,” Willy said, finishing the sentence with a pensive nod. “If only this Tank guy would hurry up and make a decision.”

“Take a step back from this captain dream of yours, Willy. You have to learn to walk before you can run, you know. You’ll most likely start out as a crewman and rise through the ranks, just like I did. We both know nobody starts at the top.”

“Don’t say that. Just take a look around,” Willy said, gesturing to his general surroundings. He shot a look around the large training ground that was brimming with activity; it was overrun with men preparing themselves for war. It was a noisy setting, to say the least. There were muskets going off and blades clinking together in every which direction. “How many of these men do you think want to be privateers?”

“Exactly. You said it yourself. In terms of finding a crew, the shipowners have their work cut out for them. Sure, I might be young, but so what? I know how to sail, and I’ve been spending time out at sea since for as long as I can remember...”

“On small boats, yes,” Gustav chuckled. “But not on a ship, dear brother...”

The brothers turned around to face Lieutenant Kaspersen, who was standing there with the twins, Odd and Jens. There was no way of telling those two apart; they were both short and stocky with copper hair, not to mention the same gleam in their eyes and dimples in their cheeks when they smiled. They were also easy to work with and never caused any trouble. The twins were frugal, having grown up on a poor croft attached to Knekterød Farm in Idd Parish. The Vale of Tears, they called it. Willy had met the twins a little over a week ago and learned that the two of them wanted to be privateers as well.

“Yeah,” Willy said. “Why do you ask?” He looked the lieutenant dead in the eyes, prepared to defend himself if necessary.

The lieutenant offered him a disarming smile. “And it appears that you have started to grow impatient...”

“See, that is where you are wrong,” the lieutenant said. “Something is happening.”

“Correct, but things are occurring down south. A few days ago, we seized a ship in the North Sea. Hector, I think it was called. It was on its way from Arkhangelsk to London, carrying 2,200 barrels of tar and pitch. That should be worth a small fortune.”

“Ooh, go on.” Willy was grinning from ear to ear, a dreamy look in his eyes.

“If I were you,” the lieutenant said in a friendly voice, “I would not waste any more time waiting for Tank to make a decision. That could be a while. If you ask me, the whole endeavour seems a little half-hearted.”

“I feel compelled to agree,” Gustav chimed in. “It would be unwise to bite the hand that feeds you, so to speak.” He was referring to Carsten Tank’s close ties to England. Having exported timber to the country for as long as he had, it didn’t come as a surprise that he was delaying the process of finding a crew. One day, the war would end, and his trade with the English would resume. Assuming he didn’t cause too much damage to them, of course.

The plans for a privateer crew was just an attempt to appease the Danes. Nothing more than a show of goodwill.

“That’s it, I quit,” Odd said. He slapped his hand against his forehead and stroked his copper hair in despair. “We’ll never find work here.”

His brother, Jens, nodded. “I agree. Let’s head to Sweden. The selection will be better there, I’m sure.”

“You’re giving up on privateering?” Willy asked. “Aren’t you going to fight for it?”

“You can’t be serious. You’re giving up this easily? Do you think life just hands everything to you on a silver platter?” Willy asked, but the twins didn’t respond. He continued, “Dreams are free, but making them come true has its price. I refuse to quit. As you start to walk on the way, the way appears.”

They’d been walking around town in search of work for days, but their efforts had been in vain. Of course, that had taken a toll on their mood. Not even Willy could help but feel exhausted and defeated, but all the same, he refused to give up on his dream even if he had no idea where he was going. For all he knew, the path ahead could be a long and winding one. He was prepared to rise through the ranks just like his brother. They were both ambitious men who seized the opportunity when it presented itself.

“What? Are you leaving us?” The 16-year-old said, as if Willy who was four years older was somehow obligated to take care of them. In that moment, Willy realised that the twins had grown more attached to him than he’d previously realised. Willy was the one who knew how to talk the talk and was connected with all the right people. He knew Carsten Tank, plus his brother was the Ammunition and Equipment Manager at the fortress. And who were they? Two poor men from a croft. No more, no less.

“Ha! Leave you? That’s the opposite of what’s happening. I know exactly where I’m going: to Kristiansand to become a privateer. That’s where I’m going, not to Sweden.”

Willy smiled. “Great. I’ll talk to Gustav. I’m sure he can help us come up with something.”

“No, there’s no work here,” Gustav said with a shrewd smile. “I’m not surprised, seeing as we’re starting to feel the effects of the English blockade.”

“Calm down, brother. I have some work for you, it’s just a question of whether you want it.”

Gustav looked inquisitively at the trio. “Anything? Absolutely anything? Without objection?”

“Yes, anything,” Willy said. “You heard them. We’re tired of doing nothing.”

“That’s fine by me,” Gustav said with relief. “I was about to turn down a request that I received from Carsten Tank.”

“Well, once in a while he rents slaves from us—quite often, actually. But I’m short on bodies at the moment. One of the wardens has fallen ill...”

“One of the prison guards is ill, and I only have one slave in custody. The rest of them have already been rented out.”

“Right, tell us more,” Willy said impatiently. “What’ll we do, and what’ll we earn?”

“Okay, so it’s at the Sugar House,” Willy said, insisting upon using the colloquial name. He nodded. “Great, in that case I’ll take on the role of prison guard. The twins can be dock workers. What about our wages?”

“You’ll receive a soldier’s wage, but Odd and Jens will get...” Gustav hesitated for a moment, reluctant to tell them. “A slave’s wage. Or rather, seeing as slaves don’t receive wages, you’ll receive the money that Tank pays to rent the slaves, which is close to nothing. Will you be taking the job?”

Willy couldn’t help but laugh. “How sneaky. I knew there’d be a catch. But yeah, I’ll take the job. Odd and Jens can decide for themselves.”

“Uh,” Odd stared at Jens who was rolling his eyes. “Hmm... A slave’s wage, you say? That doesn’t sound too great. Can we have some time to think?”

“You’ve got an hour, not a second more. Tank needs a response today. There’s a ship coming in from Moss as we speak, so work begins tomorrow.”

The next day, the group of men showed up at the Sugar House on a promontory at the mouth of the Tista River, a stone’s throw from the English garden of Red Manor. It was an elegant, castle-like building, surrounded by small groves of trees and open fields to ensure that it marred neither the elegance of Tank’s imposing home nor the fields of the town. When Willy, the twins, and the prisoner from the fortress arrived at the dock, they were greeted by a two-mast schooner waiting to be loaded, but there was no one in sight. They’ve probably gone inside to escape the chilly autumn weather, Willy thought to himself as he felt a pang of compassion for the prisoner. His name was Fritjof and was a poor craftsman from Berg who’d stolen food from the farm owner, making him one of the so-called ‘honourable’ prisoners. They were divided into two groups: the honourable and the dishonourable. Both classifications resulted in servitude, but the dishonourable prisoners had committed murder and major theft. They were whipped, and their foreheads were branded with the Mark of the Thief. Although Fritjof was an honourable prisoner, he was forced to walk around with chains around his ankles, marking his every move with a jingling sound. There was no point in trying to run away.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” a quiet voice responded from inside the hell. Creaking footsteps coming echoed nearby, and soon,a head wearing a red cap appeared from behind the bulwarks.

“Ah, you’re here,” the man said in a guttural but gentle voice. He crossed the gangway to meet them, his wide-legged gait more akin to a waddle than anything else. He was a well-fed man with a large belly and a set of round cheeks. His coat hung loosely on his body, creating a sharp contrast to his vest, the buttons on which looked like they were ready to burst and fly off in every which direction. “Wonderful.”

Willy extended his hand. “Good morning, and God be with you. I’m Willy Lauer, and these are the dock workers.” He nodded to the men behind him. It wasn’t necessary to introduce the prisoner or the twins further.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, monsieur. Call me Armel,” the elderly sailor said. He had bags under his faded eyes, and his grey hair was poking out from under the red cap. “I’m first mate of the Joséphine. Shall we get to work, monsieur?”

“The sacks are over here,” Armel said, showing them the warehouse filled with heavy bags of sugar and salt. There were more than they could count and they had to be done loading all of them by the end of the day.

“Good God,” the twins said in unison. Willy flashed them a crooked smile and nodded knowingly.

“Good luck,” Willy said. While the twins and Fritjof walked back and forth between the warehouse and the ship, he went on a leisurely stroll with Armel. As they carried the heavy sacks on their shoulders, the twins took turns scowling at Willy. This really was slave labour—at a slave’s wage, no less.

“In France. La Rochelle is a French town with proud traditions and a rich history. There are long stretches of beach and there’s even a beautiful wall surrounding the harbour. It’s a lot warmer and cosier than Norway. That’s where Joséphine and I are from.”

“That’s right. She lives in Moss now. That’s where the shipowner lives. He bought Joséphine three years ago and I came with her.”

“Very much so. My father, who taught me to sail when I was a young lad, was first mate aboard Joséphine as well. We crossed the Atlantic on Joséphine to see the east coast of North America and fish for cod off the coast of Newfoundland. That’s where I got Beauty, my first dog. She was a Newfoundland dog with long, black fur. The best working dog a sailor could wish for.”

“Completely ordinary. It’s just as beautiful as here, and there are plenty of fish... Is it a dream of yours to go there?”

“That could very well be your first and last dream, monsieur. Trust me, it’s a dangerous job. I know what I’m talking about.”

“To become a privateer? Not even close, but I could teach you to become first mate.”

“Right, that’s what I meant. I’ve heard that you’re going to Kristiansand. Is that true?”

“We won’t charge you. It won’t cost you a thing. All we ask is board and lodging. We’ll unload the goods in Kristiansand, and I’ll even guard the ship the entire way.”

“Ah monsieur, that’s not for me to decide. It’ll be the captain’s decision.”

The cold, snowy weather made everything feel grey and miserable. Anyone with an excuse to be inside was already below deck, including the twins who were exhausted after yesterday’s work at the Sugar House. It had taken them 14 hours to finish loading the sacks of salt and sugar, and now the pair of them were sleeping like babies. They’ve earned it, Willy thought. It felt like he was destined to take care of them, like it was a task bestowed upon him by God Himself. He came from almost the same background as the twins. The two of them were the sons of a crofter, a poor farmer who rented land from a farm owner and paid for the rental with labour. Six days a week, they worked hard on the owner’s land, and on Sundays they worked on their own. The Lord might have declared it the day of rest in celebration of having created the earth and the universe, but there was no rest for the crofter if he wanted to survive. More often than not, the land was ungenerous, and there were many mouths to feed. It was no wonder that crofters tended to give their farms strange names, such as Pain, Need, Labour, Starvation, Hell, and so on. Others had a more self-deprecating approach and called their farms things like Paradise, Silverville, Braveburg, or the Chalet of Cheers. The limited arable land on Lauer meant that Willy and his father had no farm owner ruling over them; they were part of the lucky few who could rest on Sundays and live off what the sea gave them.

Soon, however, they would support themselves by becoming privateers on the southern coast. With any luck, they would be able to support their families at home, at least occasionally. They would live the good life and they would eat until they were full. They might even eat meat every day rather than just once a week.

Willy was on the bow of the Joséphine as it made its way down the picturesque Ringdals Fjord—the slim stretch between Fredrikshald and the Single Fjord—with cliffs to port and starboard alike. Sweden was on one side, Norway on the other.

Suddenly, they encountered a boat. Willy leaned forwards. The rowboat looked familiar, as did the people inside her. It was Raja and her family, including the scoundrel, Maxim. Damn him!

Willy shouted and waved in their direction, but none of them saw him. The schooner was sailing full speed ahead, creating wave after wave at the bow. They passed the Romanovas in the blink of an eye.

“God, she’s beautiful,” Willy sighed, suddenly overwhelmed with melancholy. Perhaps I’ve made a mistake, he thought. Perhaps I should’ve stayed a little while longer.

The British patrolled the north coast to keep the blockade in place. On October 23^rd, the British brig, The Pelican, ventured all the way into the Langesund Fjord, but the wind died down and the ship drifted along. That was when the Norwegian Lieutenant Bille attacked with his three gun sloops and two gun yawls. They were small vessels that were easy to manoeuvre. The long, slender shape of the open ships without decks was reminiscent of the Viking longboats, and they sailed along with the help of sails and oars. Each gunboat could fit a crew of more than 60 men, and as the vessels didn’t reach deep into the water, they could easily hide behind islets, lying in wait for the large, British ships. Most of the boats had a cannon at the front as well as at the back. The windless day gave the Norwegian gunboats the advantage they needed to approach their enemies diagonally, eliminating the risk of being struck on broadside. The crew turned their boats and aimed for the enemy ship. It was shaping up to be a disastrous day for the British crew onboard The Pelican, but then the wind picked back up and sent The Pelican flying.

The crew onboard the Joséphine battled heavy rainfall and strong winds as they manoeuvred into the Kristiansand archipelago. The schooner rocked from side to side in the deep swells. With Willy at the wheel and the experienced, weathered First Mate Armel at his side, they managed to keep steady. The two had become close friends, and Armel had taught Willy everything he knew about captaining a large ship. The twins had received some training of their own, and they now had their work cut out for them in the forms of adjusting the sails and tuning the rig.

Willy grabbed the megaphone and roared instructions out to the crew. “Steady as she goes! Lower the mainsail!”

“Très bien!” Armel praised. “Stay on course. We’re almost there, my friend. You should have been in Kristiansand with me a couple of weeks ago. That would’ve been an experience you’d never forget.”

“We had just finished unloading the ship and were about to set out from the harbour, but we were stopped before we could get anywhere. We were informed that the English were coming and advised to seek shelter. People sprinted away to hide in whatever basements they could find, while my crew and I sought cover at Christiansholm Fortress in a bay near the town. It was pure mayhem up there, with civilians running around like headless chickens. The soldiers were busy loading cannons and preparing whatever ammunition they could find. I helped a young mother and her two children to safety in one of the bombproof rooms.”

“British ships? Right here?” Willy asked. For whatever reason, the monumental news had completely escaped him.

“Oh, yeah. A little bird had told them that the Dano-Norwegian line ship that had escaped the fleet raid in Copenhagen, the Prince Christian Frederik, was docked in Kristiansand. It’s a powerful ship equipped with 70 cannons and the British weren’t about to let it escape a second time.”

“No, not at all. Robert Stopford, the commander of the English line ship HMS Spencer, had sent a letter to County Governor Nicolai Emanuel de Thygeson, threatening to open fire on Kristiansand if the ship was not handed over immediately.”

“‘Go ahead and open fire,’ he wrote back. ‘We’ll blow you to smithereens.’ But you see, the threat was directed at three large, British warships decked out with cannons and possibly some of those dreaded skyrockets.”

“No wonder people were panicked. Choosing to go up against those ships sounds like pure madness to me. Didn’t Thygeson know what happened in Copenhagen?”

“Of course, he did—and still, he challenged the English. He refused to surrender.”

“Oh, yes. I watched the three ships as they ventured into this very fjord, and the sight sent a shiver down my spine. ‘All hell is about to break loose,’ I thought. It was all over before I knew it. The British were met with three gun sloops and two gun yawls. Stopford fired twice from broadside and retreated. Not long after, we heard a loud thud out in the archipelago.”

“One of the ships exploded?” Willy theorised that one of the ships had been set aflame and that the fire had spread to the gunpowder chamber. A logical conclusion.

“No. In retaliation, the scorned Commander Stopford had struck Fredriksholm Fortress a little further out.”

“Stopford decided to take his anger out on the structure. He blew it up, but it ended up costing him dearly.”

“Of course, he must have wasted a lot of gunpowder doing that. That is, assuming he used his own gunpowder.”

“Oh, yeah. The barrels of gunpowder were in position and the fuses were lit. The English sought cover and waited. Commander Stopford grew impatient and sent four of his own men out to check if the fuses were still burning.”

“Would you look at that,” the fisherman said to the fishmonger, as he delivered the catch of the day. He nodded towards the crowd of people in the town square.

Raja and her family had been brought in for questioning and searched thoroughly once again, but this time, Maxim didn’t have any of the stolen goods on his person. The silver had been confiscated by the Strömstad sheriff, who had kept Maxim in his custody for a couple of days. The Swedish sheriff eventually had been forced to release him, partly because the seal on the silver was that of a jeweller in Christiania and partly because nobody in Sweden had reported the silver missing. But this time, the family had been caught in Norway, where they were wanted suspects, and the authorities requested new witnesses to step forward. His Majesty’s Bailiff Christian Jeppesen, the man who had interrogated Willy Lauer, was sent for. He was still in Fredrikstad, which was an hour’s ride away if the messenger went at full speed.

“Cheers, fellas—à votre santé.” First Mate Armel raised his stein and nodded to Willy and the twins. The beer sprayed in every which direction as they banged their mugs together. The group had plenty to celebrate. For starters, they had done some formidable dock work, carrying tonnes of heavy sacks from the schooner to the horse-drawn carriages on the pier. Secondly, they could finally start looking for a privateer-vessel crew to join, which was exciting news all on its own. But where would they begin their search? Who would they have to speak to? In any case, the Proud Cock seemed like a good starting point. If nothing else, it was a place to drink beer and get to know people. The beer flowed freely and smoke from innumerable clay pipes filled the room like a heavy fog at this sailor’s establishment. It was filled to the brim with loud-mouthed people milling about from table to table, their voices reverberating off the barrel-vaulted ceiling of the inn’s cellar.

For Armel, this was shaping up to be one of those nights out on the town that he wouldn’t remember in great detail the next morning. He wasn’t unfamiliar with the process of waking up to a pounding headache, a dry mouth, a selection of new bruises on his body, and tears in his clothes. Usually, an inability to remember where he put his coat or his hat (or both) and significantly depleted funds in his pocketbook - if he could even find his pocketbook in the first place – were to be expected, as well. But he counted himself lucky, so long as he hadn’t racked up more debt. More than once, he’d woken behind bars with a start to find himself bloody and bruised after a drunken brawl that had resulted in broken inventory. That was usually followed by demands for reparations.

Armel was the life and soul of the party and he was far from stingy. He bought Willy and the twins one beer after another, and everyone was having a grand, old time.

It didn’t take Odd long to grow tipsy, and in his newfound stupor, the otherwise shy fellow unearthed new levels of courage. There was something he’d been wondering, and now that alcohol was in his bloodstream, he wasn’t scared to ask.

“Because of the ship! Good one,” Willy laughed. The beer had given him the courage to speak his mind as well. His timidity meant that he wasn’t particularly experienced when it came to women either.

“Oh, no, it’s been a while since I gave up on that dream. Women are bothersome. They’re nothing but trouble and mindless chatter.”

Willy’s laugh drowned in a hiccough. “The Joséphine is enough for you, huh?”

Armel leaned forwards and pulled him closer, as if he was about to share a well-kept secret prompting the twins to lean in as well. In a low voice, and with a breath that made Willy’s eyes water, he said, “The best woman a man could ask for, dear friends. Joséphine lets me take her wherever I want to go and she never complains. What more could I possibly want? La femme parfaite!”

He ended his declaration of love with a gulp of beer. He swallowed the liquid, burped, and patted himself on his drum of a stomach.

That made Jens burst into laughter. “You and your ship. Sounds like a lonely life, if you ask me.”

“Hmm, I thought as much. You’re preoccupied with the thought of women, young man. Just reach out and grab them.”

“Just reach out and grab them,” Willy said and leaned back in search of fresh air. “Easier said than done ...” He went through his female acquaintances. Amalie, the merchant’s daughter that he’d never plucked up the courage to talk to. Olga, who he hadn’t even had the guts to ask for a dance. And Raja, the forbidden fruit who was, unfortunately, married.

“Right ...” Armel winked at his young friends before looking across the room and shooting a smile at one of the waitresses. She smiled back. “That’s how it’s done. Easy as pie,” the worldly Frenchman continued. The woman spun around on her heels and headed straight for them, just like the obedient Joséphine.

The frisky Armel answered her question with a question. “How does mademoiselle Lotta feel about drinking champagne tonight?”

“Alright, then,” Lotta answered and sat down on the elderly charmer’s lap. He could easily be her grandfather. Willy shuddered at the sight of the young, beautiful woman sitting on the lap of the grey-haired first mate with bags under his faded eyes that must have been clear and lively once upon a time. His unruly stubble made his face look like a bramble, and his brown, decaying teeth didn’t do him any favours. The whole thing reminded Willy of Beauty and the Beast, a French fairy tale that Gustav had read to him as a child. The beautiful Lotta was sitting there—in her elegant dress with white puff sleeves and a low cut that exposed her perky breasts, dark hair arranged neatly on top of her head with a few loose ringlets to frame her face, red lips, and blush on her cheeks—with her slender arm around Armel’s broad back, pressing her breasts against his face. Disgusting!

“Well, come on, monsieur Armel,” she said. She stood up and led him away while Willy and the twins watched, each of them as dumbfounded as the next.

“Lotta’s a working girl,” the man explained with a laugh. What’s that supposed to mean? The sailor could’ve called her a skirt, and Willy still wouldn’t have had any idea what he was talking about.

“Ah, I see ...” Willy said. She was a sinful woman. The priest at Hvaler Church had told them about Rahab, the Harlot of Jericho who saved herself from ruin by harbouring the spies, or something like that. In any case, the biblical story of Rahab was one that Willy remembered. It was about Joshua and the Israelites who had fled from Egypt and wandered through the desert for 40 years until they reached the Promised Land of Israel. But it turned out that some people had built a town by the name of Jericho, and the walls that surrounded it somehow came tumbling down. The Israelites supposedly had God and Rahab to thank for that miracle. Still, the priest had referred to Rahab as the harlot, and the expression on his face had clearly indicated that she deserved to die. She was that wicked.

“That’s one way to put it. You wouldn’t happen to know any privateers, would you? We’re hoping to join a crew.”

“No offense, but you should forget all about that dream of becoming a privateer.”

“You’re not from around here either, are you? Your dialect gives you away. That’ll make it even harder.”

“It is what it is. Go back home and things just might work out. You could go on to become a privateer, sure, but I’d find a proper job if I were you.”

“Yeah, damn those privateers,” another sailor chimed in. “If we go on like this, it’s only a matter of time before the English reduce Kristiansand to ruins. We’ll end up like our brothers in Copenhagen. Just think about that, young man. Snap out of it!”

“Please, come with me,” she said. Her voice was resigned, but the smile hadn’t faded from her cherry lips. I wonder if they taste like cherries, Willy thought as he stood up in confusion. The beer hit him once he reached his feet and he was a changed man. He wanted to kiss her as they walked along, arm in arm, but managed to control his urges, probably because the twins were right on their heels.

They walked up a flight of stairs and entered an attic room where they found Armel stretched out on a bed, naked and fast asleep. Willy and the twins had to dress him, which proved a significant challenge. The Frenchman was limp and heavy like a butchered pig, but then Willy discovered something.

“His pocketbook? Are you telling me he doesn’t have it on him? In that case, it’s a mighty good thing we didn’t get around to doing anything...”

“What, was he supposed to pay you? What kind of woman are you? Perhaps you’ve stolen his pocketbook as well?”

“Coming!” a baritone voice responded from out in the hallway. Shortly after, Oscar was standing in the doorway. He was a mountain of man.

Oscar grabbed Armel, threw him over his shoulder, and carried him like a duffel bag. Then he pushed Willy and the twins in front and followed them back down the stairs. He threw Armel into the gutter, and the Frenchman landed on his stomach, scraping his face against the ground in the progress. The twins tried to get him back up on his legs, but his limbs refused to cooperate and they ended up having to carry him.

Willy saw red and every last trace of reason evaporated. He didn’t consider for a second the fact that this giant could beat him to a pulp. The fact that Oscar was a muscular hulk of a man didn’t faze him. Willy was furious and he went straight in for the kill. It was David versus Goliath, the mouse versus the elephant. His brain switched off and let his body act on its impulses. All of Gustav’s training was finally put to good use. With a few, quick movements, he knocked the giant off his feet. Oscar fell backwards and hit the back of his head against the steps. Willy heard the slam of the impact and noticed the dazed look on Oscar’s face. Willy threw himself on top of his prey and began to punch him in the face. He hit him as hard as he could, until the giant was completely knocked out. All the same, he roared, “Look what you’ve done, dirt bag! That’ll be the last time, let me tell you that!” Just then, he heard someone shout a little further down the street.

Willy looked up to see a mugging in full swing. A shabby-looking villain was threatening a gentleman with his knife. The gentleman was well-dressed, with a top hat and everything. He waved his walking stick in an attempt to keep the villain at a safe distance, but the thief continued brandishing his blade. It was life or death.

“Oh, I’m coming to get you,” Willy shouted so loud, it echoed down the street.

The gentleman and the villain jerked around and stopped dead in their tracks. Their eyes flitted between Willy and Oscar, who was out cold beneath him. That was all it took to make the thief sprint away as fast as his legs could carry him. The gentleman smiled.

“Thank you for the assistance,” the noble man said and introduced himself. “My name is Atle Christensen.”

“Willy Lauer,” Willy said and noticed that his hand was wet and tender. “No need to thank me, Atle. All I did was shout.” He looked down at his hand and registered the metallic smell of blood. Am I bleeding? He couldn’t see any open wounds on either his knuckles or his palm. Willy assumed the blood must be Oscar’s and pushed the thought aside.

They looked at the unconscious giant. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and the thought of his own actions frightened Willy. He had never struck another person in his entire life; he had barely hurt a fly.

“Oscar, of all people,” Atle Christensen said and shook his head. “The biggest fighter in all of Kristiansand, not to mention the leader of the worst gang in town. This means trouble for you, young man.”

“Excellent,” Willy said, realising that Atle’s hand was dripping. “Oof, you’re bleeding.”

“Ah, I guess I am. The scoundrel must have caught my arm. We had better go find the doctor. It looks like your friend could use a bit of help, too.” Atle nodded in the direction of Armel, who was slumped between the twins, bloody and barely conscious.

“Yes, please,” Odd said. “Armel’s in pretty bad shape, we have to do something.”

“Doctor Hans Iver Horn lives right around the corner,” Atle said. “We’ll go there.”

The group set into motion, and three minutes later, they knocked on the doctor’s door. It was around midnight, so it took a while before the door cracked open, revealing a perplexed face wearing a night cap.

Doctor Horn held a lamp, which he lifted above his head to see who was at his door in the dead of night.

“Pardon me, but I’m afraid we’ve been attacked. We’re in dire need of your expertise, my dear Horn. If you would be so kind.”

The men stepped inside. Doctor Horn was wearing a bathrobe and had clearly been fast asleep. He shepherded them into one of the dark side rooms. The whole house was dark, but Willy could tell that the doctor’s office was a large, impressive room. There was flowery wallpaper on the walls and the ceiling was adorned with stucco moulding and rosaries, from which a crystal chandelier was suspended. Other than that, the furniture was sparse. There was a chaise longue covered with a white sheet for patients to lie on, a china cabinet filled with medicine jars and various tools, and a desk with a chair in front of one of the tall windows that had their curtains drawn. It smelled like an apothecary.

“Sister Lilly,” Horn shouted, and soon after, they heard footsteps in the hallway. A young woman in a bathrobe entered the room, with her hair down. “We have patients to tend to,” Horn continued. “Would you be so kind as to light the lamps?”

“As you wish, gentlemen. You know, I’m not a general physician anymore...”

The bookkeeper nodded. “I know, you’ve specialised in leprosy. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. That’s right, I’ve become a travelling doctor to assist lepers. You were lucky to catch me at home. I’m leaving for Akershus tomorrow.”

Doctor Horn treated the Frenchman and the bookkeeper to the best of his ability, and by the end, they were both nicely patched up. The bookkeeper had a cut on his upper right arm that needed stitching, but that was nothing in comparison to the French first mate’s injuries. Armel had broken both arms and a couple of ribs, not to mention his nose, so he was put in a cast and bandages. He’d even knocked out some of his front teeth, but he clenched his jaw and tried to hide his pain as best he could. He tried to laugh it off, but his face was stiff and puffed. His eyes were nothing more than slits somewhere above his nose.

“Mon Dieu. At least this saves me having to pull out my teeth,” the first mate said. He crossed his bandaged arms.

Willy was depressed. It had all started out so well. Thanks to Armel’s generosity and well-meaning personality, he and the twins had learnt a bunch of useful things. All the same, things were looking bleak for the Frenchman, who was suddenly at risk of losing his job and, God forbid, ending up in a workhouse. Willy wouldn’t be able to live with himself if that happened. He’d take care of Armel until he was fully recovered.

“Right,” Willy said, as they were leaving the office. “Looks like I’ll have to take over the first-mate responsibilities and put a pin in my dream of becoming a captain.”

“Yes,” Willy said. “We were hoping to become privateers, and I had my eyes set on becoming a captain.”

“A captain?” The bookkeeper smiled pensively. “That shouldn’t be a problem, but I think the simplest way to get there is to acquire a boat of your own.”

“A boat of my own,” Willy stroked his chin. “You might be onto something.”

“Exactly. It doesn’t have to be a big boat, but you’ll need a letter of marque. I might be able to help you with that to repay the favour. I’ll pay for the treatment of your injured friend as well, as a thank you for saving me from the thief. Of course, I’ll make sure that you’re escorted back to the ship safe and sound tonight. You can never be too careful when it comes to Oscar and his gang. I think you’d do well to leave Kristiansand for a while. That goes for all of you.”

“Thank you,” Willy said. “I’ll keep that in mind. If nothing else, I’ll settle for being a crewmember on a privateer vessel, of course.”

“If that’s what you want, just come straight to me,” the bookkeeper said. “I’d be happy to introduce you to Thygeson.”

Bookkeeper Atle Christensen flashed him a crooked smile. “Yes sir, that I do.”

“Stay where you are!” The captain glared at Willy, acting as though the twins weren’t even there. As far as he was concerned, the brothers only existed when there was dock work or other menial tasks for them to do. But he had some respect for Willy—for whatever reason. Possibly because of his staunch and unafraid demeanour or maybe because he wanted to become captain. Above all else, it was most likely because he had beat the living daylights out of the biggest fighter in Kristiansand. Willy had become something of a hero onboard the Joséphine after that. The rest of the crew smiled and saluted him whenever their paths crossed his. Some of them had even started to measure their own strength against his. There was an ongoing competition to see who could lift the heaviest things, and Willy was near the top of the food chain. He could lift almost as much as the bulky Mons but when it came to wrestling, Willy was the undefeated champion. A lifetime of rowing and mending fishing nets had given the fisherman’s son a strong set of arms.

“Sure thing,” Willy said, smiling confidently at the captain. “Good things come to those who wait.”

“Whatever you say,” the captain hissed with a resentful expression on his face. “But the pleasure will probably be all mine, Mister Lauer. You can be sure of that.”

“We’ll see,” Willy said, placing an encouraging hand on Armel’s shoulder. “Good luck, my friend. I’m sure it’ll all work out. Tell him that I can take over your duties as first mate until you’ve recovered, and that we can share the wages, so it won’t cost him extra.”

Willy clenched his fist and cocked his head. “Stay strong, Armel. We’re rooting for you—right, boys?”

“Joséphine is your ship, Armel,” Willy said. “Don’t let that guy keep you down.”

Willy nodded at the captain, who was inclined to dismiss Armel. According to the captain, there had been too many episodes of this kind to overlook. Over the years, there had just been too much drunken trouble. This was the last straw and so the captain was prepared to kick the first mate to the curb. Willy had wanted to come in and defend the poor Frenchman, but the captain had refused the proposition.

“Mon Dieu.” Armel made the sign of the cross as the captain opened the door to the shipowner’s house. The murmur of the waterfall and the din of the ironworks drowned out the sound of the rain pouring down from above.

Willy and the twins retreated to an open shelter on the other side of the square, where they waited for Armel to return. They didn’t wait long.

Armel made his way towards them with shuffling steps, as if he was carrying all the sin and torment of the world on his shoulders. His eyes were threatening to overflow with tears and his lower lip was vibrating.

“Don’t cry,” Willy said. “It’ll all work out in the end. You’ll see.”

“Merci beaucoup, Monsieur Willy. It probably won’t—not for me. You and the twins are young and have your entire futures ahead of you. Not like me. Here I am, with broken arms and no Joséphine. An old drunkard... I might as well take my own life. Hand me your gun, s'il vous plaît. You’ll have it back in no time.”

“Oh, but Armel,” Odd consoled the first mate. “Don’t say that. I’m sure Willy will find a solution.”

“You’re too careless with your words,” Maxim said to Raja. They had been released from an interrogation by a commander at Fredriksten Fortress. The entire family had been present, but the others had gone ahead as soon as they’d been told the interrogation was over. They had to get back to their campsite, located in a cave in the mountains by the Tista River. It was in the direction of Tistedalen, not too far from the fortress. Maxim, however, had consciously taken his time so he’d get Raja alone.

“To all sorts of men. To that fisherman on Hvaler, for example. And you were being awfully nice to that fancy bailiff today. Decorated fella, wasn’t he?”

“A smile can be disarming, Maxim. I had to give him the impression that we were innocent. I did everything in my power to protect you. Can’t you see that?”

“Nonsense! You don’t care about me. You’re just trying to save your own skin. You were flirting with the bailiff, no two ways about it. All you were trying to do was charm him and you seemed to have managed that just fine. His eyes told me that he fancied you by the end. A blind man could see that.”

“Shut up!” Maxim shouted and hurled a fist towards her. It struck Raja in the face so hard, she fell to the ground, unconscious. Oh, no, what have I done? Maxim thought as he tried to wake her. Just then, he heard the furious voice of his father-in-law, Budulaj Romanov.

“Have you lost your mind?” Raja’s dad and her brothers, Ivan and Peter, had all felt like something bad was about to happen, but they arrived too late to stop it.

“You stay where you are,” the 13-year-old Ivan said with as much authority as his pre-pubescent voice could muster.

Budulaj lifted Raja and held her in his arms. She was pale and seemingly lifeless.

Shipowner Carsten Tank was deep in thought as he sat behind his new desk, bought in London alongside a selection of other furniture last year. Each piece of the Napoleonic furniture was standing in his office. Dark, glossy woodwork of the desk was covered with books and documents that Tank now found himself immersed in. The accounts made for a worrisome read. Expenses were increasing and profits were decreasing. Suddenly, he heard something in the hallway. Voices echoed and boots stomped across the wooden floor, but not with any particular rhythmic pattern. One of the doors was slightly ajar, which allowed Willy and his small group of men to march right into the office, with Tank’s despairing servant at their heels.

“Good morning, Carsten. Here we are,” Willy said with a confident, soft voice. “Four men for The Avenger of Wrath. I’m a far better candidate for the position of captain than I was the last time we met, thanks to the excellent training of my good friend, the experienced First Mate Armel. The guy with the broken arms.” Armel bowed carefully in place, both casted arms resting on his wide chest.

Tank squinted at them over the rims of his round reading glasses, which had slipped down to the tip of his nose. The first mate doesn’t look to be in great shape, Tank thought to himself. Armel looked more like a drunkard that Willy had picked off the streets than anything else. His face was swollen and his skin yellow. The two, big bruises around his faded eyes didn’t do him any favours, either.

“You might recognise these two tough guys from last time,” Willy continued, his voice still gentle. He nodded towards the stocky 16-year-olds, who looked much younger than their age.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t,” Tank said indifferently, as he pulled a golden watch from the pocket of his silk vest. He opened the lid and furrowed his brow, as if to tell them something.

“Right, I see,” Willy said and launched into an explanation. “These are the twins...”

“Great, I understand. I’m not in the need of a crew at the moment, and as you might be able to see, I’m in the middle of something. I’ll get in touch with Gustav if anything changes.”

“That I do,” Tank said and turned to the servant. “Please show these gentlemen the way out.” His eyes were back on his desk before his visitors had even started to leave.

The group was exhausted after their long trek from Moss to Fredrikshald, during which they had spent the night in cowsheds and mountain caves. They’d drunk water from the streams along the way, and with the exception of a hare that Willy had shot, they had barely eaten. The rabbit had been roasted over an open fire in the forest. What a feast! Although it was delicious, it hadn’t been enough to satisfy their collective hunger. Both Willy and the twins had grown emaciated and all they talked about was food. They could think of nothing else. Fried mackerel and potatoes. Pork roast and beer. Armel, however, was just as wide around the midsection as always, so he would easily survive a little longer. The Frenchman’s troubles were instead rooted in his injuries. Every step was agony for him.

What do I do now? Willy thought, as they left Shipowner Carsten Tank’s manor. They had to do something and Willy knew that the responsibility fell to him. Go home to my dad? No, it wouldn’t do to show up with three other mouths to feed. Not at the Castle on Lauer, where there was barely enough food and space to go around as it was. Going out to Jammerdalen on Idd, where the twins came from, didn’t even cross his mind as an option. But as they walked away from the manor, with all its glory and riches, he looked towards Fredrikshald and the imposing fortress in the background. The fortress that had saved the town from Swedish invasions five times already. Their coat of arms read, “GOD IS WITH US”, and in that moment, Willy thanked his Lord and Saviour. Thank You for holding Your protective hand over us and for bestowing upon me a brother of the likes of Gustav. My brother will be able to help us. Gustav was his earthly Saviour.

On their way up to the fortress, they passed the busy town square. Willy spotted a familiar face in the crowd, Raja’s father.

“Good day,” Raja’s father said, happy to see him again. “What are you doing in town, young man?”

“My friends and I were heading out, and I saw you rowing into the Ringdals Fjord. I waved, but you didn’t see me.” Willy nodded to the small group of men standing behind him, astonished. “But we’re back now. Where’s Raja, by the way?”

Raja’s dad nodded. He didn’t want to talk about it, so he left without another word.

An hour later, the group climbed the stairs to the Ebenezer workhouse. Armel was so exhausted that they practically had to carry him the last few steps of the way, which wasn’t an easy task. Not because of his weight, but because of his screaming. “Ow! Ow! Damn these godforsaken ribs of mine!”

If he was being honest, Willy had wanted to leave Armel in the town square so he could reach Raja as quickly as possible. She was his first priority right now. Unfortunately, Armel desperately needed a doctor to tend to his injuries, and that had stopped him from abandoning his friend. In spite of Armel’s whining, it didn’t take them too long to reach the doors of the workhouse. All Willy could think about was Raja. What had happened to her? Cholera? The plague? It must’ve been something serious, otherwise she wouldn’t have been admitted to Ebenezer. He didn’t know all that much about the place except for the fact that it was only for the poor and the ill. The people who couldn’t care for themselves. That kind of care didn’t exist on Hvaler, where all they had were granny cures and nobody ever sent for a doctor. There was a home remedy for everything, and liquor was one of the main ones. They used that for most things and added everything from pulverised clay pipes to caraway and other useful herbs.

When they’d finally made their way inside, they asked the matron if there was a patient by the name of Raja Romanova and were told that she was still on the premises. The matron was a woman around Armel’s age, and although she must have been beautiful in her younger years, her appearance didn’t do much to set her apart from the poor inhabitants of the workhouse. She showed them to a crowded room with tall ceilings. A large window at the other end allowed sunlight to filter into the room, but there was a permeating smell of urine in the stale air. There were four beds in a row, three of which were occupied by unfamiliar faces. The fourth, where Raja should’ve been lying, was empty. A dark-haired woman was sitting on a chair, with her back to them. Willy recognised the long, voluminous hair immediately. She was sitting with a spoon in her hand, feeding an old, bedridden woman.

Willy flinched when Raja turned around. She had a bruise around one of her eyes, and he didn’t have to be psychic to guess who might have done that to her. All the same, she lit up when she saw him.

“Alright. The doctor should be in around two o’clock, and I’m sure he’d be happy to take a look at those injuries. Change the bandages and all that. You look like you could use it, Monsieur...”

“No, I can see why that’d be difficult, Monsieur Dumas. My name is Bodil Hansen, but you can call me Bodil. It’s lovely to meet a real Frenchman. Where are you from in France?”

“Call me Armel. I’m from La Rochelle, Madame Bodil. The most beautiful place in the world.”

“The twins and I are going to head outside,” Willy said to Armel. Out on the steps, he turned to the twins and said, “Did you two notice the matron and Armel?”

“Oh, yeah,” they chuckled in unison, and Odd continued. “But Raja... I mean, she has that bruise, but what a woman!”

“Easy,” Willy said. “Don’t get too excited, Odd. She doesn’t like young guys like you. Her sister might...”

“Calm down, you two. Not a peep about this when Raja gets here. Go over the other side of the house and wait there until I come get you. Otherwise you’ll just be in the way. Go.”

A few minutes later, Raja emerged, and she didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t quite look him in the eyes and didn’t want to talk about what had happened.

It took a while to get her to talk about what had happened, but Willy refused to give up—he had to get to the bottom of this.

“Have you been eating chili peppers, brother?” Gustav said when Willy and his troupe marched into the warehouse. Willy’s face was red, his eyes screamed murder.

“No,” Willy said. “But I have a bone to pick with someone. He needs to be put in his place.”

“Oh, right! No, no, I remember. He’s the thief. They had brought him in for questioning, but they had to let him go since there were no witnesses of the goods being stolen.”

“That’s right. Raja was in for questioning as well, but she didn’t reveal much.”

“She didn’t specify where in Sweden. She’d told them it was in a bay somewhere, and that was enough.”

“You bet. She’s down at Ebenezer, mauled almost beyond recognition. You should’ve seen her,” Willy exaggerated. That was a storytelling habit of his.

“I’d rather not. Will she be alright? I hope it’s not a life-or-death situation.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m this close to ripping off her dirt bag of a husband’s head.”

“Not if I kill him in self-defence,” Willy said, regretting that he hadn’t pulled his sword and chopped his head off when he had the chance. “He pulled a knife on me.”

“Exactly. He doesn’t speak a word of Norwegian, and still he pulled a knife on me when I met him in town, less than 15 minutes ago.”

“No cursing!” Gustav pointed a finger at Willy in warning. He didn’t like swearing.

Gustav laughed. “It’s fine if it’s by order of the king. Besides, it’s only the Swedes and other scum.”

“Of course, that’s fine. We have to defend our country... Our freedom, our independence, our values...”

“Did I hear that right? Our independence?” Willy laughed. “From the Danish king?”

“Fair point, but enough about that. Perhaps you’d like to introduce your friends?”

Willy took the opportunity to present the group of men and recount their long story from start to finish. He talked about the schooner Joséphine, the battle in Kristiansand and the reason he’d left, the injuries Armel had suffered, and the meeting with the hesitant owner of The Avenger of Wrath, Carsten Tank, who might be in touch with Gustav if he decided to hire them—and so on, and so forth. The whole thing.

“Right,” Gustav said with a pleased nod, “So, then the big question...” He left the unfinished sentence hanging in the air, as he shot challenging looks at Willy, the twins, and Armel one by one.

“What was Raja holding back when she was watching her mouth at the hearing?”

“That they were in Sweden... Oh, I’ve got it! She said they were in Strömstad. To me, that is. Not to the people interrogating her...”

“So, what do we do?” Gustav asked, gesturing with his hand in an attempt to put the words in Willy’s mouth.

“That’s right,” Gustav nodded with a smile. “You have a real shot at getting revenge on Maxim.”

“Oh, how brilliant!” Armel chimed in. He’d stood there in shamefaced, weary silence until then, more or less ready to drop from exhaustion. But this was brilliant!

The gangway was in place and the ferry was moored. Willy glanced over to the other side of Svinesund, towards the coach station on the Norwegian side of the small fjord. He mainly looked at the steep cliffside in the background that they’d just ridden down. His heart had been in his mouth the whole way because he wasn’t used to riding horseback. There were no horses on Lauer, and it wasn’t until this year that Gustav taught him to ride the horses at the fortress. Now they rode along on the cavalry’s horses. They were high up on the two beasts, but they were beautiful and sweet animals. Willy was grateful that his horse was obedient and calm as he guided it across the gangway. Once they were safely on the pier, the Lauer brothers mounted their horses once again and continued across the dirt road that snaked its way up the forest-clad hillside. The landscape eventually flattened into fields and meadows, and Willy grew more confident. Soon after, the horses were galloping along, and they continued like that most of the way to Strömstad. The brothers headed towards Skeppsbron, where Raja and her family had likely been when the stolen goods had swapped hands. The merchants were packing up their goods and preparing to head home for the night. The Lauer brothers fetched their horses some food and water, then began talking to people. It didn’t take them long to find someone who could help.

“I remember them,” an elderly lady with a headscarf said, as she patted her clay pipe. “One of them—a guy in his twenties, I reckon, who had a big scar on his cheek—was walking around with a sack full of silver. I don’t think anyone wanted to buy from him. Not up here, at least. He might have had better luck at Surbrunn. Last time I saw him, it seemed like that’s where he was headed.”

“Thank you, Madam,” Gustav said and bowed. “It looks like we’re on the right track.”

“Let’s ask the three of them.” Gustav pointed towards a group of people who were talking on the pier next to a moored two-mast ship.

As they walked over to them, one of the people turned around to look at them. “Could I interest the gentlemen in a bit of fun tonight?”

“What do you mean?” Gustav asked, just as he spotted a group of voluptuous women, smiling at them from a ship named The Sea Lion. One of them even blew him a kiss.

“A trip in the archipelago with our lovely girls. I can get you a good deal...”

Willy nodded. “A thief who was here a couple of weeks ago, with a bagful of silver.”

A bald head with bushy eyebrows and a pair of round, light blue eyes looked up at them from behind a desk. “Gentlemen, how may I help you?”

“Good evening,” Gustav said and bowed deeply. “My name is Gustav Lauer, and this is my brother, Willy. We’re here in connection with a robbery.”

“No, no. We haven’t been robbed. It’s about the priest of Hvaler Church. We’ve been told that you were the one who arrested the thief, a vagabond by the name of Maxim. We don’t know his last name.”

“Ah, that’ll be Maxim Romanov. Yeah, he had his whole pack of scoundrels with him. They were all lying through their teeth, especially his wife. She fought tooth and nail to defend him. You should’ve heard her. Anyway. The priest, you said?”

“More or less, but that’s already in Bailiff Christian Jeppesen’s notes in Fredrikstad. He’s the one investigating the robbery.”

“I see. We have the silver right here, and if we get a written request from the bailiff, we’ll extradite that to him. It’s a shame that things have ended up like this. There’s nothing we can do about it, but this animosity between our countries is most unfortunate. That said, I’ll do what I can to put an end to this robbery case as soon as possible.”

“Great,” Gustav said. “Could we get that in writing? Just so we have something to show the bailiff?”

A couple of horses crossed the flat banks of the Glomma River. The riders traversed as quickly as they could, their horse’s manes whipping against their faces as they went. Their sweat steamed up the cold autumn air, while the air coming out of their noses created white clouds in front of their faces. The town of Fredrikstad slowly came into view. The morning sun was gleaming in the thin ice of the moat, making the grass on the ramparts and roofs glow. They crossed the wooden bridge over the moat and the clack of the hooves bounced between the ramparts and the walls. The two entered through the tower gate and continued along the cobbled streets of the town until they slowed down near the armoury. They climbed off their horses and left them with the stable keepers.

“That we do,” the stable boy said, pointing over his shoulder to a coach and two horses. “He’s just leaving. Just follow Terje, he’s picking him up.”

“Yeah, in the last minute,” Willy said. He realised his back was stiff, not to mention his bottom was sore from the final gallop into town. He struggled to walk, but thankfully Terje the coachman happened to notice.

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” Willy said, as Gustav helped him into the coach. It wasn’t long until they’d reached His Majesty’s Bailiff Christian Jeppesen’s residence, and soon after, the bailiff himself appeared with a walking stick. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn when Willy met him on Lauer.

“Here comes Napoleon,” Willy whispered to Gustav before he stood to attention in the coach, while Gustav rushed to the other side of the street.

“Good morning, Christian,” Willy chirped with a wide smile on his face. “It seems we made it just in time.”

“Apologies,” Gustav said. “We didn’t mean to arrive like this, it just happened...”

Just then, Willy jumped down from the coach and extended his hand. “I’m Willy Lauer, in case you’ve forgotten our meeting at the Castle...”

“It’s in the safe hands of the sheriff,” Gustav said. He then produced a letter from his inner pocket, which he promptly handed to the bailiff. “And here’s a letter for you, in which he describes the thief...”

The first snow had come to Hvaler, leaving everything covered with a layer of white. Two inches of snow had accumulated on the tops of the tall pine trees, on the walls surrounding the church, in the graveyard, and on the graves. It glowed in the dark, winter night. People were happy and relaxed. On this particular Sunday, however, Ulf didn’t feel like mingling with the group of people outside the church. He was sad and heavy-hearted. As the years went on, he felt older and lonelier. Especially during this time of year, when most people stayed indoors and struggled to keep out the cold. Out on Lauer, Ulf was saving as much of the kindling as he could for January and February, when the cold would be at its worst. The older he got, the more the cold began to bother him. His body was starting to grow stiff and his joints had taken to aching. Moving was painful, and both rowing and mending nets—the tasks that allowed him to make a living—were becoming increasingly difficult for him to manage. Various everyday activities were being neglected. God knows how this will end, he thought to himself.

He’d been a widow for seven years and the worst of his grief had settled. All the same, he missed Bodil. He often thought back to some of the happy times they’d had, when there was life at the Castle. The house had been clean and tidy at all times with fresh flowers on the dining table. Now, it looked like a pigsty. There were cobwebs in the corners, a thick layer of dusts on the benches and tables, and a selection of dead flies on the windowsills. The place was messy, and he couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. He didn’t have the energy, and as time went on, things got even worse. It didn’t help that Gustav had moved out four years ago, or that he hadn’t seen Willy in weeks.

“Right, I’d better get home and make some coffee,” Ulf mumbled as he started down the graveyard path, the snow squeaking under his feet as he went on his way. He spotted a widow making the sign of the cross by the grave of her late son, Lukas Jensen. Her name was Maja Jensen, and Ulf had known the man she’d been married to. Alf was a fisherman who had died at the age of 50. He didn’t know how old Maja was, but he assumed she was in her late 40s or early 50s—a little younger than himself. She looked good—great, even—for her age, and the last of her children had flown the nest. These days, Maja was living on Herføl by herself in a small, weathered house that wasn’t much better off than his own on Lauer. At least the widow looked well.

“Yes. God knows where Willy is, I haven’t seen him in a while. Young people, you know. You can’t make them stay.”

“No, I know that all too well. You must be quite lonely, Ulf. May I call you Ulf?”

“I feel so devastated,” Willy sighed as he slumped down on the bench. That was the last nail in the coffin. So much had gone wrong over the autumn. The fight in Kristiansand. Armel losing his job and struggling to find another one because he was so old and fragile. The twins and Willy hadn’t succeeded in finding a steady job either; they just picked up the occasional task here and there to get by. Maxim had disappeared into thin air after having threatened Willy with his knife, and that bothered him more than anything else. He’d finally gotten an order for his arrest and a way to get his revenge for what he had done to Raja, and now the thief was nowhere to be found. He was a thorn in Willy’s side! Who was Maxim allied with? The Devil? One of the Devil’s many demons? No, he should’ve drawn his sword and chopped off the scoundrel’s arm when he had the chance. If he had, then Maxim would be rotting with the other prisoners at the fortress by now, wasting away in his cold, damp cell. He’d have gotten what he deserved and he might even have the mark of the thief on his forehead. Luckily, Willy had Raja by his side. She’d been released from Ebenezer two weeks ago and recovered incredibly well. Her bruises were almost completely healed, and in Maxim’s absence, she and Willy had become close friends. They were like two peas in a pod, and Raja had gotten to know all his friends. She’d even started training with Gustav and the others at the fortress, surprising them by being an excellent shot. She could aim just as well as the rest of them, but she refused to reveal where she’d learnt to shoot. All she offered was a mysterious smile.

Raja pulled him closer. “Don’t be sad, Willy. Just wait and see, it’ll all work out.”

They had just been to see the shipowner, but he had given them the cold shoulder. ‘You need to stop marching into this house without invitation,’ Tank had said in a curt tone. What he said next had crushed Willy completely. ‘I don’t need more people. I don’t need first mates with broken arms or other incompetent staff. Do you understand me, young man?’

“Did you hear what he said? ‘Incompetent staff’. He doesn’t think we’re fit to be privateers, the arrogant bastard. He thinks he’s so much better than the rest of us, all because he has money to his name... Why didn’t he just say that earlier? He could’ve told me that in the autumn. At least then I wouldn’t have wasted time waiting around... But now, he’s gone and crushed my dreams, Raja.”

“It doesn’t matter how you twist it, Willy. No matter what, you’re moving into grey territory and it can be hard to tell where the line between right and wrong is.”

“Not at all. You’re just too fixated on becoming a privateer to see the other possibilities, my friend.”

“You’re right,” Willy acknowledged. The solution had been right in front of him this whole time. In the aftermath of confiscating the fleet and the British bombing of Copenhagen, not to mention the blockade that prevented goods from coming in and out of the country, smuggling had become more and more lucrative. Especially here, near the Swedish border. Raja and her family had already spotted and seized the opportunity. Her brothers had been frequenting towns and beaches lately, and the oars on their rowboat were ready to give up any moment. They’d even rowed to Christiania to sell their smuggled goods.

“Of course. We get robbed from time to time, you know. We could use someone to defend us. You’re perfect for the job with your sword and gun, my strong friend.” Raja touched his muscular arm, and Willy straightened up with pride. The painful thoughts spurred by the shipowner’s condescending words evaporated like dew in the morning sun. He had his eyes set on a new goal.

They had come to Strömstad to shop for goods to sell in Norway. Willy steered the boat into the dock at Surbrunn, where the ship, The Sea Lion, was moored. Raja was standing at the front of the rowboat, eager to jump onto solid ground, while Willy was at the oars, admiring the beautiful view. She was wearing a white headscarf with red flowers, tied in a knot behind her head, leaving most of her hair visible. Two voluminous plaits hung over her shoulders. Her dark hair had an enchanting effect on Willy, just like everything else about her. Her eyes. The way she looked at him. The electric warmth in her gaze. The sensual way she spoke, her Danish sprinkled with something foreign that he couldn’t quite place. Something about it felt adventurous.

“Do you see what I see?” Raja asked, as she jumped out of the boat and climbed onto the dock. She nodded towards the moored pleasure craft that appeared to be abandoned for the season.

The ship was decorated with a selection of ornaments and brightly coloured carvings. There was a beautiful polished brass lantern on the transom, and on each side, there were two bronze salute cannons, both polished. The two swivel guns looked like they’d be good for sharpshooting.

“The Sea Lion,” Raja continued, reading the name on the ship. There was a gorgeous coat of arms with a picture of a sea lion under the name. The Sea Lion. The name could probably be attributed to the Lion Spring at Surbrunn, where all the rich people went to drink their healing water. She knew that they weren’t far from the spring. She also knew what the ship was usually used for.

Raja peeped through the colourful leaded glass windows. She could just about make out the outline of the luxurious décor, just as gorgeous as the furniture she’d seen in Shipowner Tank’s office. Dark, glossy wood. Polished brass. Persian rugs. Bedspreads of red silk or maybe velvet. It was a lavish pleasure craft by all measures.

On his way home from Strömstad to Fredrikshald, Willy felt a pang of guilt. He’d been so busy over the autumn that he’d forgotten all about his old man, who was sitting alone on the desolate island of Lauer. What if he’d gotten ill or something had happened to him? Worst case, he could’ve been dead in his bed for days without anybody realising. Willy pushed away the thought of all the bad things that could’ve happened. My dad is doing just fine without me, he thought. But it’d be nice to show him that he was finally earning money. He’d earned far more smuggling than he’d ever earned with his odd jobs. He was proud of this new bread and butter, primarily because there was something almost pirate-like about being a smuggler. At least there was the way he was doing it. Raja had bought him a red headscarf in Strömstad, which he bore around his head. He kept his gun and his sword in the belt around his waist. He’d even acquired a new pair of boots.

An hour later, they moored the boat at the dock on Lauer, and Willy half-ran up to the small house. He could tell that something was different but didn’t think too much about it. Everything just seemed tidier. The house hadn’t been painted, but the flaky painting had been scraped away. There was even new putty on the windows.

“Dad! Dad! I’ve found a job,” Willy said and threw the door to the Castle open with Raja at his heels. He stopped dead in his tracks. Two surprised sets of eyes looked up at him, or rather at them, from the kitchen. His father and the mother of Lukas Jensen, the young fisherman who’d drowned, were sitting there, drinking coffee.

“Congratulations, my dear son,” Ulf said proudly. “You’re a captain...” That had been the dream last time Willy had visited his father almost two months ago. Back then, Ulf had mocked his son’s unrealistic dream of becoming a captain of that ship he was always talking about. The Avenger of Wrath, or whatever it was called... The ship belonging to the honourable Carsten Tank in Fredrikshald, who was one of the richest, most powerful people in the country. What an honour.

“A smuggler,” Willy corrected before he could stop himself. His hand flew up to his mouth. The reactions in the room confirmed just how inappropriate it was the moment he said it. Lukas’ mother’s jaw dropped, and Ulf Lauer gestured so violently, he spilled coffee all over the table.

“Sh! Don’t say that out loud, someone could be hiding behind the curtains.” He shot a worried look around, as if he was actually expecting someone to be watching them. Silence had fallen before he continued. “Who is this?”

Ulf bowed and smiled. “Hello, Raja. My name is Ulf, and this is the new Queen of the Castle, Maja Lauer.”

Willy was speechless. Did he hear that right? Had his father just introduced Maja Jensen as Maja Lauer?

“No, but... I don’t know. Obviously not. You could’ve at least discussed it with me and Gustav before you went through with it. Is that too much to ask?”

“I wasn’t going to row all the way into Fredrikshald... Honestly,” Ulf said with frustration. “Have you asked for permission to spend time with this Raja? You should. I’m your dad.” His father’s voice was serious.

The relationship between the neighbouring countries of Sweden and Norway had reached an all-time low. The situation certainly didn’t improve after the Russians invaded Swedish Finland on February 21^st. Rock bottom was reached on March 14^th when a declaration of war, signed by Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark, was delivered to Stockholm. The Crown Prince lost his father the very next day—some claimed that the ailing King Christian VII died of a stroke, horrified by the news that the war had begun. So, the Dano-Norwegian kingdom had acquired a new king, along with a hostile neighbour who had to be pressured into leaving their alliance with Britain. The Swedish were surrounded by enemies to the east, the south, and the west. They had about 20,000 men to defend their lengthy borders—in a war with two battlefronts! Although the Dano-Norwegians were 36,000 strong, they had a lot of coastline to defend against the British. But the Swedish king, Gustav IV, had more on his mind than just defending the borders. He wanted to use the opportunity to fulfil an old dream of his: to conquer Norway. However, that was easier said than done, so he had come up with a disingenuous plan. During an attack on Strömstad, the Norwegian forces would be lured south and split up as much as possible. Once that was done, the Swedish would advance further along the northern border. On April 30^th, the Swedish defended themselves against a Dano-Norwegian attack on Strömstad, but a month later, they lost a battle for the Hvaler islands. In spite of the defeat, the Swedish retained their dominion over the sea and they felt safe from the fragile Dano-Norwegian maritime force. While battles continued to erupt along the northern border, the brigade at Strömstad was nice and comfortable. They made good use of the town’s numerous facilities, including the voluptuous ladies on The Sea Lion, who were always prepared to offer a good time. The excellent service onboard was a definite bonus. The pleasure craft made it possible to go fishing near the Koster islands, eat good food, drink delicious champagne and cognac, and smoke Cuban cigars. It was the perfect place to watch the sun set on the sea.

At three o’clock on the night between June 5^th and 6^th, something happened that would shake the Swedish brigade at Strömstad to its very core. A soundless figure snuck across the dark dock to which The Sea Lion was moored. The figure climbed onboard and stayed for a couple of minutes, only to disappear as suddenly as they had appeared.

It was a bright and beautiful summer evening. A light, sunset breeze caressed the skin of the well-dressed people on board The Sea Lion, which was anchored near North Koster, a Swedish island on the Norwegian border. The seagulls circled overhead and contributed their hoarse screams. A seal was lounging on a tidal island, relaxing in the mild breeze. The sky was a canvas of breath-taking pastels, and the glowing, red sun rolled across the surface of the water to the west. It was a perfect summer evening for a party out at sea, and the Swedish officers knew how to make the absolute most of their circumstances. A string quartet consisting of two violins, a viola, and a cello played Bach’s ‘Air’ on the stern of the ship, while the party-goers occupied the main deck. Their laughter and cheery voices, not to mention the soft notes played by the string players, could be heard from afar. There was nothing to suggest that there was a war going on, or that other people were being shot somewhere else at that exact moment. The war was the last thing on the minds of the fancily dressed, gallant officers and their selected women in beautiful gowns. Tonight was all about enjoying the finer things in life.

A baritone voice drowned out all the others. “Have you heard about the man who—”. The rest of his words were barely distinguishable, but they were met with harmonious laughter of women’s and men’s voices.

“Right, let’s have a drinking song, folks. Chime in. I’ll fathom the bowl, I’ll fathom the bowl...”

“Yes, cheers to you, Chief Lieutenant Fröjdenstjärna and the lovely miss Bettan. And the beautiful Miss Lisa. And Frida, of course. Wonderful Frida. Let’s all raise our glasses.”

The guest raised his glass and the bottle and shouted, “Chime in! Time for ‘The Little Frogs’!”

The string quartet immediately started playing the cheerful march and before too long, the well-dressed party-goers were running around deck like frogs, making fun of the frog-eaters. They laughed and sang with one another:

“The little frogs, the little frogs are funny to observe.

The little frogs, the little frogs are funny to observe.

No ears, no ears, no tails do they possess.

Quack ack ack, quack ack ack.

Quack ack ack ack kaa.

Quack ack ack ack kaa...”

Sometime later, the party crossed into its next stage.

“Cheers, my dears! Is anyone still awake?” Hiccough. “Bettan! Bettan!” Hiccough. “Please don’t sleep! Guys...” Hiccough. “Fetch me some water... You’re so kind.” Hiccough.

The Avenger of Wrath was moored at Fredrikshald and was almost ready to go on a new raid. It had become quite a well-equipped privateer vessel with two cannons and three swivel guns, along with a crew of 40 men who were armed to the teeth. Hand grenades, swords, guns, and muskets—everything a soldier could possibly want. The shipowners, Carsten Tank and Poul Resen Broch, hadn’t been frugal. Week after week, and month after month, they had poured money into the project. However, their investment had yet to yield any returns, in spite of the fact that the ship had already been on multiple raids. The thought of the mounting expenses was a concerning one indeed. It was expensive to keep a ship and a permanent crew, so they had to do something to get to the root of the problem. Was it bad luck or a reluctant crew? After having asked around for some time, they unearthed the issue. The crew was unhappy. They thought the shipowners were greedy—for the food served onboard and for their share of any potential profits. They didn’t want to risk their lives and limbs to make the greedy shipowners even richer. Tank and Broch had taken this concern seriously and decided to do something about it. The crew was promised a higher cut and their provisions would be improved. On top of that, they would have a party with a selection of surprises before they embarked on their next raid. In the aftermath of this promise, the ship was loaded with all the necessities to allow the crew to survive for weeks out at sea. Both shipowners were present to oversee the loading and were impeccably dressed. Tank carried a black top hat, a red coat with glossy brass buttons, white trousers, and black boots. Broch was wearing a light summer suit and brown shoes. Broch’s bookkeeper was clad in a black suit with matching black shoes. The three noblemen stood by the gangway and talked.

“Now, this will be a party to remember.” The bookkeeper nodded towards a couple of men who were rolling barrels of beer across the deck. He could sense the merry atmosphere onboard; the crew was ready to party and they were excited to see these surprises that Tank had promised them. The bookkeeper had a good idea of what these surprises were, seeing as he was the one in charge of the expenses. Aside from the freshly baked goods that were on their way, the party would culminate in a ceremonious horn concert on the dock and a salute from the cannons on deck. Curious spectators, not to mention the families and friends of the crewmen, had already begun to show up.

“Look,” the bookkeeper said, pointing at a ship that was approaching the harbour. It was a two-mast dogger with good wind in its sails. A vessel that the majority of them recognised—a pleasure craft for the wealthy, known for its expensive food and delicate beverages, not to mention its poker, music, and dance. And of course, its other entertainment.

Tank’s jaw dropped. “The Sea Lion,” he said, his eyes wide. “What’s that doing here?” He hadn’t booked the ship, and he gazed inquisitively at Broch, who just scratched his neck and exchanged confused looks with Tank and the bookkeeper.

“Look, boys. There’s the surprise!” one of the sailors shouted gleefully, and the rest of the crew started waving. “Hurray!” they cheered. This would indeed be a party to remember.

“What’s this supposed to mean? Who’s been talking?” Raja asked on the main deck. The spark in her dark eyes was fixed on Willy. He put a spar in place at the top of the main mast.

“This was supposed to be a secret operation,” she hissed. “We have a traitor in our midst.”

Armel was at the wheel, having the time of his life. He was in a wonderful mood. “My conscience is clear, mademoiselle,” he assured her with a smile.

“Yup,” the twins said in unison. The short redheads were dangling their legs off the bulwark.

“Great,” Raja said and rolled her eyes. “In that case, maybe someone’s being spying on us.”

“Does it matter?” Armel chuckled. “This is a welcome fit for the gods. Smile and be happy.”

The cheering sailors waved at them from the other ship and there was a sea of people on the dock, including a horn ensemble. The military marching band from Fredriksten Fortress was there, wearing their neat uniforms and marching along with drums and cymbals. They stopped next to the shipowners with their backs straight. What a lavish reception.

“Oh God, Willy,” Shipowner Carsten Tank exclaimed in horror. “What is this nonsense?”

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