He hauled on the ledge with his hands and scrabbled with his boots to find some purchase on the tiled hearth. He slipped a couple of times, then managed to push and pull his way up through the chimney’s throat. The air stank, but this first bit was easy enough and he clambered onto the ledge and knelt there while he groped up again and felt the flue becoming narrower. The house was only a couple of years old but that had been long enough to leave a thick deposit of soot that crumbled under his fingers and fell into his hair and eyes. His mouth was full of it. He tried to spit, but half choked instead. He could hear the flakes of soot and clinker rattling down into the hearth. Suppose Skovgaard was still downstairs? Suppose someone lit a fire? Common sense told him that was unlikely, but the fear would not go away.
He tried to stand, but the chimney bellied in at the sides and at first he could not squeeze past the bulging bricks so he twisted sideways and tried again. He managed to force his way up into the black hole, but the masonry inside the chimney was crudely pointed and his clothes kept snagging on mortar. He heaved the first two times it happened and heard his coat rip, but then the fabric was caught again and he knew the shaft could only get narrower and so he dropped back to his knees, twisted around and fell back into the fireplace. He crawled into the room where he gasped for breath and pawed soot from his eyes.
If it were to be done, he thought, then it would have to be done naked. He stripped, then nerved himself and went back into the hearth. He climbed onto the ledge, twisted sideways and stood up. It was easier now, though the rough brickwork gouged and scraped his skin. The flue was so narrow that the masonry scraped against his shoulder blades and chest. It was like being buried alive, he thought. Every time he breathed he could feel the eddy of air on the bricks in front of his eyes and smell the rank fumes of old soot. He could see nothing, but the constriction of the chimney pressed black and filthy like the cold walls of a tomb. He shivered. The flue was barely wide enough from front to back, but it was a few inches wider than his shoulders and he used that space to push himself up. He could scarcely bend his legs. Each time he wanted to move he had to lift a foot a few inches to find a rough ledge in the chimney’s pointing, then shove himself up. He hooked his fingers into the small spaces between the brick courses, scrabbling through the thick deposit of soot that cascaded thick onto his face. He tried to breathe through his nose, but soot clogged it and he was forced to half choke through his dry mouth. He could not look up because the chimney was too narrow for him to tilt his head back and so he reached up, desperate to find the place where another flue joined this shaft.
Inch by inch he climbed. He slipped once and only stopped himself sliding back to the ledge by ramming his shoulder into the wall. He scraped his foot down the flue, seeking any purchase, and found a space where the pointing had come out of the brickwork. He shoved himself another inch, then another, but the chimney’s sides were narrowing. He had his arms above his head, but the sides of the shaft were touching his shoulders now and he had to fight for every inch. His eyes stung even though he kept them closed. His throat was dry, the soot was sour in his gullet and the stench made him want to retch. He lifted his left foot two inches, all he could manage, and found a rough piece of masonry. He put his weight on it and the mortar broke away, clattering down to the hearth below. He held on with his hands, found another tiny ledge and shoved himself up. The hair on the back of his head brushed against bricks and he sensed the shaft was narrowing even more and he felt a terrible despair because he would be blocked, maybe even stuck, but then, quite suddenly, his right hand groped in nothingness. He flailed for a heartbeat, then discovered that the bricks above him sloped steeply away and he knew he had come to the place where two flues joined. All he had to do now was wriggle up, then drop down into the second flue and pray it was as wide as the first. He found a foothold, then pushed and slid and wriggled until there was just empty black space in front of his face. He paused, stretching out his hand to explore the mound of bricks where the flues joined and felt a fierce elation. He would damn well do it! He hooked his hands over the breastwork, hauled himself up, twisted so his belly would slide over the mound and then rammed his head painfully against bricks.
The flues joined to make a chamber that was wide, but very low, and the chimney leading up to the roof was much too narrow to climb. He could feel a draft from that upper chimney, though he could still see nothing. He forced his eyes open even though they stung terribly, but through the tears he could see no glimmer of moonlight from the upper chimney and no light from the second flue. He groped in the dark. He had reckoned on climbing above the join and lowering himself into the second flue, but there was not enough space in the chamber. How the hell did they clean their chimneys here? Maybe small boys just scoured the lower flues and brushes were used from the roof to clean the higher shafts, for even the smallest child could not climb into that narrow upper chimney and Sharpe knew he could not clamber over the breastwork for there was scarce a foot of space above it. Which meant he would have to slither over it and dive head-first into the second flue.
Every breath was a mix of air and soot. He was desperate for clean air, for water. He sneezed, then went very still, fearing that someone would have heard him. He was making enough noise anyway, for every movement dislodged great chunks of soot that rattled down to the hearths below. But he heard nothing. Presumably father and daughter had gone to their rooms and the servants were either in the attics or the basement.
He forced himself over the breastwork, sliding on his belly while the bricks above scraped on his back. He could feel down into the second flue now, but suddenly he was stuck fast. He could bend his upper body over the joint in the shafts, but his legs would not follow. He tried to find handholds to jerk himself forward, but the mortar pointing just broke off in his fingers. He could not move his legs at all. He jerked and pushed himself from side to side, achieving nothing. He even tried to push himself back, desperate to free himself from the black grip of the shallow chamber, but he was stuck, jammed like a stick in the bend of a pipe.
So turn over, he told himself. Turn over so that his legs would bend at the knee and let him slide on his back into the second flue. He tried and there was just enough space to half twist himself, but then he jammed again. Yet it was the only way. He would die here otherwise, smothered by soot. He swore under his breath, then twisted again and this time he forced his hip against the brick above him and, when it stuck, he twisted again, using his weight to grind his hips round. Bricks and mortar cut into him. He could feel blood trickling down the lacerated skin, but he gritted his teeth and lurched again and again, each time gaining a fraction of an inch and cutting deeper into his flesh. Then suddenly he had made it, he had turned, and he was lying on his back with his belly up to the top chimney and he could let his head fall so that he was slanting down into the second flue. He slid down, and the weight of his head and chest pulled on his hips as the blood ran warm down his belly. He reached down with his hands, found a ragged joint in the bricks and pulled and then he was half falling, half twisting and his legs could at last bend over the flue’s mounded joint.
He was falling, but he rammed his hands and spine against the bricks. He tore his palms, ripping skin and flesh away, but he checked his fall. He was going head-first down the second flue now, and it was much easier than climbing. All he had to do was use his bloodied hands to brake himself and so he let himself drop inch by inch until he came to the chimney’s throat and then there was no way of stopping himself, so he just let go.
He fell into an empty hearth. The air felt cool and wonderful. He curled up, feeling the soot flake down on him, and just shuddered for a few seconds. He had thought he would die up there. He remembered the grip of the brickwork, the black shroud all about him and he wanted to stay curled up. “Grace.” He said her name aloud as though her spirit could come and give him strength. “Grace.” He did not believe she was gone forever. It seemed to him that she hovered about him, a guardian angel
.
He crawled out of the hearth to find he was in Skovgaard’s study. A very faint moonlight showed through the higher windows. The lower ones were shuttered. He crossed the room, flinching from the pain in his hips, and lifted the locking bar from one pair of shutters. The shutters were heavy, so heavy he realized they were made of iron. Skovgaard, he thought, was a very cautious man. The window served as a door to the garden and he unbolted it, then flinched as the hinges squealed. The cool night air felt wonderful.
There was just enough moonlight for him to see his pack, coat, hat and saber still on the chair in the study. His uniform was inside the pack and he reckoned he would have to wear the green jacket, for the key to the small dining room had been taken away and he did not see how he could get back into the room where he had left his torn clothes without waking the whole household. He would lose the guineas he had stolen on board the Cleopatra and he would have to manage without boots, but that was better than being Lavisser’s victim. The thing to do, he told himself, was get the hell away from this place, but before he dressed he wanted to wash the filth off his lacerated skin. He walked into the garden and saw a great rain butt under a downspout. He lifted off the lid to find it almost full of water and so he climbed inside, lowering himself gently, for the water was cold and the sound of it spilling over the edge would be too loud if he just dropped.
He ducked under, rubbing his skin, his hair and the bleeding cuts on his hips. He gulped down the water, then just crouched in the huge barrel. He had to get away, he knew that, but then what? He supposed he had no option but to wait for the British army to arrive and then crawl back to Sir David Baird as a failure.
He climbed out of the water and, dripping, went back into the study. He opened his pack and took out a dirty shirt and his rifleman’s uniform. It might not be sensible to wear such a uniform this close to Copenhagen, but he could cover it with his greatcoat. He pulled on the black trousers, buttoned the green jacket, then tied the red sash and the saber belt about his waist. A soldier again, and it felt good. It felt truly good. God damn it, he thought, but he would make Lavisser pay.
Except he could see no way of getting revenge on the guardsman. For the moment he just had to escape, but he reckoned there was time to search Skovgaard’s study for anything useful. He went to the side table where the Dane kept his pipes and struck a light with the tinderbox. He lit two candles, then crouched by the leather-topped desk.
The seven drawers were locked, but the poker from the hearth made a stout crowbar that easily shattered the first lock. It splintered noisily and Sharpe froze, waiting for evidence that the sound had woken someone. He heard nothing, so levered the other drawers open and brought the candles closer.
Six of the drawers held nothing but papers, but in the seventh he found his folding knife and the pistol which Skovgaard had used to threaten him. The gun was one of a pair and they were beautifully balanced weapons with long barrels chased with silver. He thought at first they were dueling pistols, but when he probed one barrel he found it was rifled. This was no aristocratic toy, but a killing machine; expensive and deadly. He opened a frizzen and saw the gun was primed. He drew out the ramrod and slid it down both barrels to check the pistols were loaded, then looked in the drawer for more ammunition, which he found in a tooled leather box that held a silver powder flask and a dozen spare bullets. The spout of the powder flask had a measuring chamber to ensure that the pistols were charged with exactly the right amount of powder. He put the flask and bullets into a pocket, then thrust the two pistols into his belt. “Thank you, Skovgaard,” he said under his breath.
He pulled on the coat and hat. There was little left in the pack that he needed so he just put the twenty-two guineas, the sewing kit and his telescope into his coat pockets and left the pack where it was. A sudden noise made him turn in alarm, but it was only the clock on the mantel whirring itself ready to strike midnight.
He blew out the candles and went back into the garden. He closed the shutters and glass doors then crossed a terrace of flagstones and went down a grassy slope. There were a dozen other houses in view, but all were a good distance away and all of them dark. A brick wall enclosed Skovgaard’s garden, but there was a gate next to the stables which he guessed led to an alley. He turned and looked back to see a single light gleaming soft behind louvred shutters. For some reason he decided that must be Astrid’s room and he had a sudden vision of her high pale forehead, golden hair and bright eyes. He felt guilty then, thinking of Grace.
Go, he told himself. Go west into the country, steal some boots and wait for the British forces to come. He did not want to do that, for it would mean slinking back to Sir David Baird with his tail between his legs, but what choice was there? Then he heard the small scuffling sound.
A cat? He crouched. Not a cat, for he could hear footsteps. Someone was prowling about the house and trying to make as little noise as possible. A servant, perhaps, checking that the house was secure? Some servants plainly lived in the carriage house by the stables and maybe, as a final duty, one of them patroled Skovgaard’s house. Yet the steps sounded like more than one man, none of them carried a lantern and they were moving with a deliberate stealth. Sharpe moved to the dark shadow of a bush and waited. The quarter moon was misted and half hidden behind some tall pines, yet it cast just enough light for Sharpe to see six dark shapes appear at the side of the house. They came slowly, edging past the rain butt where one of them inadvertently kicked the butt’s wooden lid which Sharpe had left on the path and all six went very still. They waited for what seemed a long time, then one of them tried the back door, found it locked and moved on to the study’s tall windows. There they discovered the unlocked glass door and the unbarred shutters. They paused, suspecting a trap, but then, after a whispered consultation, they all went inside. Sharpe had seen no faces, but the size of one man had suggested Barker and the height of another might have been Lavisser. Yet why would Lavisser come like a thief in the night? He had an invitation. He could wait till morning. Sharpe could make no sense of it, so he just stayed where he was. He heard the muffled squeal of the study door opening. The men would discover his escape soon enough and then they would presumably leave. He doubted they would search the garden, but would probably look for him on the nearby roads so he reckoned he was safe in his hiding place. It would not be a long wait, he told himself, then he saw a glimmer of light in an upstairs window. It flickered briefly, then faded as though someone was carrying a candle down a passage.
Go now, he thought, while they were upstairs, but then he heard the scream. It was brief, a woman’s voice, cut off as soon as it sounded. More lights showed in the upstairs windows. A man shouted peremptorily and Sharpe just listened in astonishment. They had not come for him, but for Skovgaard! Then it could not be Lavisser, but who? The Danes themselves? But why come in the night? And men who came in the night implied harm, which meant Skovgaard would need help, and Sharpe needed Skovgaard if he was not to fail utterly and so he abandoned his resolve to flee westward and instead moved toward the house, throwing off his greatcoat because it hampered him. He paused briefly at the study window, but could hear nothing beyond the shutters and so he stepped through. The room was dark, but a faint light showed at the door to the hall.
He crossed the room, wincing whenever a board squeaked beneath the rugs. The hall was empty and the light was coming from the upper landing where he could hear voices raised in anger. They spoke Danish and he had no idea what was being said. He crossed the hall to the parlor where Astrid had been playing the harpsichord. It was pitch black inside, but he flattened himself beside the door and listened.
It sounded as though the whole household, including the servants, was being herded down the stairs. Then someone kicked the parlor door wide open to let in a wash of yellow lamplight, but blessedly no one came inside and Sharpe had time to move behind a screen printed with windmills and ducks. He accidentally kicked a flower-painted chamber pot, but no one heard because of the rack
et outside. He waited again.
Then he heard Lavisser’s voice. He was sure it was Lavisser, but he was not speaking Danish or English. French? Sharpe was almost certain it was French. He was giving orders and a moment later a lamp was brought into the parlor and Sharpe heard footsteps. There was a mirror between the shuttered windows and in its reflection he could see two maidservants, both in nightgowns and caps, being pushed into the room. The elderly manservant followed, then Astrid entered and, behind her, a man with a pistol. Lavisser spoke to him in French.
“You want me in there, sir?” a voice asked in English. It was Barker.
“No. Get Sharpe,” Lavisser answered and then, still using English, he spoke to Astrid. “You will not be hurt, I promise.”
“But my father!” Astrid sounded distraught, and no wonder. She was in a long nightdress and her blond hair fell loose on her shoulders. “I want to be with my father!”
“Your father has become rich by fighting France,” a voice replied. It was not Lavisser who spoke, but a woman. Another mystery on a night gone askew. “And your father should have known the consequences of such foolishness,” the woman finished. She had an accent. French?
The door closed. Astrid sat on the harpsichord bench, weeping, as the Frenchman waved the three terrified servants toward the sofa. Sharpe should have been visible to him in the mirror, but the rifleman was in deep shadow and the Frenchman suspected nothing. He did not even look behind the screen, but just leaned against the closed door with his pistol held low. He yawned. What did he have to fear? Three women and an elderly man?
Sharpe pulled one pistol from his belt. So Lavisser worked with the French? The idea was repugnant, but it made sense. The enemy must have their agents in London and how better to snare fools than to find them playing cards at Almack’s and the other rich gaming clubs? And they had snared a choice one in Lavisser, but if Lavisser was now planning on killing Skovgaard then Sharpe did not have much time. He wrapped the pistol in the hem of his jacket to muffle the distinctive sound of the flint being cocked. He had been out of his depth ever since he had arrived in Denmark, enduring insult, religion and imprisonment, but now he knew what he was doing. He was back where he belonged and he was smiling as he stepped out from behind the screen.
Bernard Cornwell Box Set: Sharpe's Triumph , Sharpe's Tiger , Sharpe's Fortress Page 47