“A shipwright.”
“A shipwright,” Jens agreed. “We work on a new warship, but we have left her unfinished. We do this first.”
The Captain peered through the gate, then gestured that his men should follow him. They jostled through the gate and Sharpe found himself in a wide parklike garden. Gravel paths led to groves of trees, and an elegant white summerhouse, a confection of gables, verandahs and pinnacles, stood on a small hillock. The garden looked to be a more genteel version of the Vauxhall Gardens in London. A company of regular Danish soldiers was crouching by the summerhouse, but there was no musketry sounding nearby and no sign of any British soldiers. The militia Captain, unsure what to do, ran to consult the regular officer, and his men sat on the grass. Far off to the north smoke trails whipped across the sky. Shells, Sharpe assumed. A dull explosion sounded in the distance. “Even if they take these places,” Jens said, waving his hand to show he meant the suburbs, “they will never get into the city.”
“What if they bombard it?” Sharpe asked.
Jens frowned. “You mean with guns?” He seemed shocked. “They will not do that! There are women in the city.”
The militia Captain came back, followed by two men on horseback, one a cavalry officer and the other a civilian. Sharpe stood with the others, then saw that the horsemen were Barker and Lavisser. The two men were only a few feet away and Sharpe turned his back as Lavisser began haranguing the civilian soldiers.
“We are to go forward,” Jens translated for Sharpe.
Lavisser, his sword drawn, had taken his place at the head of the militia while Barker was behind them. Sharpe pulled his brown hat down over his eyes and wished he had loaded the pistol. It was too late now, for the militia was hurrying west toward the trees. They went in a bunch and if the British had cannon there would be a massacre.
“We are to attack their side,” Jens said.
“Their flank?”
“I expect so. When it is over you can take an English gun, eh? Better than that little pistol.”
Lavisser led them into the woodland. A twisting path went downhill and Lavisser, evidently confident that no British troops were close by, spurred his horse ahead. There was plainly a battle of sorts going on just to the north for the musketry was crackling in loud bursts, but nothing was happening in this part of the gardens where the militia, confident that they were hooking around the southern flank of the British, followed Lavisser down into a gentle valley where a small stream fed an ornamental pond. Lavisser shouted at the militia, evidently ordering them into ranks. The group of sailors, all in straw hats and pigtails, set an example by forming four ranks and the two sergeants pushed the rest into crude files. Lavisser, his horse pawing great gouts from the turf, shouted excitedly. “He says the enemy is not many,” Jens translated.
“How does he know?” Sharpe wondered aloud.
“Because he is a proper officer, of course,” Jens said.
Lavisser had not looked in Sharpe’s direction and Barker was still trailing the three hundred men who now set off up the western slope where their cohesion was immediately broken by the trees. The sound of musketry was coming from Sharpe’s right, but it was sporadic now. Perhaps this makeshift half-battalion of disorganized enthusiasts really could take the approaching British on the flank, but Sharpe was relieved that he was in the rear rank and at the left-hand side, farthest from both Lavisser and the sound of battle. He was trying to load the pistol as he walked and wondering if he could somehow seize Lavisser and carry him bodily into the British lines.
Then a musket shot sounded directly ahead. The Danes were among the trees still, but there was open ground a hundred paces in front of them. Sharpe saw a drift of musket smoke at the edge of that sunlit space, then more muskets sounded. Lavisser dug in his spurs and the unwieldy mass began to run.
Sharpe ran wide to the left. He could see redcoats now, but only a handful. He guessed there was a British skirmish line at the edge of the wood, and that meant a full battalion was not far away. The Danes were shouting excitedly, then Sharpe saw a redcoat clearly and saw the man’s wing epaulettes. A light company then, so the other nine companies were close at hand, formed and ready to fire. The Danes, knowing nothing of what waited for them, only saw the British skirmishers retreating and mistook that for victory. Lavisser must have thought the same, for he was yelping as though he was on a hunting field and holding his saber ready to strike down a fugitive.
The redcoat light company fired and retreated. One man knelt, aimed and fired while his companion reloaded, then the man who had fired ran back a few paces to let his comrade cover him while reloading. A Dane was sprawling on the ground, twitching, another was leaning against a tree and staring at the blood pouring from a wound in his thigh. Others of the Danes fired their muskets as they ran, the balls going wild and high in the trees. A whistle sounded ahead, calling the skirmishers back to the British battalion’s other nine companies. Lavisser must have seen those companies, for he turned his horse so hard that its eyes went white and its hooves scrabbled in the leaf mold. He frantically shouted for his men to halt at the wood’s edge and level their muskets.
Then the British volley came.
The battalion had waited till the Danes were at the edge of the trees and then nine companies let fly. The balls splintered bark, ripped through leaves, thumped men down and hammered on musket stocks. Lavisser himself was miraculously untouched. “Fire!” he shouted in English, forgetting himself. “Fire!”
Most of the Danes ignored him. They still thought they were winning and so they ran farther into the open ground only to find there was a red line of men behind a ditch some fifty yards ahead. That line was reloading. Ramrods turned in the air and came scraping down. There were flickers of tiny flames in the grass where the British musket wadding had set fires. A red-jacketed officer, cocked hat low over his eyes, was riding straight-backed behind the line. Sharpe watched the muskets come up into the redcoats’ shoulders. The militia was at last realizing its predicament and those who still had loaded muskets aimed at the British. Others kept running, then saw they were isolated and so hesitated. Lavisser’s charge was already in chaos and the British had yet to loose their second volley.
“Platoon, fire!” Sharpe heard the British order clearly and he grabbed Jens by the shoulder and dragged him down to the ground.
“What!” Jens protested.
“Head down!” Sharpe snarled, then the first platoon fired and the next followed immediately. The noise was deafening as the dirty gray smoke rolled down the battalion’s front and the balls whacked into the disorganized militia. Sharpe pressed his face into the grass and listened to the volleys, one after the other, each spitting about fifty bullets at the bewildered Danes. It was the first time Sharpe had been on the receiving end of British musketry and he flinched under it. Jens fired his musket, but his eyes were closed as he fired and the ball went wild and high.
Jens knelt to reload, but just then another regiment of British appeared from some trees on the right and they let loose a battalion volley that sounded like the splintering of hell’s gates. One of the balls snatched the musket from Jens’s hands, shattering the stock, then the new battalion settled into the machine-like platoon fire and the Danes could only cower under the twin flails. Sharpe scrambled backward, staying low, getting out of the tangling fire of the two battalions. He looked for Barker, but the man had vanished, though Lavisser was visible enough. The renegade was galloping his horse up and down behind the ragged militia, shouting at them to close ranks and fire back at the British. He fired both his own pistols at the cloud of smoke shrouding the nearest redcoat battalion, then Sharpe saw Lavisser’s horse lurch and slew sideways as a bullet struck deep into its rump. The beast tried to stay on all fours, but more bullets flecked its glossy coat red and it sank onto its haunches as Lavisser kicked his feet free of the stirrups. Another bullet twitched the horse’s head sideways in a spray of blood. Lavisser managed to throw himself clear of
the dying beast, then dropped to the grass as a flight of bullets hissed overhead. Sharpe still slithered back, found himself in a small dip and so ran for the trees. He would take cover, wait for the fight to end, then join the redcoats.
Jens had followed Sharpe. The shipwright looked dazed. He flinched at the sound of each volley. “What happened?” he asked.
“They’re real soldiers,” Sharpe answered sourly. He saw the Danish sailors try to organize a rank that could return the British fire, but the second British battalion had marched ten paces forward and poured their platoon fire into the sailors’ flank and the seamen crouched as though they sheltered in a storm. One man fired back, but he had left his ramrod in the barrel and Sharpe saw it cartwheeling across the grass. A wounded man crawled back, trailing a shattered leg. Two battalions of red-coated regulars were giving an undisciplined group of amateurs a ruthless lesson in soldiering. They made it look easy, but Sharpe knew how many hours of practice it had taken to make them so efficient.
Then Jens shoved Sharpe sideways. “What the hell—” Sharpe began, then a pistol fired close by and the bullet smacked into a tree beside Sharpe, who turned and saw it was Barker, behind him and on horseback. Sharpe leveled his own pistol, pulled the trigger and the weapon did not fire. He had still not primed it. He threw the gun down, whipped the saber from its scabbard and ran at Barker who turned his horse and spurred down the hill. The big man ducked beneath tree branches, then suddenly sawed on the reins to turn the horse back and Sharpe saw he had a second pistol. He twisted sideways, expecting a shot, but Barker held his fire.
Sharpe crouched in some bushes. He sheathed the saber and pulled out his own second pistol. It would take time to reload because the powder horn with its dispensary was a fiddly thing, but he started anyway. Barker was not far away. Sharpe risked a quick glance and saw only the riderless horse. So Barker was stalking him on foot. Move, he told himself. Move now, because Barker knew where he was and so he thrust the powder horn into a pocket and sprinted across a clearing, dodged into trees, jumped down a steep slope and went to ground again behind a stand of laurel. He heard Barker’s footsteps above him, but he reckoned he had bought himself enough time to load the pistol. British volleys stunned the sky above him. Some shots, missing the Danes, whipped through the trees at the top of the slope.
Sharpe poured powder into the pistol, spat the bullet after, then heard the crashing feet and looked up to see Barker charging headlong down the slope. The huge man had spotted Sharpe in the laurels and wanted the confrontation over. Sharpe’s pistol was still unprimed, but Barker could not know that so Sharpe stood, aimed the weapon and smiled.
Barker took the bait, raising his own gun and firing too quickly. The ball whistled past Sharpe, who tucked the pistol under his left arm as he opened the small slide that would let a trickle of powder into the horn’s dispensary. Barker saw what he was doing and drew a sword and Sharpe, knowing he did not have time to prime the gun, let both pistol and powder horn drop. He drew his saber. “Reckon you can beat me with a blade, Barker?”
Barker whipped his sword back and forth. It was a slim weapon, one of Lavisser’s old swords, and Barker looked disgusted at the steel’s flexi-bility. He could use guns, he liked knives and was lethal with a cudgel, but the sword seemed flimsy to him. “I could never use the bloody things,” he said. Sharpe just stared at the big man, wondering if he had heard right. Barker slashed the blade at the laurels, then frowned at Sharpe. “You been in the city all along?”
“Yes.”
“He thought you’d left.”
“He didn’t look very hard,” Sharpe said, “because I wasn’t hiding.”
“He’s been busy,” Barker said. “And now you’re going back to the army?”
“Yes.”
“Then bugger off,” Barker said, jerking his head up the hill.
Sharpe, astonished, let his saber tip drop. “Come with me.”
Barker looked offended at the invitation. “I ain’t buggering off.”
“Then why aren’t you killing me?”
Barker gave a sneering look at the sword. “Not with this,” he said. “I ain’t any good with bloody swords. Never learned them, see? So you end up skewering me, don’t you? Not much sense there. But I ain’t frightened,” Barker added earnestly. “Don’t you think I’m frightened. If I sees you back in the city I’ll do you. But I’m not a bleeding gentleman. I only fights when I knows I can win.” He stepped back and jerked his head uphill again. “So bugger off, Lieutenant.”
Sharpe backed away, readying to accept the unexpected invitation, but just then a voice hailed Barker from high among the trees. It was Lavisser. Barker shot a warning look at Sharpe, then the voice called again. “Barker!”
“Down here, sir!” Barker shouted, then looked at Sharpe. “He’ll have a gun, Lieutenant.”
Sharpe stayed. He had seen Lavisser fire both his pistols and he doubted that either would be reloaded. There was a chance, he thought, a very small chance that he could hold Lavisser here until the redcoats came.
The redcoats had to come soon for up on the hill top the Danes were dying. Only the sailors had the discipline to reload, but they also had the sense to retreat. They grabbed their wounded and dragged them back to the woods and, one by one, the remaining militiamen tried to follow them. The platoon firing punched the eardrums as smoke drifted thick and foul across the bloodied grass where the tiny fires burned. One of the two Danish sergeants tried to rouse the cowering men, but he was hit in the throat. He did a pirouette, feet tangling, as blood jetted from his gullet. He continued to turn as he sank down, then he crumpled and his musket slid along the grass. Bullets were thumping into corpses, twitching them.
“Hold your fire!” a voice called.
“Cease fire!”
“Charge bayonets!”
“Skirmishers forward!”
Lavisser had found Barker’s discarded horse and rode it down the hill to see his servant facing Sharpe. The renegade looked surprised, then smiled. “What on earth are you doing here, Richard?” He sounded oddly cheerful.
“Came to get you.”
Lavisser glanced up the hill. The remnants of his force were running and the British must have been approaching the trees, but he sounded quite unworried. “Bloody militia. Redcoats are good, though. How are you, Richard?”
“Taken up dentistry, have you?” Sharpe sneered. “Failed as a bloody soldier so you draw teeth now?”
“Oh, Richard.” Lavisser sounded disappointed. “You should leave attempts at wit to the witty.”
Sharpe raised the saber as Barker stirred, but the big man was just moving to stand between Sharpe and Lavisser. “You’re not fighting for Denmark,” Sharpe said to Lavisser, “but for the Frogs.”
“Comes to the same thing, Richard,” Lavisser said cheerfully. He drew a pistol, then pulled a cartridge from a pouch. “Denmark is a little country,” Lavisser explained when he had pulled the cartridge open with his teeth, “and she was always going to be raped by either Britain or France. Britain has got her pleasure in first, but all she’ll do is drive Denmark into France’s arms, and I really can’t imagine that the Emperor will want to leave dim Frederick as Crown Prince. No, he’ll be looking for some splendid and vigorous young man to be his ruler here.” He poured powder into the barrel. Barker took a step toward Sharpe who slashed the saber to drive the servant back. “It’s all right, Barker,” Lavisser said, “I shall take care of the Lieutenant.”
“I told him he could go,” Barker said. “He’s been in the city, sir, but he’s leaving.”
Lavisser raised his eyebrows. “You are generous, Barker.” He looked at Sharpe. “I don’t really want to kill you, Richard. I rather like you. Does that surprise you? I suppose that’s not important, is it? What’s important is that Mister Skovgaard is now unguarded. Is that a safe assumption?”
“Assume what you like,” Sharpe said.
“How very obliging of you, Richard.” Lavisser rammed the
bullet home, then paused and looked reflective. “A nauseatingly dull man, our Ole. He’s the kind of fellow I really dislike. He’s so upright, so hard-working, so bloody pious. He’s an affront to me.” He lifted the frizzen to prime the gun. “Pretty daughter, though.”
Sharpe used the efficacious word. Lavisser laughed, then a shout up the hill made him turn. A skirmish line had appeared among the trees. Sharpe had been expecting it. “Down here!” he shouted. “Down here! Quick!”
A musket fired and the ball tore leaves to shreds above Lavisser. Men were coming fast and quick and Lavisser did not finish priming the pistol, but just turned the horse. “Au revoir,Richard!” he called.
The two men fled. Sharpe started to follow, then a dozen shots riddled the laurels and he crouched instead. Barker and Lavisser vanished.
Sharpe took off his greatcoat and rescued his discarded pistol. A group of redcoats came down the slope. Their coats had blue facings, Welch Fusiliers, and their muskets were tipped with bayonets that pointed toward Sharpe. Then a sergeant saw Sharpe’s uniform and pushed the nearest gun down. He was a short man, his broad face incredulous as he stared at the green jacket. “I’m not drunk, Harry, am I?” he asked a private.
“No more than ever, Sergeant.”
“Looks like a rifleman!”
Sharpe sheathed his saber. “Morning, Sergeant.”
“Sir!” The Welshman gave a twitch that was a gesture toward standing to attention. “If you don’t mind my bloody asking, sir, but what are the bloody Rifles doing here?”
“Got lost, Sergeant.”
A captain came down the slope with a group of men who held Jens prisoner. “What the devil’s happening, Sergeant Davies?”
“Got a lost rifleman, sir,” the Sergeant said.
“Lieutenant Sharpe,” Sharpe said, “reporting for duty, sir. You wouldn’t know where Sir David Baird is, would you?”
“Sir David?”
“He’s expecting me,” Sharpe lied. “And that fellow’s with me.” He gestured at Jens. “We’ve been making a reconnaissance in the city. Nice morning, isn’t it?” He began climbing the hill and the Captain followed him.
Bernard Cornwell Box Set: Sharpe's Triumph , Sharpe's Tiger , Sharpe's Fortress Page 52