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 had 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 the 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.