A young lieutenant in the blue uniform of the Danish militia arrived on horseback. He was the son of a wheelwright in Sandbjerg and the only shots he had ever heard fired had been volleys of musketry emptied in the sand dunes as the militia practiced. “If you are going to fight them,” the pastor said, “then perhaps you should go down onto the beach. Otherwise, Christian, take off your jacket so they don’t realize you are a soldier. How is your mother?”

“She’s still coughing. And sometimes there is blood.”

“Keep her warm this coming winter.”

“We will, we will.” The Lieutenant stripped off his uniform jacket.

No one spoke as the first few launches neared the shore. The sailors at the oars had long pigtails showing under their tarred hats and their passengers were all in red uniforms and had big black shakos that made them seem very tall. One man was holding a flag, but because there was so little wind the banner just hung limply. The launches seemed to be racing each other for the honor of being first ashore. They heaved in the small waves close to the beach, then the first keel scraped on sand and the red-coated men were leaping over the side. “Form them up, Sergeant!”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“You’re not a bloody sailor, Sergeant. A plain yes will do.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

More boats grounded. The soldiers came out fast and the sailors were already pushing the launches off the beach, turning and rowing them back to the transport ships. A lieutenant colonel in a black bicorne hat walked up the beach. He was accompanied by a major and four captains. The villagers moved politely aside as the Lieutenant Colonel pointed to a small hill a half-mile inland. “Three companies to picket that high ground, John. I’ll send the first battery ashore to reinforce you. Colin, your men will stay here in case anyone disputes us.”

Colin, one of the captains, looked at the villagers. “They seem well disposed, sir.”

“Keep them that way. Make sure the men behave.”

The Lieutenant Colonel turned to watch for the boat carrying his horse. The pastor approached him. “May I ask why you are here?” the pastor inquired in good English.

“Good morning!” The Lieutenant Colonel touched the tasseled tip of his bicorne hat. “A nice one, eh?”

“Do you mean us harm?” the pastor asked nervously.

“Nicolson!” the Lieutenant Colonel shouted at a surprised private standing in the front rank of a company drawn up on the beach. “Shoulder your piece! Aim at the sky! Cock! Fire!”

Nicolson obediently pointed his musket at a wisp of cloud and pulled the trigger. The flint fell on an empty pan. “Not loaded, Father,” the Lieutenant Colonel told the pastor. “We ain’t here to kill decent folk, not on a nice morning. Come to stretch our legs.” He smiled at the pastor. “This your village?”

“I am pastor here, yes.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have soldiery as company all day, so keep the kitchen fires hot, Father, because the rogues like their tea. And if any man gives you any trouble, any trouble at all, just see an officer and we’ll have the bastard hanged. Good day.” He touched his hat again and walked back down the beach to where his horse was being coaxed ashore. The beast had been afloat for over two weeks and it staggered as though it was drunk when it reached the sand. The Lieutenant Colonel’s orderly led it up and down for a while, then held it still while his master mounted. “Inland!” the Colonel called.

The first three companies marched inland, going to the high ground. More boats were landing now. A battery of field guns was being manhandled ashore and more horses were taking their first unsteady steps. One horse, sprightlier than the rest, escaped its handler and trotted up the beach where it stopped, apparently surprised by the spectators. A gunner ran after it and seized its bridle. He winked at some girls standing just paces away. They giggled.

Two companies of soldiers in green jackets landed closer to the village and that prompted many of the inhabitants to hurry back in case their houses were being plundered, though when they reached the main street they just discovered the green-jacketed men standing guard on their front doors. An officer was striding up the sandy street. “This is all private property,” he was shouting, “and General Cathcart has given orders that any man who steals anything, I do not care how small or valueless a thing it is, will be hanged. Are you hearing this? You will be hanged! You will dance in the air! So keep your hands to yourselves! You will show respect to all civilians! Rifleman! You, the tall fellow! What’s your name?” He knew all the men in his own company, but the tall man was from another.

The rifleman, well over six feet tall, feigned astonishment that he should be singled out. “Me, sir? I’m Pat Harper, sir, from Donegal.”

“What’s in that sack?”

Rifleman Harper turned an innocent expression on a sack that was lying against a cottage wall a few feet behind him. “Never seen it before in my life, Captain Dunnett, sir. Must have been left by one of the villagers, sir.”

Dunnett looked suspicious, but accepted the explanation. “You will stand guard here,” he told the men, “until we are relieved. If you apprehend any man trying to thieve anything you will arrest him and bring him to me so that we can have the pleasure of hanging him.”

Captain Dunnett walked on down the street, repeating the orders. Another rifleman looked at Harper. “What’s in the sack, Pat?”

“Three pullets, Cooper, and they’re dead and they’re also mine, and if you lay your thieving hands on them I’ll stuff their feathers down your gullet until you start shitting angels’ wings.” Rifleman Harper smiled.

“Where did you find them?”

“Where I looked for them, of course.”

“D’you see that girl?” a man called Harris said. They all turned to stare at a young woman with hair like fine-spun gold who was walking up the street. She knew she was being admired so lifted her head high and swung her hips as she strutted before the riflemen. “I think they shot me,” Harris said, “and I’ve gone to heaven.”

“We’re going to like it here, boys,” Harper said, “so long as they don’t hang us.”

“Ten to one you’ll be hanged, Harper.” It was Captain Murray, Harper’s company commander, who had appeared beside the house and now peered inside the sack.

“It’s not mine, Mister Murray,” Harper said, “whatever it is. And I wouldn’t tell you a lie, sir.”

“Perish the thought, Harper, perish the very thought, but I’ll still expect a cold leg of what’s not yours.”

Harper grinned. “Very good, sir.”

Three battalions were on the beach now. The first field guns, hitched to their horses, were going inland to the high ground and still more ships were ghosting in the light wind from the north. No shots had been fired and no one had offered any resistance. The first generals were ashore and their aides laid maps on the sand while a squadron of the 1st Light Dragoons led their unsteady horses into the village where a pump fed a long watering trough.

“Hey, missus!” A rifleman accosted a woman who just looked at him fearfully. “Tea?” the man said, displaying a handful of loose leaves. “You can boil water?”

Her husband, who had sailed aboard a Baltic trader that had made several voyages to Leith and Newcastle, understood. “Firewood costs money,” he grumbled.

“Here.” The rifleman offered a copper. “It’s good coin that! English money, none of your foreign rubbish. Tea, eh?”

So the riflemen had their tea, the high ground was secured and the British army was ashore.