“From your new friends, the French.”

“I shall stay here in the warehouse. And so will Astrid. Aksel and his men will be sufficient, I think.” Skovgaard listened to the distant gunfire for a few seconds. “Aksel is an officer now,” he went on, “and your presence is an embarrassment to him.”

“I wonder why,” Sharpe said, thinking of Astrid.

Skovgaard must have known what Sharpe was thinking, for he blushed slightly. “Aksel is a good Dane,” he said hotly, “and you are an enemy, Mister Sharpe.”

“Enemy?” Sharpe pulled on his shirt. “I spent the last two afternoons playing tipcat with children in an orphanage. Is that what an enemy does?”

Skovgaard frowned. “You are English and Aksel is right. You put me in a difficult position. You may keep the two pistols, but I insist you leave.”

“And if I don’t?”

For a moment Skovgaard looked angry, then he bowed his head as though he was thinking. “I have lost much in my life, Lieutenant.” He spoke surprisingly softly, still looking at the ground. “My wife, my son, my son-in-law and my grandson. God has punished me. I have pursued worldly goals, Lieutenant”—he looked up at Sharpe now—”preferring success to His will. Your country has rewarded me greatly in return for my help. That is how I could buy the house in Vester Fuelled, but it is the fruit of sin. I am sorry, Lieutenant, but to me you represent evil. Your country’s desires, its actions, its ambitions, they are all wrong.”

“You think the French—”

“I think the French are as bad if not worse,” Skovgaard anticipated Sharpe’s words, “but it is my soul I must worry about. I shall put my faith in God, where it should have been all these months. This is a godly family, Lieutenant, it always has been, and you, I think, are not godly. I see… “ Skovgaard hesitated and frowned, then nerved himself to go on. “I see my daughter’s interest in you. That does not surprise me, for you resemble Nils, but you cannot be good for her.”

“I—” Sharpe tried to speak.

“No!” Skovgaard again interrupted. “Tell me, Lieutenant, are you saved in Christ Jesus?”

Sharpe stared at Skovgaard’s thin face, then sighed. “No.”

“Then you will leave us, for this is a godly house and your presence disturbs us.”

“You think God will protect you from Lavisser?”

“He can do whatever He wishes, Lieutenant. He will hold us against all the world’s evils if it is His will.”

“Then you’d better pray, Mister Skovgaard, you’d better bloody pray.”

There was nothing to be done. Sharpe changed into his uniform which he covered with his greatcoat. He put the telescope into one pocket, the guineas into another, belted the saber about his waist and thrust the good pistols into the belt, then went down to the kitchen where Astrid had just served Aksel Bang with a dish of barley porridge. “So you leave us, I hear?” Bang said happily.

“Isn’t that what you wanted, Aksel?”

“We can manage without the English,” Bang said cheerfully.

“You will have breakfast, Lieutenant?” Astrid asked Sharpe.

“I just came to say goodbye.”

“I shall come to the gate with you.” She took off her apron and, ignoring Bang who watched her like a dog eyeing a bone, led Sharpe into the yard. Sharpe had thought she meant she would see him to the warehouse’s back gate which opened onto Skindergade, but she must have meant one of the city gates for she walked into the street with him.

“You shouldn’t be out here on your own,” Sharpe told her, for once she had said goodbye she would have to return to her father’s house unescorted.

“No one is looking for me this morning,” she said dismissively. “Everyone is watching the British.” She led him past the cathedral, which lay close to the warehouse. “I am sorry you are going.”

“So am I.”

“And the children will miss their American friend.” She smiled. “You like children?”

“So long as they’re properly cooked. Can’t bear them cold.”

“You are a horrible man, Lieutenant.”

“Richard.”

“You are a horrible man, Richard.” She put her arm into his elbow. “How will you get through the city gates?”

“I’ll find a way.”

They stopped close to the Nørre Gate. The ramparts above the tunnel were crowded with folk staring westward. Musketry still crackled in the city suburbs and every now and then a bigger gun hammered. A constant stream of militiamen was going through the gate and Sharpe reckoned he would lose himself among that crowd. Yet he did not want to go. He looked down at Astrid. “Be careful,” he told her.

“We are a careful nation,” she said with a smile. “When it is over… “ She stopped.

“I shall come and look for you.”

She nodded. “I’d like that.” She held out a hand. “I am sorry it is like this. My father? He has not been happy since Mother died. And Aksel?” She shrugged as if she could find no explanation for Bang.

Sharpe ignored her hand. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek instead. “I’ll see you soon.”

She nodded again, then abruptly turned and hurried away. Sharpe stared after her, and to anyone watching it must have just seemed like another man saying farewell to his woman. She turned when she was twenty paces away and saw him gazing at her and he knew she did not want him to go, but what choice was there? He walked to the gate where his weapons made him look like any other militiaman. He turned a last time to look for Astrid, but she was gone. The crowd jostled him on and he emerged from the gate’s tunnel to see a dirty cloud above the roofs and trees of the western suburbs. It was powder smoke.

He stopped outside and stared back through the tunnel, hoping for one last glimpse of Astrid. He was confused. He was in love with a woman he did not know, except he knew her loyalty was to the enemy. Yet Denmark did not feel like an enemy, though it was. And he was a soldier still, and soldiers, he reckoned, fought for those who could not fight for themselves, and that meant he should be fighting for Astrid’s folk and not his own. But that was too great a wrench to contemplate. So he was simply confused.

A sergeant grabbed Sharpe’s elbow and shoved him toward a growing band of men who were being hurriedly assembled close to the moat-like lake. Sharpe let himself be pushed. An officer was standing on a low wall and haranguing around three hundred men, most of them confused militiamen though there was a core of sailors armed with heavy sea-service muskets. Sharpe did not understand a word, but from the officer’s tone and from the man’s gestures he gathered that the British were threatening some place to the southwest and this makeshift half-battalion was being asked to throw the invaders out. A roar of approval rewarded whatever the officer had said, then the whole group, Sharpe among them, streamed across the causeway. Sharpe made no effort to leave the group. He had no choice but to rejoin the British army and every step took him closer.

The officer led them across the moat, past a cemetery, a church, a hospital and then through streets of new houses. The sound of musketry grew louder. Bigger guns hammered to the north, clouding the sky with powder smoke. The officer stopped beside a high brick wall and waited as his ragtag followers gathered around him, then he spoke urgently, and whatever he said must have roused the men for they gave a growl of agreement. A man turned to Sharpe and asked him a question. “American,” Sharpe said.

“You’re American?”

“Sailor.”

“You are welcome I think. You know what the Captain said?”

“No.”

“The English are in the garden”—the man nodded toward the wall—“but there are not many of them and we shall throw them out. We are making a new battery here. You have fought before, perhaps?”

“Yes,” Sharpe said.

“Then I sall stay with you.” The man smiled. “I am Jens.”

“Richard,” Sharpe introduced himself. He took out one of the pistols and pretended to check its priming. The weapon was unloaded and he had no intention of charging it. “What do you do?” he asked Jens, who was a pleasant-faced, fair-haired young man with a snub nose and lively eyes.