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 fire into the sailor’s 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 flexibility. 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.”

Sharne stayed. He had seen Lavisser fire both his pistols and he doubted either one 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 a cartidge 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.”