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.

“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.

“You’ve been in the city?”

“It’s a good place,” Sharpe said, “but with very fat churches. You’d best pray God isn’t tempted to take sides, Captain, because there are a terrible number of Danes battering His eardrums.” He grinned at Jens. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Jens, not surprisingly, looked bewildered.

“You were with the Danes?” the Captain asked.

“They were only militia,” Sharpe said, “but there was a company of proper troops on the next hill. No artillery though.” He emerged onto the hill top which was horrid with bodies. Welsh bandsmen tended the Danish wounded while a few miserable prisoners stood among the thinning smoke. “Would you know where Sir David is?” Sharpe asked the Captain.

“He’s at brigade, I think. Over there.” He pointed beyond the ditch. “Last I saw of him he was by some glasshouses.”

“Are you coming, Jens?” Sharpe asked, and he sounded a lot more cheerful than he felt. For it was time to face the music.

And time to confess that he had failed.

CHAPTER 7

Sharpe walked Jens away from the carnage. Once beyond the ditch and out of sight of the two redcoat battalions Sharpe pointed back toward the city. “Get into that lower ground”—he showed Jens how to sneak round the side of the fusiliers—”and then just keep walking.”

Jens frowned. “You are not American?”

“I’m not.”

Jens seemed reluctant to go. “Did you know what would happen back there?”

“No. But it wasn’t hard to guess, was it? They’re real soldiers, lad. Trained to it.” Sharpe took the remaining pistol from his belt. “You know Ulfedt’s Plads?”

“Of course.”

“There’s a man called Skovgaard there. Give this gun to him. Now hurry, before the British capture the rest of the gardens. Keep in those lower trees and then go straight to the gate. Understand?”

“You’re English?”

“I’m English.” Sharpe pushed the unprimed gun into Jens’s hand. “And thank you for saving my life. Now go on. Hurry.”

Jens gave Sharpe a bewildered glance then ran. Sharpe watched until the Dane was safely hidden among the trees, then slung his greatcoat over his shoulder and walked on. Failed, he thought. Failed utterly.

He climbed a low hill. The newly dug ditch where the fusiliers had fired their volleys had evidently been the beginning of a new Danish outwork that had been captured before they could throw up walls or mount guns, and now red-coated engineers were standing on the hill’s summit from where they trained telescopes on the city walls. They were obviously considering the hill as a place for a battery. The sea could be seen to the south, while on the hill’s northern side, in a gully, a gardener was carefully carrying plants into a greenhouse. Beyond the gully the land rose to a low ridge where a group of mounted British officers watched another battalion advance into the woodlands. Thick smoke smeared the eastern air. The Danes, retreating from the suburbs closer to the city, had set some houses on fire, presumably so that the British could not use them as advance positions. Farther north, out of sight, there was some heavy artillery at work, for the air was being punched by the percussive blasts and the sky was streaked and silting with smoke.

Major General Sir David Baird had a musket wound on his left hand and another rivulet of blood where a ball had grazed his neck, but he was feeling ebullient. He had led a brigade into the gardens, ejected some Danish regulars, massacred some brave idiots from the militia and now watched as his men secured the southern ground that would finally isolate Copenhagen from the rest of Zealand. Captain Gordon, his aide and nephew, had been wasting his breath by chiding the General for exposing himself to unnecessary danger, but Baird was enjoying himself. He would have liked to keep the advance going, right through the western suburbs, across the lakes and into the city itself. “We could have the fleet by nightfall,” he claimed.

Lord Pumphrey, the civilian aide from the Foreign Office, looked alarmed at the General’s bellicosity, but Captain Gordon did his best to restrain Sir David. “I doubt Lord Cathcart would want a premature assault, sir,” the aide observed.

“That’s because Cathcart’s a bloody old woman,” Baird grumbled. Cathcart was the General in command of the army. “A bloody old woman,” Baird said again, then frowned at Lord Pumphrey who was trying to draw his attention. “What is it?” he growled, then saw where his lordship was pointing. A Rifle officer was coming up the path from the greenhouse.

“It’s Lieutenant Sharpe, Sir David,” Pumphrey said.

“Good God.” Baird stared at Sharpe. “Good God. Gordon? Deal with him.” The General, not wanting to be associated with failure, spurred his horse farther along the ridge.

Gordon dismounted and, accompanied by Lord Pumphrey, walked to meet Sharpe. “So you escaped the city?” Gordon greeted him.

“I’m here, sir,” Sharpe said.

Gordon heard the bitterness. He led Sharpe toward the back of the greenhouse where the General’s orderly had a fire going and a kettle boiling. “We heard about Lavisser,” he said gently. “We read the Berlingske Tidende.”

“He implied you were an assassin,” Lord Pumphrey said with a shudder. “So very distressing for you. We sent a letter to His Royal Highness denying the allegation, of course we did.”

“It’s all very distressing,” Gordon said, “and I’m very sorry you became involved, Sharpe. But how were we to know?”

“You don’t know any of it,” Sharpe said angrily.

“We don’t?” Gordon asked mildly. He paused to organize some cups of tea. “What we learned the day after you left England, Lieutenant”—Gordon turned back to Sharpe—”is that Captain Lavisser, as well as being in debt, faced a prosecution for breach of promise. A woman, of course. She claims the marriage date was settled. One suspects she is also pregnant. He was doubtless eager to flee the country, but was rather clever to persuade the Treasury to fund his escape.”