Sharpe #05 - Sharpe's Prey by Bernard Cornwell

Author:Bernard Cornwell [Cornwell, Bernard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Fiction
ISBN: 9780007235155
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-12-07T13:00:00+00:00

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 redcoated 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.

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