Sharpe's Prey

  Sharpe’s Prey

  Richard Sharpe and the

  Expedition to Copenhagen, 1807

  Bernard Cornwell

  Content

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Historical Note

  Dedication

  For Jarl, Gerda, Bo, and Christine

  Chapter 1

  Captain Henry Willsen of His Majesty’s Dirty Half Hundred, more formally the 50th Regiment of West Kent, parried his opponent’s saber. He did it hurriedly. His right hand was low so that his saber’s blade was raised in the position known to the fencing masters as the quarte basse and the knowledgeable spectators thought the parry was feeble. A surprised murmur sounded, for Willsen was good. Very good. He had been attacking, but it was apparent he had been slow to see his taller opponent’s counter and now he was in disorganized retreat. The taller man pressed, swatting the quarte basse aside and lunging so that Willsen skittered backward, his slippers squeaking with a staccato judder on the wooden floor which was liberally scattered with French chalk. The very sound of the slippers on the chalked wood denoted panic. The sabers clashed harshly again, the taller man stamped forward, his blade flickering, clanging, reaching, and Willsen was countering in apparent desperation until, so fast that those watching could scarce follow his blade’s quick movement, he stepped to one side and riposted at his opponent’s cheek. There seemed little power in the riposte, for its force all came from Willsen’s wrist rather than from his full arm, but the saber’s edge still struck the taller man with such might that he lost his balance. He swayed, right arm flailing, and Willsen gently touched his weapon’s point to his opponent’s chest so that he toppled to the floor.

  “God’s teeth.” The fallen man swept his blade at Willsen’s ankles in a fit of pique. The blow was easily blocked and Willsen just walked away.

  “I said enough, my lord!” the Master-at-Arms shouted angrily.

  “How the devil did you do that, Willsen?” Lord Marsden pulled off the padded leather helmet with its wire visor that had protected his face. “I had you on your damned ass!”

  Willsen, who had planned the whole passage of the fight from the moment he made a deliberately soft quarte basse, bowed. “Perhaps I was just fortunate, my lord?”

  “Don’t patronize me, man,” Lord Marsden snapped as he climbed to his feet. “What was it?”

  “Your disengagement from the sixte was slow, my lord.”

  “The devil it was,” Lord Marsden growled. He was proud of his ability with foil or saber, yet he knew Willsen had bested him easily by feigning a squeaking retreat. His lordship scowled, then realized he was being ungracious and so, tucking the saber under his arm, held out a hand. “You’re quick, Willsen, damned quick.”

  The handful of spectators applauded the show of sportsmanship. They were in Horace Jackson’s Hall of Arms, an establishment on London’s Jermyn Street

  where wealthy men could learn the arts of pugilism, fencing and pistol shooting. The hall was a high bare room lined with racks of swords and sabers, smelling of tobacco and liniment, and decorated with prints of prize fighters, mastiffs and racehorses. The only women in the place served drinks and food, or else worked in the small rooms above the hall where the beds were soft and the prices high.

  Willsen pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his long fair hair. He bowed to his beaten opponent, then carried both sabers to the weapon rack at the side of the hall where a tall, very thin and extraordinarily handsome captain in the red coat and blue facings of the 1st Regiment of Foot Guards was waiting. The guardsman, a stranger to Willsen, tossed away a half-smoked cigar as Willsen approached. “You fooled him,” the Captain said cheerfully.

  Willsen frowned at the stranger’s impertinence, but he answered politely enough. Willsen, after all, was an employee in Horace Jackson’s Hall and the Guards Captain, judging by the elegant cut of his expensive uniform, was a patron. The sort of patron, moreover, who could not wait to prove himself against the celebrated Henry Willsen. “I fooled him?” Willsen asked. “How?”

  “The quarte basse,” the guardsman said, “you made it soft, am I right?”

  Willsen was impressed at the guardsman’s acuity, but did not betray it. “Perhaps I was just fortunate?” he suggested. He was being modest, for he had the reputation of being the finest swordsman in the Dirty Half Hundred, probably in the whole army and maybe in the entire country, but he belittled his ability, just as he shrugged off those who reckoned he was the best pistol shot in Kent. A soldier, Willsen liked to say, should be a master of his arms and so he practiced assiduously and prayed that one day his skill would be useful in the service of his country. Until that time came he earned his captain’s pay and, because that was not sufficient to support a wife, child and mess bill, he taught fencing and pistol-shooting in Horace Jackson’s Hall of Arms. Jackson, an old pugilist with a mashed face, wanted Willsen to leave the army and join the establishment full-time, but Willsen liked being a soldier. It gave him a position in British society. It might not be a high place, but it was honorable.

  “There’s no such thing as luck,” the guardsman said, only now he spoke in Danish, “not when you’re fighting.”

  Willsen had been turning away, but the change of language made him look back to the golden-haired Guards Captain. His first careless impression had been one of privileged youth, but he now saw that the guardsman was probably in his early thirties and had a cynical, knowing cast to his devil-may-care good looks. This was a man, Willsen thought, who would be at home in a palace or at a prizefight. A formidable man too, and one who was of peculiar importance to Willsen, who now offered the guardsman a half-bow. “You, sir,” he said respectfully, “must be Major the Honorable John Lavisser?”

  “I’m Captain Lavisser,” Captain and Major Lavisser said. The Guards gave their officers dual ranks; the lower one denoted their responsibility in the regiment while the higher was an acknowledgment that any Guards officer was a superior being, especially when compared to an impoverished swordsman from the Dirty Half Hundred. “I’m Captain Lavisser,” the Honorable John Lavisser said again, “but you must call me John. Please.” He still spoke in Danish.

  “I thought we were not to meet till Saturday?” Willsen said, taking off his fencing slippers and pulling on boots.

  “We’re to be companions for a fair time”-Lavisser ignored Willsen’s hostility-“and it’s better, I think, that we should be friends. Besides, are you not curious about our orders?”

  “My orders are to escort you to Copenhagen and see you safe out again,” Willsen responded stiffly as he pulled on his red coat. The wool of the coat was faded and its black cuffs and facings were scuffed. He strapped on his seven-guinea sword, unhappily aware of the valuable blade that hung from Lavisser’s slings, but Willsen had long learned to curb his envy at the inequalities of life, even if he could not entirely forget them. He knew well enough that his captaincy in the Dirty Half Hundred was worth œ1,500, exactly what it cost to purchase a mere lieutenancy in the Guards, but so be it. Willsen had been taught by his Danish father and English mother to trust in God, do his duty and accept fate, and fate had now decreed he was to be the companion of a man who was the son of an earl, a guardsman, and an aide to Prince Frederick, Duke of York, who was the second son of George III and Commander in Chief of the British army.

  “But don’t you want to know why we are going to Copenhagen?” Lavisser asked.

  “I have no doubt I shall be informed at the proper
time,” Willsen said, his manner still stiff.

  Lavisser smiled and his thin, saturnine face was transformed with charm. “The proper time, Willsen, is now,” he said. “Come, at least allow me to buy you supper and reveal the mysteries of our errand.”

  In truth Captain Willsen was intrigued. He had served twelve years in the British army and had never heard a shot fired in anger. He yearned to distinguish himself and now, quite suddenly, a chance had arisen because an officer was needed to escort the Duke of York’s aide to Copenhagen. That was all Willsen knew, though his commanding officer had hinted that his facility with small arms might be a great advantage. Willsen had been worried at first, fearing that he would be fighting against his father’s people, but he had been assured that the danger in Copenhagen came from the French, not the Danes, and that assurance had permitted

  Now Lavisser was offering to explain and Willsen, who knew he had been churlish, nodded. “Of course. It will be a pleasure to dine with you, sir.”

  “My name is John,” Lavisser insisted as he led Willsen down the staircase to the street. Willsen half expected to find a carriage waiting, but it appeared Lavisser was on foot even though a small chill rain was falling. “Hard to believe it’s July,” Lavisser grumbled.

  “It will be a bad harvest,” Willsen remarked.

  “I thought we might get a bite at Almack’s,” Lavisser suggested, “and maybe play a hand afterward?”

  “I never wager,” Willsen answered, and even if he did he could never have afforded the high stakes at Almack’s.

  “How very wise you are,” Lavisser said. They were both speaking English again. “And I thought it might please you if we had a word with Hanssen before supper.”

  “Hanssen?”

  “The first secretary at the Danish embassy,” Lavisser explained. He gave his companion an earnest look. “I want to be quite certain that our activities are not prejudicial to Denmark. Hanssen’s a decent man and I’ve always found his advice very sound.”

  Willsen shared the desire to avoid upsetting Denmark and so he rather liked the idea of talking to someone from the embassy, but his innate caution came to the fore. “Are we supposed to be revealing our purposes to the Danish government?”

  “Of course we’re not and of course we shan’t.” Lavisser stopped and unleashed his dazzling smile on Willsen. “Sir David told me you expressed scruples about visiting Denmark? Is that right? Believe me, my dear Willsen, I feel the same. My mother’s family live there and I will do nothing, nothing, that places them in jeopardy.” He paused, then his voice became, if anything, even more earnest. “If you and I cannot bring Denmark and Britain into a closer friendship, my dear Willsen, then we have no business going there, none. I merely seek general reassurances from Hanssen. I want news of the political situation in Denmark. I want to know what pressures the French are applying. The French are the irritants, but aren’t they always? And of course Hanssen will want to know the purpose of our visit, but we shall merely say we are visiting families. What could be more innocent?” Lavisser smiled, walked on, and Wilsen, reassured, followed the tall guardsman across the street. A crossing sweeper, a skinny boy with a running sore on his forehead, sprinted to brush a horse dropping out of Lavisser’s path. The guardsman spun a careless sixpence toward the lad, then led Willsen down an alleyway. “Would it offend you if we visited Hanssen by his servants’ entrance?” Lavisser asked. “Only with the Baltic so tremulous you can be sure that the damned Frogs will be watching his front door.”

  “The French? In London?”

  “They have agents everywhere,” Lavisser said, “even London. But not, I think, in this alley.”

  The alley was noisome and dark. It culminated in a gate that stood ajar and led into a bleak narrow yard that was made even darker by the day’s dense clouds and the surrounding walls. The yard’s cobbles were half covered in rubbish that was being loaded onto a handcart by a tall, heavyset man who seemed surprised to see two red-coated officers invade his grubby domain. He hastily stood aside, snatched off his ragged hat and tugged his forelock as the two officers stepped gingerly through the yard’s filth.

  “Would you be averse to feminine company after supper?” Lavisser asked.

  “I’m a married man, Captain,” Willsen said severely.

  “Do call me John, please.”

  Willsen was made uncomfortable by the invitation to such familiarity. “I’ll not stay after supper,” he said awkwardly, edging past the cart.

  Henry Willsen was one of the finest swordsmen in the British army and his skill with a pistol would have been the envy of any duellist, but he had no defense against the attack which erupted as soon as he had passed the rubbish cart. The tall man kicked Willsen in the back of one knee and, as the officer fell, his assailant stabbed upward with a knife that slid between Willsen’s ribs. The blade sank to the hilt and the man held it there, supporting Willsen who was gasping suddenly as his right hand groped for the hilt of his cheap sword. He managed to take hold of the weapon, though feebly, but Captain Lavisser, who had turned when the tall man attacked, just smiled and knocked Willsen’s hand aside. “I don’t think you need that, Harry,” he said.

  “You... “ Wilson tried to speak, but his lungs were filling with blood. He began to choke and his eyes widened as he shook his head.

  “I do apologize, my dear Willsen,” Lavisser said, “but I’m afraid your presence in Copenhagen would be a most dreadful embarrassment.” The Guards officer stepped hurriedly back as the big man, who had been supporting Willsen’s weight with his knife, jerked the blade free. Willsen slumped and his attacker dropped beside him and slashed the knife across his throat. Willsen began to make choking noises as he jerked spasmodically on the cobbles. “Well done,” Lavisser said warmly.

  “Easy work,” the big man grunted. He stood, wiping the blade on his dirty coat. He was very tall, very broad in the chest and had the scarred knuckles of a pugilist. His face was pitted with pox scars, his nose had been broken and ill set at least once, and his eyes were like stones. Everything about him declared that he was from as low a gutter as could bear life and just to look at him was to be glad that the gallows stood tall outside Newgate Prison.

  “He’s still alive.” Lavisser frowned at Willsen.

  “Not for long, he ain’t,” the big man said, then stamped hard on Willsen’s chest. “Not now, he ain’t.”

  “You are an example to us all, Barker,” Lavisser said, then stepped close to the lifeless Willsen. “He was a very dull man, probably a Lutheran. You’ll take his cash? Make it look like a robbery?”

  Barker had already begun cutting the dead man’s pockets open. “You think they’ll find another bugger to go with us?” he asked.

  “They seem tediously intent on giving me company,” Lavisser said airily, “but time is short now, very short, and I doubt they’ll find anyone. But if they do, Barker, then you must deal with the new man just as you dealt with this one.” Lavisser seemed fascinated by the dead Willsen, for he could not take his eyes from him. “You are a great comfort to me, Barker, and you will like it in Denmark.”

  “I will, sir?”

  “They are a very trusting people,” Lavisser said, still unable to take his gaze from Willsen’s body. “We shall be as ravening wolves among the woolliest of baa-lambs.” He finally managed to look away from the corpse, raised a languid hand and edged past the handcart. He made bleating noises as he went down the alley.

  The rain fell harder. It was the end of July 1807, yet it felt more like March. It would be a poor harvest, there was a new widow in Kent and the Honorable John Lavisser went to Almack’s where he lost considerably more than a thousand guineas, but it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered now. He left worthless notes of hand promising to pay his debts and walked away. He was on his way to glory.

  Mister Brown and Mister Belling, the one fat and the other thin, sat side by side and stared solemnly at the green-jacketed army officer across the table. Neither Miste
r Belling nor Mister Brown liked what they saw. Their visitor-he was not exactly a client-was a tall man with black hair, a hard face and a scar on his cheek and, ominously, he looked like a man who was no stranger to scars. Mister Brown sighed and turned to stare at the rain falling on London’s Eastcheap. “It will be a bad harvest, Mister Belling,” he said heavily.

  “I fear so, Mister Brown.”

  “July!” Brown said. “July indeed! Yet it’s more like March!”

  “A fire in July!” Mister Belling said. “Unheard of!”

  The fire, a mean heap of sullen coals, burned in a blackened hearth above which hung a cavalry saber. It was the only decoration in the paneled room and hinted at the office’s military nature. Messrs Belling and Brown of Cheapside were army agents and their business was to look after the finances of officers who served abroad. They also acted as brokers for men wanting to buy or sell commissions, but this wet, chill July afternoon was bringing them no fees. “Alas!” Mister Brown spread his hands. His fingers were very white, plump and beautifully manicured. He flexed them as though he was about to play a harpsichord. “Alas,” he said again, looking at the green-jacketed officer who glowered from the opposite side of the table.

  “It is the nature of your commission,” Mister Belling explained.

  “Indeed it is,” Mister Brown intervened, “the nature, so to speak, of your commission.” He smiled ruefully.

  “It’s as good as anyone else’s commission,” the officer said belligerently.

  “Oh, better!” Mister Brown said cheerfully. “Would you not agree, Mister Belling?”

  “Far better,” Mister Belling said enthusiastically. “A battlefield commission, Mister Sharpe? ‘Pon my soul, but that’s a rare thing. Rare!”

  “An admirable thing!” Mister Brown added.

  “Most admirable,” Mister Belling agreed energetically, “a battlefield commission! Up from the ranks! Why, it’s a-“ he paused, trying to think what it was-“it’s a veritable achievement!”