LITMIR.BIZ

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told the purpose of our journey?’

      ‘I’m to keep you alive, sir, that’s all I know.’

      ‘For which I shall be eternally grateful. But our purpose, Sharpe, is to carry gold to the Danes. Forty-three thousand guineas! We travel rich, eh?’ Lavisser hauled open the carriage door, motioned his men to bring the chest of gold, then noticed the carriage’s last passenger, the pale civilian in the silver coat. Lavisser looked astonished. ‘God, Pumps! Are you here?’

      Pumps, if that was his real name, merely fluttered his fingers again, then shifted his elegantly booted feet as the gold was manhandled onto the carriage floor. An escort of twenty dragoons took their places ahead of the carriage, then Sir David Baird came back and complained that the chest took up all the coach’s leg room. ‘I suppose we’ll have to endure it,’ he grumbled, then rapped on the coach’s roof to signal that the journey could begin.

      The General’s mood improved as the coach jolted through the soot-grimed orchards and vegetable fields about Hackney where a fitful sun chased shadows over woods and low hills. ‘You know Lord Pumphrey?’ Baird asked Lavisser, indicating the frail young man who still seemed to be asleep.

      ‘William and I were at Eton together,’ Lavisser answered.

      Pumphrey opened his eyes, peered at Lavisser as though surprised to see him, shuddered and closed his eyes again.

      ‘You and I should have been to Eton,’ Baird said to Sharpe. ‘We’d have learned useful things, like which side of the pot to piss in. Did you have breakfast, Lavisser?’

      ‘The Lieutenant of the Tower was very hospitable, thank you, sir.’

      ‘They like guardsmen in the Tower,’ Baird said, implying that real soldiers would not be so welcome. ‘Captain Lavisser’ – he spoke to Sharpe now – ‘is an aide to the Duke of York. I told you that, didn’t I? But did I tell you how useless His Royal Highness is? Bloody man thinks he’s a soldier. He buggered up his campaign in Holland in ’99 and now he’s Commander in Chief. That’s what happens to you, Sharpe, when you’re the King’s son. Fortunately’ – Baird, who was plainly enjoying himself, turned to Lavisser – ‘fortunately for you royal camp-followers the army has still got one or two real soldiers. Lieutenant Sharpe is one of them. He’s a rifleman in case you don’t recognize that bloodstained green rag, and he’s a thug.’

      Lavisser, who had taken no offence as his master was insulted, looked puzzled. ‘He’s a what, sir?’

      ‘You weren’t in India, were you?’ Sir David asked, making the question sound like an accusation. ‘A thug, Lavisser, is a killer; a brute, conscienceless and efficient killer. I’m a thug, Lavisser, and so is Mister Sharpe. You are not, and nor are you, Gordon.’

      ‘I nightly give thanks to the Almighty for that providence,’ Baird’s aide said happily.

      ‘Sharpe’s a good thug,’ Baird said. ‘He came up from the ranks and you don’t do that by being delicate. Tell ’em what you did in Seringapatam, Sharpe.’

      ‘Must I, sir?’

      ‘Yes,’ Baird insisted, so Sharpe told the story as briefly as he could. Lavisser listened politely, but Lord Pumphrey, whose presence was still a mystery to Sharpe, opened his eyes and paid very close attention, so close that he unsettled Sharpe. His lordship said nothing, however, when the lame tale was done.

      Lavisser spoke instead. ‘You impress me, Mister Sharpe,’ he said fulsomely, ‘you impress me mightily.’ Sharpe did not know what to say, so gazed out of the window at a small wheatfield that looked rain-beaten. Beyond the damp wheat stood a haystack, reminding him that Grace had died between haymaking and the harvest a year before. He felt a lump in his throat. God damn it, he thought, God damn it, would it never go? He could see her in his mind’s eye, see her sitting on the terrace with her hands on her swollen belly, laughing at some poor jest. Oh, Christ, he thought, but let it pass.

      He became aware that Sir David Baird was now talking about Copenhagen. The Danish King, it seemed, was mad, and the country was ruled instead by the Crown Prince. ‘Is it true you know him?’ Baird demanded of Lavisser.

      ‘The Crown Prince knows me, sir,’ Lavisser said carefully. ‘My grandfather is one of his chamberlains, so I have that introduction. And my master, the Duke, is his first cousin.’

      ‘That will be enough?’

      ‘More than enough,’ Lavisser said firmly. Lord Pumphrey took a watch from his pocket, fumbled with the catch, consulted it and yawned.

      ‘Boring you, my lord?’ Baird growled.

      ‘I am forever entertained by your company, Sir David,’ Lord Pumphrey said in a very high-pitched voice. He pronounced each word very distinctly, which imbued the statement with an odd authority. ‘I am enthralled by you,’ he added, tucking the watch away and closing his eyes.

      ‘Bloody fool,’ Sir David muttered, then looked at Sharpe. ‘We’re talking about the Danish fleet,’ he explained. ‘It’s a damn great fleet that’s holed up in Copenhagen and doing bugger all. Just mouldering away. But the Frogs would like to get their damned hands on it and replace the ships we took from them at Trafalgar. So they’re thinking of invading little Denmark and stealing their ships.’

      ‘And if the French do invade,’ Lavisser smoothly continued the General’s explanation, ‘then they will dominate the entrance to the Baltic and so cut off Britain’s trade. Denmark is neutral, of course, but such circumstances have hardly deterred Bonaparte in the past.’

      ‘It’s the Danish fleet he’s after,’ Baird insisted, ‘because the bloody man will use it to invade Britain. So we have to stop him stealing it.’

      ‘How do you do that, sir?’ Sharpe asked.

      Baird grinned greedily. ‘By stealing it first, of course. The Foreign Office have a fellow over there trying to persuade the Danish government to send their ships to British ports, but they’re saying no. Captain Lavisser is going to change their minds.’

      ‘You can do that?’ Sharpe asked him.

      Lavisser shrugged. ‘I intend to bribe the Crown Prince, Sharpe.’ He patted the wooden chest. ‘We are carrying Danegeld, and we shall dazzle His Majesty with glitter and befuddle him with treasure.’

      Lord Pumphrey groaned. Everyone ignored him as Baird took up the explanation. ‘Captain Lavisser’s going to bribe the Crown Prince, Sharpe, and if the Frogs catch wind of what he’s doing they’ll do their best to stop him. A knife in the back will do that very effectively, so your job is to protect Lavisser.’

      Sharpe felt no qualms at such a task, indeed he rather hoped he would get a chance to tangle with some Frenchmen. ‘What happens if the Danes won’t give us the fleet, sir?’ he asked Baird.

      ‘Then we invade,’ the General said.

      ‘Denmark?’ Sharpe was astonished. The woman at the Frog Prick had suggested as much, but it still seemed surprising. Fighting Denmark? Denmark was not an enemy!

      ‘Denmark,’ Baird confirmed. ‘Our fleet’s ready and waiting in Harwich and the Danes, Sharpe, ain’t got no choice. They either put their fleet under our protection or I’ll bloody take it from them.’

      ‘You, sir?’

      ‘Lord Cathcart’s in charge,’ Baird allowed, ‘but he’s an old woman. I’ll be there, Sharpe, and God help the Danes if I am. And your friend Wellesley’ – he said the name sourly – ‘is tagging along to see if he can learn something.’

      ‘He’s no friend of mine, sir,’ Sharpe said. It was true that Wellesley had made him into an officer, but Sharpe had not seen the General since India. Nor did he relish any such meeting. Grace had been a cousin of Wellesley’s, a very distant cousin, but disapproval of her behaviour had spread into the furthest reaches of her aristocratic family.

      ‘I’m

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