Bernard Cornwell Box Set: Sharpe's Triumph , Sharpe's Tiger , Sharpe's Fortress

by Bernard Cornwell

  An elderly man, bearded and carrying a bundle of books wrapped in string, saw Sharpe gaping up at the street name. He said something in Danish and Sharpe just shrugged. “Vous êtes Français?” the man asked.

  “American,” Sharpe said. It did not seem wise to admit to being English at a time when a British fleet and army was sailing to assault Denmark.

  “American!” The old man seemed delighted. “You are lost, perhaps?”

  “I am.”

  “You seek a hostel, yes?”

  “I’m looking for a place called . . .” What the hell was it? “Elfins Platz?” he guessed. “A man called Ole Stoveguard?” He knew he had got the names wrong and sorted though his pockets for Lord Pumphrey’s scrap of paper. “Ulfedt’s Plads,” Sharpe read the unfamiliar name awkwardly. Two or three other passersby had stopped now, for it seemed that if someone was lost in Copenhagen then the citizens regarded it as their duty to offer help.

  “Ah! Ulfedt’s Plads. It is a short walk,” the old man said, “but everything in Copenhagen is a short walk. We are not like Paris or London. Have you been to those cities?”

  “No.”

  “Washington, now, is that big?”

  “Pretty big,” Sharpe said, who had no idea.

  “Do all men carry swords in America?” The old man, not content with directing him to Ulfedt’s Plads, was now walking with him.

  “Most of us,” Sharpe said.

  “We have lost the habit in Denmark,” the old man said, “except for the soldiers, of course, and a handful of our aristocracy who think it is a badge of rank.” He chuckled, then sighed. “I fear, alas, we shall all have to wear swords soon.”

  “You will? Why?”

  “We are warned that the British are coming again. I pray it isn’t so, for I remember the last time when their Lord Nelson came. Six years ago! I had a son on the Dannebroge and he lost a leg.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sharpe said awkwardly. He vaguely remembered hearing about Nelson’s attack on Copenhagen, but it had happened when he was in India and the news had not provoked much interest in the regiment.

  “It turned out for the best,” the old man went on. “Edvard is a minister now, in Randers. It is safer, I think, being a minister than a naval officer. There are Lutherans in America?”

  “Oh, yes,” Sharpe said, having no idea what a Lutheran was.

  “I am glad to hear it,” the old man said. He had led Sharpe down a narrow street that emerged into a small square. “This is Ulfedt’s Plads.” He gestured to the square. “You will be all right now?” he asked anxiously.

  Sharpe reassured and thanked the old man, then fished out the scrap of paper and read the name in the fading light. Ole Skovgaard. One side of the square was occupied by a gin distillery, another by a huge warehouse and between them were small shops: a cooperage, a wheelwright’s and a cutlery store. He walked along the shops, looking for Skovgaard’s name, then saw it painted in faded white letters high on the big warehouse wall.

  The warehouse had a high archway and, next to it, a smaller door with a polished brass knocker. The smaller door belonged to a house that was evidently attached to the warehouse for the “S” of the Skovgaard sign was painted on its bricks. Sharpe rapped the knocker. He was nervous. Lord Pumphrey had made it plain that Skovgaard was a last resort, but Sharpe did not know where else he could seek help. He knocked again, heard a window being thrown up and stepped back to see a face peering down in the gloom. “Mister Skovgaard?” he called.

  “Oh no,” the man said unhelpfully.

  “Are you Mister Skovgaard?” Sharpe asked.

  There was a pause. “You are English?” the man asked cautiously.

  “I need to see Mister Skovgaard.”

  “It is too late!” the man said disapprovingly, ignoring the lingering light in the summer sky.

  Sharpe swore under his breath. “Is Mister Skovgaard there?”

  “You will wait there, please.” The window slammed down, there were footsteps on the stairs and, a moment later, the door was laboriously unbolted and unlocked. It opened to reveal a tall and lugubrious young man with long light-brown hair and a palely anxious face. “You are English?” the man asked.

  “Are you Ole Skovgaard?”

  “Oh no! No!” The young man frowned. “I am Aksel Bang. I am Mister Skovgaard’s overseer. Is that the word? I dwell here now. Mister Skovgaard has moved to Vester Fælled.”

  “Where’s that?” Sharpe asked.

  “Vester Fælled is not far, it is not far. It is where the city is growing.” Bang frowned at the mud and hay on Sharpe’s clothes. “You are English?”

  “My name’s Sharpe. Richard Sharpe.”

  Bang ignored the introduction. “Mister Skovgaard insists the English are taken to him. It is his rule, you understand? I need a coat and then I shall take you to Vester Fælled. You will tarry here, please.” He vanished down the hallway and returned a moment later with a coat and a wide-brimmed hat. “Mister Skovgaard did dwell here,” he explained as he shut and carefully locked the door, “but he has bought a house outside the city. He went from this place a month ago. Not so long, I think, but Vester Fælled is not so far. It is where the new houses are. Not five years ago it was all meadow, now it is houses. You have just come to Copenhagen perhaps?”

  “Yes.”

  “My English is not so good,” Bang said, “but I practice. You know how I practice? By reading the Scripture in English. That is good, I think. There is an English church here, did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Is there a Danish church in London?”

  Sharpe confessed ignorance. He was becoming increasingly nervous, for he knew he looked odd. His coat was filthy and his boots were caked with mud, but it was the saber that seemed to attract most glances of disapproval, so Sharpe hitched the scabbard up into his left armpit and so hid it under his coat. He had just done that when a man lurched from an alley and startled Sharpe by trying to embrace him. Aksel Bang hurried Sharpe on. “That man is a bibber of wine,” he said disapprovingly, “a drunkard. That is bad.”

  “You’ve never been drunk?”

  “I abhor liquor. It is the devil’s drink. I have never touched a drop and with God’s help I never will. Never! We have not so many drunkards in Copenhagen, but there are some.” He looked at Sharpe earnestly. “I trust you are born again into Christ Jesus?”

  “I trust so too,” Sharpe growled, hoping that answer would deter Bang. Sharpe did not much care about his own soul at that moment, he was far more worried by the city gate that lay just ahead of them. He brushed hay off his coat and hitched the saber up again. The gate was inside the long tunnel that led through the thick walls and it was wide open, but there were men in blue uniforms standing in the light of two great lanterns suspended from the tunnel’s roof. Were they searching for Sharpe? It seemed likely, but Sharpe hoped they were only investigating the incoming traffic.

  “God so loved the world,” Aksel Bang said, “that He sent His only Son. You have surely heard that piece of Scripture?”

  The tunnel was very close now. A uniformed man with a bushy mustache and a shouldered musket came from the guardhouse, glanced at Bang and Sharpe, then struck flint on steel to light a pipe. He sucked on the flame and his eyes, reflecting the small fire, stared hard at Sharpe. “How do you say that verse in Danish?” Sharpe asked Bang.

  “The således elskede Gud Verden, at han gav sin Søm den enbårne,” Aksel Bang recited happily, “for at hver den, som tror på ham, ikke skal fortabes, men have et evigt luv.” Sharpe tried not to look at the mustached guard, hoping that the sound of Danish would mislead the sentries. The saber scabbard was high at his side, awkwardly trapped beneath his coat by his left elbow. He kept his head down, pretending to be paying close attention to Bang’s fervent words. Their footsteps echoed under the arch. Sharpe smelt the tobacco as he walked past the guard. He felt conspicuous, sure that one of the men would reach out and take his elbow, but none seemed to f
ind him suspicious and suddenly he and Aksel Bang were out of the gate tunnel and crossing a wide-open area that lay between the walls and the canal-like lakes that protected the city’s landward ramparts. Sharpe sighed with relief.

  “Beautiful words,” Bang said happily.

  “Indeed,” Sharpe said, his relief making him sound fervent.

  Bang finally abandoned Sharpe’s soul. “You have met Mister Skovgaard before?” he asked.

  “No.” They were on a causeway that crossed the canal and Sharpe at last was feeling safe.

  “I ask because it is rumored that England is sending an army to take our fleet. Is that true, do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Bang glanced at the saber scabbard that Sharpe had let drop now that they were out of the city and in the less populated suburbs. “I think you are a soldier, perhaps,” Bang said.

  “I was,” Sharpe said curtly.

  “The buttons on your coat, yes? And the sword. I wanted to be a soldier, but my father believed I should learn business and Mister Skovgaard is a very able teacher. I am lucky, I think. He is a good man.”

  “And rich?” Sharpe asked sourly. They had left the road to walk through a cemetery, but beyond the graveyard’s low wall he could see big houses standing in tree-shaded gardens.

  “He is wealthy, yes,” Bang said, “but in matters of the spirit he is poor. His son died, as did his wife, God bless their souls, as did his daughter’s husband and her son. Four deaths in three years! Now all that is left is Mister Skovgaard and Astrid.”

  Something in Bang’s voice made Sharpe glance at him. So that was how the land lay. Skovgaard had a daughter and no son, which meant the daughter would inherit. “And the daughter,” Sharpe asked, “she hasn’t married again?”

  “Not yet,” Bang said with studied carelessness, then he unlatched the cemetery gate and waved Sharpe through.

  They walked up a street edged with trees until they reached a white-painted gate beyond which lay one of the big houses. Its bricks and red roof tiles were hardly discolored, suggesting the house was only a year or two old. Back in the city a church clock struck half past eight, the sound echoed by other church bells in the suburbs as Bang led Sharpe up the long carriage drive.

  An elderly servant, soberly dressed in a brown suit with silver buttons, opened the door. He did not seem surprised to see Aksel Bang, though he frowned at the mud and hay on Sharpe’s coat. Bang spoke in Danish to the servant who bowed and left. “You will tarry here, please,” Bang told Sharpe, “and I shall tell Mister Skovgaard of your coming.” Bang disappeared down a short paneled corridor while Sharpe looked around the tiled hall. A crystal chandelier hung above him, an eastern rug was underfoot and from one of the closed doors came the sound of tinkling music. A spinet or harpsichord, Sharpe was not sure which. He took off his hat and caught sight of himself in a gilt-framed looking glass that hung above a spindly table on which a china bowl held a pile of visiting cards. He grimaced at his reflection, picked some more hay off his coat and tried to smooth his hair. The music had stopped and Sharpe, still staring at the mirror, saw the door behind him open.

  He turned and for the first time since Grace had died he felt his heart leap.

  A girl dressed all in black stood looking at him with an expression of astonished delight. She was tall, very fair-haired and blue-eyed. Later, much later, Sharpe would notice she had a wide forehead, a generous mouth, a long straight nose and a quick laugh, but at that moment he just stared at her and she stared back and the welcoming look of pleasure on her face died to be replaced by a puzzled sadness. She said something in Danish.

  “I’m sorry,” Sharpe said.

  “You are English?” she asked, sounding surprised.

  “Yes, miss.”

  She stared at him oddly, then shook her head. “You look so like someone else”—she paused—“someone I knew.” There were tears in her eyes. “I am Skovgaard’s daughter,” she introduced herself. “Astrid.”

  “Richard Sharpe, miss,” he said. “You speak good English.”

  “My mother was English.” She glanced down the corridor. “You are here to see my father?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Then I am sorry to have disturbed you,” she said.

  “You were playing?” Sharpe asked.

  “I am not good.” She offered him a quick and embarrassed smile. “I have to practice.” She gave him a last puzzled look, then went back into the room. She left the door ajar and, after a moment, a few solitary notes sounded again.

  Two men came to fetch Sharpe. Like the servant who had answered the door, they were both dressed in brown, but these men were much younger. They also looked fit and hard. One jerked his head and Sharpe obediently followed them down the short passage. The door at the end squeaked alarmingly but opened into an elegant room where Aksel Bang was standing beside a thin man who was sitting at a desk, his head bowed. Sharpe dropped his pack, coat and hat on a chair and waited. The door squealed shut behind him, then the two young men, evidently guards, stood not far behind him.

  The room was a study, but large enough to hold a small dance. Bookcases filled with forbidding leather volumes lined two walls, the third had tall glass doors opening onto a garden while the fourth was paneled in a pale wood that surrounded a carved marble hearth above which hung a portrait of a gloomy man dressed in preacher’s black with Geneva bands. Then the man behind the desk laid down his pen, unhooked a pair of spectacles from his ears and looked up at Sharpe. He blinked with apparent astonishment when he saw his visitor’s face, but hid whatever surprised him. “I am Ole Skovgaard,” he said in a gravelly voice, “and Aksel has forgotten your name.”

  “Lieutenant Richard Sharpe, sir.”

  “An Englishman,” Skovgaard said disapprovingly. “An Englishman,” he said again, “yet you look just like my poor son-in-law, God rest his soul. You did not meet Nils, did you, Aksel?”

  “I did not enjoy that privilege, sir,” Bang said, bobbing his head with pleasure at being addressed by his employer.

  “He looked exactly like that Englishman,” Skovgaard said. “The resemblance is, what is the word? Extraordinary.” He shook his head in wonderment. He had sunken cheeks, a tall forehead and an expression of severe disapproval. He looked to be in his fifties, though his fair hair had no gray yet. “Do you spell your name with an ‘e’?” he asked and, when Sharpe confirmed the spelling, hooked the spectacles over his ears and made a note with a scratching quill. “And you are a lieutenant, yes? In the navy or the army? And what regiment?” His English was perfect. He wrote down Sharpe’s answers, blew on the wet ink, then toyed with an ivory letter opener as he looked Sharpe up and down. After a while he gave a small shrug then turned to Bang. “Perhaps, Aksel, you would wait in the parlor with Miss Astrid?”

  “Of course, of course.” Bang looked absurdly pleased as he hurried from the room.

  “Tell me, Lieutenant Sharpe,” Skovgaard said, “what brings you to my house?”

  “I was told you’d help me, sir.”

  “By whom?”

  “By Lord Pumphrey, sir.”

  “I have never heard of Lord Pumphrey,” Skovgaard said bleakly. He stood and crossed to a side table. He was dressed all in black and had a black crepe mourning band about his right sleeve. He was so thin he looked like a skeleton walking. He selected a pipe from a rack, filled it with tobacco from a jar that had a painted dragon circling its belly, then carried a silver tinderbox back to his desk. He struck the charred linen alight, transferred the flame to a spill and lit the pipe. He waited till the tobacco was burning evenly. “Why would this Lord Pumphrey believe I would help you?”

  “He said you were a friend of Britain, sir.”

  “Did he now? Did he?” Skovgaard sucked on the pipe. The smoke curled to a ceiling that was lavishly molded in plaster. “I am a merchant, Lieutenant Sharpe,” he said, somehow making the rank sound like an insult. “I deal in sugar, tobacco, jute, coffee and indigo. A
ll those items, Lieutenant, must be carried here in ships. That would suggest, would it not, that I am in favor of the Royal Navy, for it helps our own navy protect the sea lanes. Does that make me a friend of Britain?”

  Sharpe looked into the merchant’s eyes. They were pale, unfriendly and unsettling. “I was told so, sir,” he said awkwardly.

  “Yet Britain, Lieutenant Sharpe, has sent a fleet to the Baltic. Ships of the line, frigates, bomb ships, gun boats and over two hundred transports—enough, I think, to convey twenty thousand men. That fleet passed the Skaw last night. Where do you think it is going?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Sharpe said.

  “Russia? I think not. The little Swedish garrison at Stralsund, perhaps? But France can take Stralsund whenever she pleases, and throwing more men into its walls merely dooms them. Sweden? Why would Britain send an army to its friends in Sweden? I think that fleet is coming here, Lieutenant Sharpe, here. To Copenhagen. Do you think that is an unreasonable assumption?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” Sharpe said feebly.

  “You don’t know.” There was acid in Skovgaard’s voice now. He stood again, agitated. “Where else can such a fleet be going?” He paced up and down in front of the empty hearth, trailing tobacco smoke. “Earlier this month, Lieutenant, a peace treaty was signed between France and Russia. The Czar and Napoleon met at Tilsit and, between them, they divided Europe. Do you know this?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then I shall educate you, Lieutenant. France and Russia are now friends while Prussia is reduced to a husk. Napoleon commands Europe, Lieutenant, and we all live under his shadow. Yet he lacks one thing, a fleet. Without a fleet he cannot defeat Britain, and there is only one fleet left in Europe that can challenge the Royal Navy.”

  “The Danish fleet,” Sharpe said.

  “You are not so ignorant as you pretend, eh?” Skovgaard paused to relight the pipe. “There was a secret article in the Treaty of Tilsit, Lieutenant, by which Russia agreed to allow France to take the Danish fleet. That fleet is not Russia’s to give nor France’s to take, but such niceties will not stop Napoleon. He has sent an army to our frontier on the mainland, hoping that we will surrender the fleet rather than fight. But we shall not surrender, Lieutenant, we shall not!” He spoke passionately, but Sharpe heard the hopelessness in his voice. How could little Denmark resist France? “So why,” Skovgaard went on, “does Britain send ships and men to the Baltic?”