Bernard Cornwell - Sharpe’s Prey - The Expedition to Copenhagen, 1807

This novel is a work of fiction. The incidents and some of the characters portrayed in it, while based on real historical events and figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.

Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2001

Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 2001

Map © Ken Lewis

Bernard Cornwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780007130559

Ebook Edition © JULY 2009 ISBN: 9780007338702

Version: 2017-05-06

Sharpe’s Prey is for Jarl, Gerda, Bo and Christine

‘Bernard Cornwell’s sharp, tough infantryman hero, who chose to fight on his feet, is a man we shall hear more from’

Daily Mail

Table of Contents

Title Page SHARPE’S PREY Richard Sharpe and the Expedition to Copenhagen, 1807 BERNARD CORNWELL

Copyright Copyright This novel is a work of fiction. The incidents and some of the characters portrayed in it, while based on real historical events and figures, are the work of the author’s imagination. Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2001 Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 2001 Map © Ken Lewis Bernard Cornwell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication Source ISBN: 9780007130559 Ebook Edition © JULY 2009 ISBN: 9780007338702 Version: 2017-05-06

Dedication Sharpe’s Prey is for Jarl, Gerda, Bo and Christine

Epigraph ‘Bernard Cornwell’s sharp, tough infantryman hero, who chose to fight on his feet, is a man we shall hear more from’ Daily Mail

Map

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Historical Note

Sharpe’s Story

Keep Reading

About the Author

The SHARPE Series (in chronological order)

The SHARPE Series (in order of publication)

Also by Bernard Cornwell

About the Publisher

Captain Henry Willsen of His Majesty’s Dirty Half Hundred, more formally the 50th Regiment of West Kent, parried his opponent’s sabre. He did it hurriedly. His right hand was low so that his sabre’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 backwards, 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 sabres 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 sabre’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.

‘Enough!’ the Master-at-Arms called.

‘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 arse!’

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 sabre, 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 sabre 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 sabres, 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 sabres 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.