“Richard,” Sharpe introduced himself. He took out one of the pistols and pretended to check its priming. The weapon was unloaded and he had no intention of charging it. “What do you do?” he asked Jens, who was a pleasant-faced, fair-haired young man with a snub nose and lively eyes.
Jens flourished his ancient musket. The lock was rusted, the stock was split and one of its barrel hoops was missing. “I kill Englishmen.”
“And when you’re not killing them?” Sharpe asked.
“I am a… what is it called? I make ships?”
“A shipwright.”
“A shipwright,” Jens agreed. “We work on a new warship, but we have left her unfinished. We do this first.”
The Captain peered through the gate, then gestured that his men should follow him. They jostled through the gate and Sharpe found himself in a wide parklike garden. Gravel paths led to groves of trees, and an elegant white summerhouse, a confection of gables, verandahs and pinnacles, stood on a small hillock. The garden looked to be a more genteel version of the Vauxhall Gardens in London. A company of regular Danish soldiers was crouching by the summerhouse, but there was no musketry sounding nearby and no sign of any British soldiers. The militia Captain, unsure what to do, ran to consult the regular officer, and his men sat on the grass. Far off to the north smoke trails whipped across the sky. Shells, Sharpe assumed. A dull explosion sounded in the distance. “Even if they take these places,” Jens said, waving his hand to show he meant the suburbs, “they will never get into the city.”
“What if they bombard it?” Sharpe asked.
Jens frowned. “You mean with guns?” He seemed shocked. “They will not do that! There are women in the city.”
The militia Captain came back, followed by two men on horseback, one a cavalry officer and the other a civilian. Sharpe stood with the others, then saw that the horsemen were Barker and Lavisser. The two men were only a few feet away and Sharpe turned his back as Lavisser began haranguing the civilian soldiers.
“We are to go forward,” Jens translated for Sharpe.
Lavisser, his sword drawn, had taken his place at the head of the militia while Barker was behind them. Sharpe pulled his brown hat down over his eyes and wished he had loaded the pistol. It was too late now, for the militia was hurrying west toward the trees. They went in a bunch and if the British had cannon there would be a massacre.
“We are to attack their side,” Jens said.
“Their flank?”
“I expect so. When it is over you can take an English gun, eh? Better than that little pistol.”
Lavisser led them into the woodland. A twisting path went downhill and Lavisser, evidently confident that no British troops were close by, spurred his horse ahead. There was plainly a battle of sorts going on just to the north for the musketry was crackling in loud bursts, but nothing was happening in this part of the gardens where the militia, confident that they were hooking around the southern flank of the British, followed Lavisser down into a gentle valley where a small stream fed an ornamental pond. Lavisser shouted at the militia, evidently ordering them into ranks. The group of sailors, all in straw hats and pigtails, set an example by forming four ranks and the two sergeants pushed the rest into crude files. Lavisser, his horse pawing great gouts from the turf, shouted excitedly. “He says the enemy is not many,” Jens translated.
“How does he know?” Sharpe wondered aloud.
“Because he is a proper officer, of course,” Jens said.
Lavisser had not looked in Sharpe’s direction and Barker was still trailing the three hundred men who now set off up the western slope where their cohesion was immediately broken by the trees. The sound of musketry was coming from Sharpe’s right, but it was sporadic now. Perhaps this makeshift half-battalion of disorganized enthusiasts really could take the approaching British on the flank, but Sharpe was relieved that he was in the rear rank and at the left-hand side, farthest from both Lavisser and the sound of battle. He was trying to load the pistol as he walked and wondering if he could somehow seize Lavisser and carry him bodily into the British lines.