Jens had followed Sharpe. The shipwright looked dazed. He flinched at the sound of each volley. “What happened?” he asked.
“They’re real soldiers,” Sharpe answered sourly. He saw the Danish sailors try to organize a rank that could return the British fire, but the second British battalion had marched ten paces forward and poured their fire into the sailor’s flank and the seamen crouched as though they sheltered in a storm. One man fired back, but he had left his ramrod in the barrel and Sharpe saw it cartwheeling across the grass. A wounded man crawled back, trailing a shattered leg. Two battalions of red-coated regulars were giving an undisciplined group of amateurs a ruthless lesson in soldiering. They made it look easy, but Sharpe knew how many hours of practice it had taken to make them so efficient.
Then Jens shoved Sharpe sideways. “What the hell-” Sharpe began, then a pistol fired close by and the bullet smacked into a tree beside Sharpe, who turned and saw it was Barker, behind him and on horseback. Sharpe leveled his own pistol, pulled the trigger and the weapon did not fire. He had still not primed it. He threw the gun down, whipped the saber from its scabbard and ran at Barker who turned his horse and spurred down the hill. The big man ducked beneath tree branches, then suddenly sawed on the reins to turn the horse back and Sharpe saw he had a second pistol. He twisted sideways, expecting a shot, but Barker held his fire.
Sharpe crouched in some bushes. He sheathed the saber and pulled out his own second pistol. It would take time to reload because the powder horn with its dispensary was a fiddly thing, but he started anyway. Barker was not far away. Sharpe risked a quick glance and saw only the riderless horse. So Barker was stalking him on foot. Move, he told himself. Move now, because Barker knew where he was and so he thrust the powder horn into a pocket and sprinted across a clearing, dodged into trees, jumped down a steep slope and went to ground again behind a stand of laurel. He heard Barker’s footsteps above him, but he reckoned he had bought himself enough time to load the pistol. British volleys stunned the sky above him. Some shots, missing the Danes, whipped through the trees at the top of the slope.
Sharpe poured powder into the pistol, spat the bullet after, then heard the crashing feet and looked up to see Barker charging headlong down the slope. The huge man had spotted Sharpe in the laurels and wanted the confrontation over. Sharpe’s pistol was still unprimed, but Barker could not know that so Sharpe stood, aimed the weapon and smiled.
Barker took the bait, raising his own gun and firing too quickly. The ball whistled past Sharpe, who tucked the pistol under his left arm as he opened the small slide that would let a trickle of powder into the horn’s dispensary. Barker saw what he was doing and drew a sword and Sharpe, knowing he did not have time to prime the gun, let both pistol and powder horn drop. He drew his saber. “Reckon you can beat me with a blade, Barker?”
Barker whipped his sword back and forth. It was a slim weapon, one of Lavisser’s old swords, and Barker looked disgusted at the steel’s flexibility. He could use guns, he liked knives and was lethal with a cudgel, but the sword seemed flimsy to him. “I could never use the bloody things,” he said. Sharpe just stared at the big man, wondering if he had heard right. Barker slashed the blade at the laurels, then frowned at Sharpe. “You been in the city all along?”
“Yes.”
“He thought you’d left.”
“He didn’t look very hard,” Sharpe said, “because I wasn’t hiding.”
“He’s been busy,” Barker said. “And now you’re going back to the army?”
“Yes.”
“Then bugger off,” Barker said, jerking his head up the hill.
Sharpe, astonished, let his saber tip drop. “Come with me.”
Barker looked offended at the invitation. “I ain’t buggering off.”
“Then why aren’t you killing me?”
Barker gave a sneering look at the sword. “Not with this,” he said. “I ain’t any good with bloody swords. Never learned them, see? So you end up skewering me, don’t you? Not much sense there. But I ain’t frightened,” Barker added earnestly. “Don’t you think I’m frightened. If I sees you back in the city I’ll do you. But I’m not a bleeding gentleman. I only fights when I knows I can win.” He stepped back and jerked his head uphill again. “So bugger off, Lieutenant.”