Cavalrymen. He could see saber scabbards, but the men were not Danes, their hats were the wrong shape. He stooped slightly, letting the glass go beyond the cavalrymen to where the road ran beside the distant beach. For a time he could only see gray and black, mist and shadow, then the hidden sun’s light grew and the General could see men marching. It was darkness moving, a mass of men, columns of men and they were trampling on his dream. He collapsed the telescope. “We’re staying here,” he said quietly.
“Sir?” One of the aides thought he must have misheard.
“Regular infantry here,” Castenschiold said, indicating the low crest that dominated the road. “Dragoons on the beach, light dragoons to the left flank. The militia will form a reserve between here and the town. Artillery right here, on the road.” He spoke decisively, knowing that any sign of uncertainty would destroy his men’s morale.
Because the British were coming. There would be no attack on the siege works about Copenhagen, instead fate had decreed that General Castenschiold must fight in front of Koge. So let them attack us here, Castenschiold decided. It was not a bad position. His regular troops dominated the road, his right flank was secured by the sea, and the newly dug entrenchments were at his back if he should need to retreat.
The six enemy cavalry scouts had vanished, carrying the news of the Danish presence to the advancing British. The sun flared on the horizon to flood the wrinkling sea with gold. It would be a beautiful day, Castenschiold thought, a beautiful day for a killing. His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a small cart from Koge. The cart was pulled by a shaggy pony and escorted by a cheerful aide. “Hammers and nails, sir!” the aide reported. “And forty-three axes.”
“Take them back,” Castenschiold said, “just take them back.”
“Sir”
“Take them back!” he snarled. For the dream was dead. Castenschiold extended his telescope again and saw the enemy infantry coming from the woods. Some were in red jackets and some in green. Green? He had never heard of any British infantry wearing green. The enemy was spreading along his front now, too far away for any cannon to reach, but waiting for their own guns to arrive and for a few moments Castenschiold was tempted to attack them. He outnumbered the British, he could see that, and he toyed with the thought of releasing his men down the slope, but resisted the temptation. Inexperienced troops fought better when they defended a position, so he would let the outnumbered enemy climb the long hill into the teeth of his guns and perhaps, even if he could not raise Copenhagen’s siege, he could give Denmark a victory.
The Danish guns unlimbered, the flag was raised and the infantry formed line.
They were ready to fight.
“What the devil are you doing here?” Captain Warren Dunnett inquired of the battalion’s quartermaster. He had never liked the man. He was up from the ranks and, in Dunnett’s opinion, had an inflated idea of his own competence and, worse, had served in India and believed, therefore, that he knew something of soldiering.
“The Colonel sent me, sir. He told me you were a lieutenant short.”
“And where the hell have you been anyway?” Captain Dunnett stooped to the hand mirror that he had wedged in the split top of a fence post. He scraped a razor down his cheek, carefully avoiding the tip of his wiry mustache. “Haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“I was on detached service, sir.”
“Detached service?” Dunnett inquired acidly. “What the hell’s that?”
“I was working for General Baird.”
And what the hell would Sir David Baird want with a man like Sharpe? Dunnett was not going to ask. “Just don’t get in the way,” he said curtly. He shook water off his razor and ran a hand over his chin. Bloody quartermaster, he thought.
The riflemen chopped wood from a thicket and made small fires so they could brew their tea. The greenjackets were spread along a series of hedgerows and fences that straggled either side of the coast road. Behind them, in fields where the harvest was shocked, two battalions of redcoats waited. Every now and then an officer from one of those two battalions would come to the riflemen’s positions and stare up the shallow slope to where a Danish army was arrayed on the crest. The enemy flag, a white cross on a red field, stirred in the small wind that brought the smell of the sea. There were blue-coated cavalry on both Danish flanks and a battery of field guns in their center. Men made guesses about the enemy’s strength, most reckoning there were ten to twelve thousand Danes on the hill while the British numbered about three thousand and most of the redcoats and were happy with those odds. “What are we waiting for?” a man grumbled.