Sharpe’s Prey: The Expedition to Copenhagen, 1807
Richard Sharpe is sent to Copenhagen to deliver a bribe to stop the Danes handing over possession of their battle fleet to the French.It seems very easy. But nothing is easy in a Europe stirred by French ambitions. The Danes possess a battle fleet that could replace every ship the French lost at Trafalgar, and Napoleon's forces are gathering to take it. The British have to stop them, while the Danes insist on remaining neutral.Dragged into a war of spies and brutality, Sharpe finds that he is a sacrificial pawn. But pawns can sometimes change the game, and Sharpe makes his own rules. When he discovers a traitor in his midst, he becomes a hunter in a city besieged by British troops.Soldier, hero, rogue – Sharpe is the man you always want on your side. Born in poverty, he joined the army to escape jail and climbed the ranks by sheer brutal courage. He knows no other family than the regiment of the 95th Rifles whose green jacket he proudly wears.
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SHARPEâS
PREY
Richard Sharpe and the Expedition to Copenhagen, 1807
BERNARD CORNWELL
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 authorâs imagination.
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 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
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Source ISBN: 9780007130559
Ebook Edition © JULY 2009 ISBN: 9780007338702 Version: 2017-05-06
Sharpeâs Prey is for Jarl, Gerda, Bo and Christine
âBernard Cornwellâs sharp, tough infantryman hero, who chose to fight on his feet, is a man we shall hear more fromâ
Daily Mail
Table of Contents
The SHARPE Series (in chronological order)
CHAPTER ONE
Captain Henry Willsen of His Majestyâs Dirty Half Hundred, more formally the 50th Regiment of West Kent, parried his opponentâs sabre. He did it hurriedly. His right hand was low so that his sabreâs 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 opponentâs 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 bladeâs quick movement, he stepped to one side and riposted at his opponentâs cheek. There seemed little power in the riposte, for its force all came from Willsenâs wrist rather than from his full arm, but the sabreâs edge still struck the taller man with such might that he lost his balance. He swayed, right arm flailing, and Willsen gently touched his weaponâs point to his opponentâs chest so that he toppled to the floor.
âEnough!â the Master-at-Arms called.
âGodâs teeth.â The fallen man swept his blade at Willsenâs ankles in a fit of pique. The blow was easily blocked and Willsen just walked away.
âI said enough, my lord!â the Master-at-Arms shouted angrily.
âHow the devil did you do that, Willsen?â Lord Marsden pulled off the padded leather helmet with its wire visor that had protected his face. âI had you on your damned arse!â
Willsen, who had planned the whole passage of the fight from the moment he made a deliberately soft quarte basse, bowed. âPerhaps I was just fortunate, my lord?â
âDonât patronize me, man,â Lord Marsden snapped as he climbed to his feet. âWhat was it?â
âYour disengagement from the sixte was slow, my lord.â
âThe devil it was,â 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. âYouâre quick, Willsen, damned quick.â
The handful of spectators applauded the show of sportsmanship. They were in Horace Jacksonâs Hall of Arms, an establishment on Londonâs 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.
