Sharpe’s Prey: The Expedition to Copenhagen, 1807. Bernard Cornwell
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did not seem possible that anyone would dare challenge him. He took a deep breath, plainly intending to call for help, but the sabre’s tip was suddenly hard in the flesh of his neck, drawing a trickle of blood.
‘On the table, Jem,’ Sharpe said, the softness of his voice belying the anger in his soul.
Hocking still did not obey. He frowned instead. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No,’ Sharpe said.
‘You ain’t getting a penny of mine, son,’ Hocking said.
Sharpe twisted the blade. Hocking stepped back, but Sharpe kept the sabre in his neck. He had only broken Hocking’s skin, nothing more, but he pushed a little harder and twisted again. ‘Money,’ he said, ‘on the table.’
‘Daft as a pudding, boy,’ Hocking said. ‘You ain’t going anywhere, not now. I’ve got lads out there and they’ll cut you into tatters.’
‘Money,’ Sharpe said, and reinforced the demand by whipping the sabre’s tip twice across Hocking’s face to leave long thin cuts in his cheeks and nose. Hocking looked astonished. He touched a finger to his cheek and seemed not to believe the blood he saw.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Mister Hocking?’ a voice called.
‘We’re just settling the money,’ Sharpe shouted, ‘aren’t we, Jem? On the table or I’ll bloody fillet you.’
‘You ain’t an officer, are you? You dress up, don’t you, but you picked the wrong man this time, son.’
‘I’m an officer,’ Sharpe said, and drew blood from Hocking’s neck. ‘A real officer,’ he added. ‘Now empty your pockets.’
Hocking dropped the satchel on the table, then thrust a hand into his greatcoat pocket. Sharpe waited to hear the chink of coins, but there was no such sound and so, as Hocking brought his hand out of the pocket, Sharpe slashed down hard with the sabre. He slit the ball of Hocking’s thumb, then slashed the blade again and Hocking, who had been drawing a small pistol from his coat pocket, let the weapon go to clutch at his wounded fingers. The pistol fell to the floor.
‘Empty your damned pockets,’ Sharpe said.
Hocking hesitated, wondering whether to call for help, but there was an implacability about Sharpe that suggested he had best humour him. He flinched as he used his wounded right hand to pull coins from his pocket. The door rattled as someone tried the latch. ‘Wait!’ Sharpe called. He saw gold coins among the silver and copper. ‘Keep going, Jem,’ he said.
‘You’re a dead man,’ Hocking grumbled, but found more cash that he piled on the table. ‘That’s all,’ he said.
‘Back against the cages, you bastard,’ Sharpe said and prodded Hocking towards the badgers. Then, still holding the sabre in his right hand, Sharpe forced handfuls of the coins into the satchel. He could not look closely at the money, for he needed to watch Hocking, but he reckoned there was at least eighteen or nineteen pounds there.
The click saved Sharpe. It came from behind him and he recognized the sound of a pistol being cocked and he stepped to one side and risked a quick glance to see that there was a hole in the wooden wall. Lumpy’s peephole, no doubt, and one of the young men outside must have seen what was happening and Sharpe stepped to the bed just as a pistol flamed through the hole to mist the room with smoke. Emily screamed from beneath her blanket and Jem Hocking snatched a badger cage and hurled it at Sharpe.
The cage bounced heavily off Sharpe’s shoulder. Hocking was scrabbling for the pistol when Sharpe kicked him in the face, then slashed the sabre across his head. Hocking sprawled by the table. Sharpe snatched up the small pistol and fired it at the wall beside the peephole. The timber splintered, but no shout sounded on the far side. Then he knelt on Hocking’s belly and held the sabre against the big man’s throat. ‘You do know me,’ Sharpe said. ‘You bloody do know me.’
He had not intended to reveal his name. He had told himself he would rob Hocking, but now, smelling the gun smoke, he knew he had always wanted to kill the bastard. No, he had wanted more. He had wanted to see Hocking’s face when the man learned that one of his children had come back, but come back as a jack pudding. Sharpe smiled, and for the first time there was fear on Hocking’s face. ‘I really am an officer, Jem, and my name’s Sharpe. Dick Sharpe.’ He saw the disbelief on Hocking’s face. Disbelief, astonishment and fear. That was reward enough. Hocking stared, wide-eyed, recognizing Sharpe and, at the same time, unable to comprehend that one of his boys was now an officer. Then the incomprehension turned to terror for he understood that the boy wanted revenge. ‘You bastard,’ Sharpe said, ‘you goddamned piece of shit.’ The anger was livid now. ‘Remember whipping me?’ he asked. ‘Whipping me till the blood ran? I remember, Jem. That’s why I came back.’
‘Listen, lad.’
‘Don’t you bloody lad me,’ Sharpe said. ‘I’m grown now, Jem. I’m a soldier, Jem, an officer, and I’ve learned to kill.’
‘No!’
‘Yes,’ Sharpe said, and the bitterness was unassuageable now, drenching him, consuming him, and the years of pain and misery were driving his right arm as he sawed the blade hard and fast across Hocking’s throat. Hocking’s last shout was abruptly cut short as a fountain of blood sprang up. The big man heaved, but Sharpe was snarling and still slicing down with the blade, cutting through muscle and gullet and a flood of blood until the steel juddered against the bone. Hocking’s breath bubbled at his opened neck as Sharpe stood and stabbed the sabre down so hard that the blade flexed as its tip drove into the back of Hocking’s skull. ‘One in the eye, Jem,’ Sharpe snarled, ‘you bastard.’ The door shook as the men outside tried to force the bolt from its seating. Sharpe kicked the door. ‘We ain’t done,’ he shouted.
There was a sudden silence outside. But how many men were out there? And the two pistol shots would have been heard. Men would be watching the rat shed, knowing that there would be pickings to be had from the violence. Bloody fool, Sharpe told himself. Grace had forever told him he had to think before he let his anger rule his actions, and he had not really meant to kill Hocking, only to rob him. No, that was not true, he had wanted to kill Hocking for years, but he had done it clumsily, angrily, and now he was trapped. There were still some coins on the table, one of them a guinea, and he threw them onto the bed. ‘Emily?’
‘Sir?’ a small voice whimpered.
‘That money’s for you. Hide it. And stay hidden yourself now. Lie down.’
Still silence outside, but that meant nothing. Sharpe blew out the oil lamp, then pulled on his coat and pack. He hung the satchel across his chest, dragged the sabre free of Hocking’s face, then went to the door and slid the bolt back as silently as he could. He lifted the latch and eased the door ajar. He reckoned the two men only had one pistol between them, but both would have knives and cudgels and he half expected them to charge when they saw the door crack open, but instead they waited. They knew Sharpe had to come out eventually and so they were waiting for him. He crouched and felt for the badger cage that had been thrown at him. He placed the cage beside the door and slid its hinged flap open.
A small light came from the shed’s far end, just enough to reveal a heavy dark shadow that crept out of the cage and snuffled its way forward. It was a big beast that tried to turn back into the storeroom’s darkness, but Sharpe nudged it with his sabre tip and the animal lumbered out into the larger space.
The pistol banged, flashing the dark with searing light. The badger squealed, then a club broke its spine. Sharpe had pulled the door open and was through it before the men outside realized they were wasting effort on an animal. The sabre hissed and one man yelped, then Sharpe scythed the blade back at the second man who ducked away. Sharpe did not wait, but ran to the back of the shed where he remembered an alley that led to a noxious ditch up which small lighters could be dragged from the Thames. One of the two men was following him, blundering in the shed’s darkness. Sharpe shouldered the door open and ran down the alley. Two men were there, but both stepped aside when they saw the sabre. Sharpe