But one woman screamed at the sight of the injured man.
It was Astrid who ran to meet Sharpe. “What are you doing here?” he asked her.
“I knew you would be coming here so I came to make sure you were safe.” She gave an involuntary grimace when she saw her father’s face. “Is he alive?”
“He needs a doctor,” Sharpe said. He reckoned Skovgaard must have resisted for hours before he broke.
“The hospitals are full,” Astrid said, holding her father’s wrist because his hand was nothing but a broken claw. “They made an announcement this morning,” she went on, “that only the worst injured must go to hospital.”
“He’s badly injured,” Sharpe said, then thought that Lavisser would know that and so the hospitals were exactly where Lavisser would look for Skovgaard. The bombs were thumping steadily, their explosions flashing in the smoky sky. “Not the hospital,” he told Astrid. He thought about Ulfedt’s Plads, then reckoned that was the second place Lavisser would search.
Astrid touched her father’s cheek. “There’s a good nurse at the orphanage,” she said, “and it’s not far.”
They carried Skovgaard to the orphanage where the nurse took charge of him. Astrid helped her, while Sharpe took Hopper and Clouter out to the courtyard where they sat under the flagpole. Some of the smaller children were crying because of the noise of the bombs, but they were all safe in their dormitories which were a long way from where any missiles fell. Two women carried milk and water up the outside staircase and glanced fearfully at the three men. “Lavisser wasn’t there,” Sharpe said.
“Does it matter?” Hopper asked.
“He wants this list,” Sharpe said, patting his pocket. “These names buy him favor with the French.”
“There was no gold either,” Clouter growled.
Sharpe looked surprised, then shook his head. “I clean forgot about the gold,” he said. “I’m sorry.” He rubbed his face. “We can’t go back to the warehouse. Lavisser will look for us there.” And Lavisser, he thought, would take Danish troops with him, claiming he was looking for British agents. “We’ll have to stay here,” he decided.
“We could go back to the ships?” Clouter suggested.
“You can if you want,” Sharpe said, “but I’ll stay.” He would stay because he knew Astrid would remain with her father and he would stay with Astrid.
Hopper began to reload one of the volley guns. “Did you see that nurse?” he asked.
“I think he wants to stay here, sir,” Clouter said with a grin.
“We can wait it out here,” Sharpe said. “And thank you, both of you. Thank you.” The bombs lit the sky. By morning, he thought, the Danes must surrender and the British army would come and Lavisser would hide, but Sharpe would find him. If he had to search every damned house in Copenhagen he would find him and kill him. And then he would have finished the job and he could stay here, stay in Denmark, because he wanted a home.
Next morning General Peymann called a council in the Amalienborg Palace. Coffee was served in royal china to men who were dirty with soot and ash, and whose faces were pale and drawn from another night of fighting fires and carrying horribly burned people to the crowded hospitals. “I thought there were fewer bombs last night,” the General observed.
“They fired just under two thousand, sir,” Major Lavisser reported, “and that includes rockets.”
“And the night before?” Peymann tried to remember.
“Nearer five thousand,” an aide answered.
“They are running short of ammunition,” the General declared, unable to conceal a triumphant note. “I doubt we’ll receive more than a thousand missiles tonight. And tomorrow? Perhaps none at all. We shall hold on, gentlemen, we shall hold on!”
The superintendent of the King Frederick Hospital offered a sobering report. There were no more bed available, not even now they had taken over the Maternity Hospital next door, and there was a severe shortage of salves, bandages and fresh water, but he still expressed a cautious optimism. If the bombardment got no worse then he thought the hospitals would cope.
A city engineer reported that an old well in Bjornegaden was yielding copious amounts of fresh water and that three other abandoned wells, capped when the city began piping supplies from north Zealand, were to be opened during the day. The deputy mayor said there was no shortage of food. Some cows had died in the night, he said, but plenty were left.
“Cows?” Peymann asked.
“The city needs milk, sir. We brought two herds into the city.”
“Then I think,” General Peymann concluded, “that when all is said and done we might congratulate ourselves. The British have thrown their worst at us, and we have survived.” He pulled the large-scale map of the city toward him. The engineers had inked over the streets worst affected by the first night’s bombardment, and now Peymann looked at the light pencil hatching which showed the effects of the second night’s assault. The newly penciled areas were much smaller, merely a short length of street near the Norre Gate and some houses in Skindergade. “At least they missed the cathedral,” he said.
“And there was also damage here.” An aide leaned over the table and tapped Bredgade. “Major Lavisser’s house was destroyed, and the neighboring houses lost their roofs to fire.”
Peymann frowned at Lavisser. “Your house, Major?”
“My grandfather’s house, sir.”
“Tragic!” Peymann said. “Tragic.”
“We think it must have been a rocket, sir,” the first aide said. “It’s so far from the rest of the damaged streets.”
“I trust no one was hurt?” Peymann inquired earnestly.
“We fear some servants might have been trapped,” Lavisser answered, “but my grandfather, of course, is with the Crown Prince.”
“Thank God for that,” Peymann said, “but you must take some time today to rescue what you can of your grandfather’s property. I am so very sorry, Major.”
“We must all share in the city’s suffering, sir,” Lavisser declared, a sentiment that brought murmurs of agreement about the table.
A naval pastor ended the council by thanking God for helping the city to endure its ordeal, for the manifold blessings that would doubtless flow from victory and begging the Almighty to shower His saving grace upon the wounded and the bereaved. “Amen,” General Peymann boomed, “amen.”
A weak sun was shining through the pall of smoke that smothered the city when Lavisser emerged into the palace courtyard where Barker was waiting. “They prayed, Barker,” he said, “they prayed.”
“Do a lot of that here, sir.”
“So what do you make of it?”
Barker, while his master had been attending the council meeting, had done his best to explore the ruins of Bredgade. “It’s still too hot to get into, sir, and it’s a heap of rubble anyway. Smoking, it is, but Jules, he got out.”
“Only Jules?”
“He was the only one I found, sir. Rest are dead or in hospital, I reckon. And Jules swears it were Sharpe.”
“It can’t be!”
“He says three men came out the house, sir. Two were sailors and the other was a tall man, black hair and scar on the cheek.”
Lavisser swore.
“And,” Barker went on implacably, “the man with the scarred face was carrying Skovgaard.”
Lavisser swore again. “And the gold?” he asked.
“That’s probably still in Bredgade, sir. Melted, probably, but it’ll be there.”
Lavisser said nothing for a while. The gold could be salvaged and it could certainly wait, but he could expect no advancement from the French if he did not give them the list of names that had been so painfully extracted from Skovgaard. That list would open the Emperor’s largesse to Lavisser, make him Prince of Zealand or Duke of Holstein or even, in his most secret dreams, King of Denmark. “Did Jules say anything about the list?”