Amazon.co.uk Review
The year is 1807; Lieutenant Richard Sharpe is planning to leave the army. Against his better judgment, he is persuaded to accompany the Hon John Lavisser to Copenhagen in what is essentially an act of political skulduggery: they are to deliver a bribe and (hopefully) avert a war. But with the French ensuring that Europe remains at boiling point, Sharpe finds himself protecting his charge against French agents and struggling to ensure that the Danish battle fleet is not used to replace every French ship destroyed at Trafalgar. Sharpe is a character we know well and like, and his customary characteristics (tenacity, bloody-mindedness) are well to the fore here, but, as always, the other characters are equally strikingly drawn: Lavisser is a splendidly complex figure, as are several of Sharpe's nemeses. But it's that wonderfully adroit orchestration of action and plot that keeps the pulse racing, with the bombardment of Copenhagen and the massive bloodshed resulting in a truly impressive set piece:
Sharpe, from his vantage point on the dune, could see the smoke wreathing the wall. The city's copper spires and red roofs showed above the churning cloud. A dozen houses were burning there, fired by the Danish shells that hissed across the canal. Three windmills had their sales tethered against the blustering wind that blew the smoke westwards and fretted the moored fleet to the north of Copenhagen.
--Barry Forshaw --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
Review
‘Sharpe and his creator are national treasures.' Sunday Telegraph
'Bernard Cornwell is a literary miracle. Year after year, hail, rain, snow, war and political upheavals fail to prevent him from producing the most entertaining and readable historical novels of his generation.' Daily Mail
'Cornwell's narration is quite masterly and supremely well-researched.' Observer
‘The best battle scenes of any writer I’ve ever read, past or present. Cornwell really makes history come alive.’ George R.R. Martin
Review
Product Description
The eighteenth novel in this bestselling series takes Sharpe to battle in Copenhagen, in this the sequel to Sharpe’s Trafalgar.
It is 1807 and Sharpe, back from India and Trafalgar, has joined the newly formed Greenjackets – but his career is in ruins, and his future in the army apparently hopeless.
He is rescued from disgrace by General Sir David Baird, an old comrade from India, who needs a ‘disposable’ man for a mission in Copenhagen.
An army is travelling to the Danish capital to enforce British policy, but unless Sharpe can complete the mission against enemies as subtle and clever as any he has ever faced, that army will meet disaster.
From the Back Cover
It is 1807 and Sharpe, back from India and Trafalgar, has joined the newly formed Greenjackets – but his career is in ruins, and his future in the army apparently hopeless.
He is rescued from disgrace by General Sir David Baird, an old comrade from India, who needs a ‘disposable’ man for a mission in Copenhagen.
An army is travelling to the Danish capital to enforce British policy, but unless Sharpe can complete the mission against enemies as subtle and clever as any he has ever faced, that army will meet disaster.
About the Author
Bernard Cornwell worked for BBC Television for seven years, mostly as a producer on the Nationwide programme, before taking charge of the Current Affairs department in Northern Ireland. In 1978 he became editor of Thames Television’s Thames at Six. Married to an American, he now lives in the United States.
--This text refers to the Unknown Binding edition.Excerpted from Sharpe's Prey by Bernard Cornwell. Copyright © 2001. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
formally the 50th Regiment of West Kent, parried his opponent’s sabre.
He did it hurriedly. His right hand was low so that his sabre’s 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 opponent’s 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 for-ward,
his blade flickering, clanging, reaching, and Willsen was counter-ing
in apparent desperation until, so fast that those watching could
scarce follow his blade’s quick movement, he stepped to one side and
riposted at his opponent’s cheek. There seemed little power in the
riposte, for its force all came from Willsen’s wrist rather than from his
full arm, but the sabre’s edge still struck the taller man with such might
that he lost his balance. He swayed, right arm flailing, and Willsen
gently touched his weapon’s point to his opponent’s chest so that he
toppled to the floor.
‘Enough!’ the Master-at-Arms called.
‘God’s teeth.’ The fallen man swept his blade at Willsen’s ankles in
a fit of pique. The blow was easily blocked and Willsen just walked
away.
‘I said enough, my lord!’ the Master-at-Arms shouted angrily.
‘How the devil did you do that, Willsen?’ Lord Marsden pulled off
the padded leather helmet with its wire visor that had protected his
face. ‘I had you on your damned arse!’
Willsen, who had planned the whole passage of the fight from the
moment he made a deliberately soft quarte basse, bowed. ‘Perhaps I was
just fortunate, my lord?’
‘Don’t patronize me, man,’ Lord Marsden snapped as he climbed
to his feet. ‘What was it?’
‘Your disengagement from the sixte was slow, my lord.’
‘The devil it was,’ 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. ‘You’re quick, Willsen, damned quick.’
The handful of spectators applauded the show of sportsmanship.
They were in Horace Jackson’s Hall of Arms, an establishment on
London’s 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.
Willsen pulled off his helmet and ran a hand through his long fair
hair. He bowed to his beaten opponent, then carried both sabres to
the weapon rack at the side of the hall where a tall, very thin and
extraordinarily handsome captain in the red coat and blue facings of
the 1st Regiment of Foot Guards was waiting. The guardsman, a
stranger to Willsen, tossed away a half-smoked cigar as Willsen
approached. ‘You fooled him,’ the Captain said cheerfully.
Willsen frowned at the stranger’s impertinence, but he answered
politely enough. Willsen, after all, was an employee in Horace Jackson’s
Hall and the Guards Captain, judging by the elegant cut of his expen-sive
uniform, was a patron. The sort of patron, moreover, who could
not wait to prove himself against the celebrated Henry Willsen. ‘I
fooled him?’ Willsen asked. ‘How?’
‘The quarte basse,’ the guardsman said, ‘you made it soft, am I right?’
Willsen was impressed at the guardsman’s acuity, but did not betray
it. ‘Perhaps I was just fortunate?’ he suggested. He was being modest,
for he had the reputation of being the finest swordsman in the Dirty
Half Hundred, probably in the whole army and maybe in the entire
country, but he belittled his ability, just as he shrugged off those who
reckoned he was the best pistol shot in Kent. A soldier, Willsen liked
to say, should be a master of his arms and so he practised assiduously
and prayed that one day his skill would be useful in the service of his
country. Until that time came he earned his captain’s pay and, because
that was not sufficient to support a wife, child and mess bill, he taught
fencing and pistol-shooting in Horace Jackson’s Hall of Arms. Jackson,
an old pugilist with a mashed face, wanted Willsen to leave the army
and join the establishment full time, but Willsen liked being a soldier.
It gave him a position in British society. It might not be a high place,
but it was honourable.
‘There’s no such thing as luck,’ the guardsman said, only now he
spoke in Danish, ‘not when you’re fighting.’
Willsen had been turning away, but the change of language made
him look back to the golden-haired Guards Captain. His first careless
impression had been one of privileged youth, but he now saw that the
guardsman was probably in his early thirties and had a cynical, knowing
cast to his devil-may-care good looks. This was a man, Willsen thought,
who would be at home in a palace or at a prizefight.
--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.
