Sharpe's Prey (Sharpe Series #5)

by Bernard Cornwell Narrated by Rupert Farley

Overview

""The greatest writer of historical adventures today."" -Washington Post

Critically acclaimed, perennial New York Times bestselling author Bernard Cornwell (Agincourt, The Fort, the Saxon Tales) makes real history come alive in his breathtaking historical fiction. Praised as ""the direct heir to Patrick O'Brian"" (Agincourt, The Fort), Cornwell has brilliantly captured the fury, chaos, and excitement of battle as few writers have ever done-perhaps most vividly in his phenomenally popular novels following the illustrious military career of British Army officer Richard Sharpe during the late 18th and early 19th centuries. In Sharpe's Prey, Sharpe must prove his mettle once again after performing courageously on Wellesley's battlefields in India and the Iberian Peninsula, as he undertakes a secret mission to Copenhagen, Denmark in 1807 to prevent a resurgent Napoleon from capturing the Danish fleet. Perhaps the San Francisco Chronicle said it best: ""If only all history lessons could be as vibrant.""

Editorial Reviews

Kirkus Reviews

The redoubtably prolific Cornwell, who has rounded out his revisionist Arthurian Warlord trilogy, filed four volumes in his Starbuck Civil War series, and now has 18 novels in his Richard Sharpe British Army series, plus other incidental novels about Stonehenge, etc., takes his hero Sharpe on the Expedition to Copenhagen of 1807. Sharpe, in the hip-hop fashion of Cornwell's chronology, has already fought in the Waterloo Campaign in 1815 (Sharpe's Waterloo), sailed to the New World in 1821 (Sharpe's Devil) and most recently observed Nelson at Trafalgar (Sharpe's Trafalgar, 2001) in 1805. Now, God's teeth, how can it be, Sharpe not only is without woman but also without coin. Although he wants most to sell his battlefield commission for £450, he's told battlefield commissions can't be sold. Thus he must accept a post as quartermaster-and in addition is roped by the Honorable John Lavisser to carry a secret bribe to Denmark. But all is not well in Denmark, not with the French lusting to take over the Danish fleet. There is something splendid about Sharpe's rugged leadership of British troops against the massed musketry of the Danes but not in the crippled children and widespread death of Danish civilians as the British bombard Copenhagen and set it afire. Rousing. At last count, 12 Sharpe novels had been filmed by PBS.

Product Details

BN ID:	2940176092608
Publisher:	HarperCollins
Publication date:	03/22/2022
Series:	Sharpe Series , #5
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Captain Henry Willsen of His Majesty's Dirty Half Hundred, more formally the 50th Regiment of West Kent, parried his opponent's saber. He did it hurriedly. His right hand was low so that his saber'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 backward, 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 sabers 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 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 saber'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 walkedaway.

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 ass!"

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. fie was proud of his ability with foil or saber, 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 saber 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 sabers, 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 sabers 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 expensive 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 practiced 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 fulltime, but Willsen liked being a soldier. It gave him a position in British society. It might not be a high place, but it was honorable.

"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. A formidable man too, and one who was of peculiar importance to Willsen, who now offered the guardsman a half-bow. "You, sir," he said respectfully, "must be Major the Honorable John Lavisser...

Sharpe's Prey. Copyright © by Bernard Cornwell. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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