"You must tell the Emperor whatever you wish, " Gudin said in resignation.
"So leave the women here now. Leave them, " Caillou insisted. "March to the guns, Colonel. Get there before dark."
"I will not leave the women, " Gudin said. "I will not leave them. And we shall be at Irati long before nightfall. It is not so far now."
Colonel Gudin sighed and walked on. His heels were blistering but he would not retrieve his horse, for he knew the lieutenant's need was greater than his.
Nor would he abandon his men's women, and so he kept going and tried to blot out Caillou's nagging voice and the awful, haunting screams of the pregnant girl.
He was not a prayerful man, but as he climbed towards the distant sounds of the guns, Gudin did pray. He prayed that God would send him a victory, just one small victory so that his career would not end in failure or a firing squad. A Christmas miracle, that was all he asked, just one small miracle to set against a lifetime of defeat.
GENERAL Maximillien Picard bulled his way through the panicked troops to stand at the mouth of the small valley. He could see the dead grenadiers, the smashed barrels and, beyond them, the other barrels waiting in the road. A rifle bullet snapped past his head, but Picard ignored the threat. He was charmed. There was no one alive who could spoil that luck.
«Santon!» he snapped.
"Sir?" Major Santon resisted the urge to crouch.
"One company up here. They are to destroy the barrels, with volley fire, you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And while they're doing that, send the voltigeurs up the slopes."
The general waved to where puffs of white smoke betrayed the position of the riflemen. He did not know they were riflemen, and if he had he might have shown more caution, but he believed the ambush had been set by partisans. But whoever it was, they would soon be chased out of their lairs by the French light infantry.
"Do it now! " Picard snapped. "We don't have all day."
He turned away and a bullet plucked at his cloak, flicking it out like a banner caught by the wind. Picard turned back, looked to find the newest patch of musket smoke, and lined a finger to it. «Bastards,» he said as he walked away, "bastards."
Who would now get a lesson for Christmas.
«BUGLER!» Sharpe called, and the thirteen-year-old boy came running out of the battalion to stand behind his major. "Sound the retreat, " Sharpe ordered, and saw Patrick Harper lift a quizzical eyebrow. "The Frogs will send their voltigeurs up the valley sides, " Sharpe explained. "No point in our riflemen hanging around while they do that. The lads have done the damage."
The bugler took a deep breath, then blew hard. The call was a triple call of nine notes, the first eight stuttering on one note, the last flying high up the scale. The sound of the bugle echoed from the distant hills and Sharpe, gazing through his telescope, saw the cloaked French general turn back.
"Again, lad, " Sharpe told the bugler.
The bugle call was sending two messages. First, it was telling the riflemen to abandon their positions and climb back to the ridge, but it was also telling the French that they faced an enemy more formidable than partisans. They were facing trained infantry, veteran troops, and when Sharpe was certain that the Frenchman was staring up at the ridge in an effort to catch sight of the bugler, he turned and shouted at the Prince of Wales's Own Volunteers.
"'Talion! By the right! Forward, " a pause, "march!»
They stamped forward in perfect order, a line of men two ranks deep beneath their bright colours.
"'Talion! " Sharpe shouted as they reached the ridge's crest. "Halt! Fix bayonets!»
Sharpe was putting on a display for the French. The enemy had been bloodied, they had been panicked, and now they faced a long, steep climb up a bare, cold hill to where they could see the redcoats of Britain and the long glitter of seventeen-inch bayonets.
Ensign Nicholls came to stand by Sharpe. "What are we doing, sir?"
"We're giving the Frogs an invitation, Mr. Nicholls. Seeing if they're brave enough to come up and play."
"Will they?"
"I doubt it, lad, " Sharpe said. "I doubt it."
"Why not, sir?" "Because they're about to be given a demonstration, lad, that's why. Sergeant Major?"
"Sir?" Harper acknowledged.
"Three rounds, Sergeant Major, platoon fire, and I want it fast."
"Yes, sir."
The range was much too great for a smoothbore musket, but Sharpe did not have a mind to kill any more Frenchmen today. He had already killed too many for his liking. Christmas should be peace on earth, not broken bodies on a hard road, so he would show the French exactly what waited for them at the hilltop.
He would show them that they faced veterans who could fire their muskets faster than any other troops on earth. He would show them that to climb the hill was to enter hell and, with any luck, they would decline the invitation.
"Stand back, Mr. Nicholls, " Sharpe said, and steered the ensign back through the waiting ranks. "Now, Sergeant Major!»
Harper ordered the men to remove their bayonets and load their muskets and, when they were ready, he took a deep breath. "Number four company! " he shouted. "Number five company! Fire!»
The two centre companies fired together. The muskets slammed back into their shoulders, and a dirty fill of powder smoke spat across the crest.
No other orders were given, but as soon as the centre companies had fired, the platoons on either side pulled their triggers. Each company was split into two platoons, and each platoon waited for the one inside them to fire before firing themselves. To the watching French it must have looked as though the smoke was rippling out along the high, red line.
But any troops could fire one round in a pretty ripple. What would but fear into the French was the speed with which the second bullet was fired. Sharpe noted with approval that the centre companies were all reloaded before the ripple of musket fire had reached the battalion's outer flanks. Those flanks fired and within a heartbeat the centre companies had fired again, and again the ripple spread outwards as the men in the centre dropped their muskets' heavy butts onto the stony ground and ripped the top from new cartridges with their teeth.
The second staggered volley of musket balls whistled out into the void and then the third followed without a pause. It had been a marvelous display, the best infantry in the world showing what it did best, and if that promise of slaughter did not give the enemy pause, then nothing would.
But Picard was not a man to heed a warning, and Sharpe, watching from the crest, saw the French preparing to come forward again.
And just then, far to the south from where the picquet watched the road leading into Spain, a musket fired and Sharpe spun around. He knew the other enemy was coming.
PART THREE
"CAPTAIN d'Alembord! " Sharpe shouted.
"Sir?"
"You take over here, Dally, " Sharpe said, "and I'll take your horse."
The French brigade was forming a column. It could mean only one thing, that they planned to attack straight up the hill. But before advancing their leading rank fired musket volleys at the fifteen remaining wine barrels that blocked the road, the remnant of Sharpe's ingenious and deadly trap.