“‘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.
None of the barrels contained gunpowder, for Sharpe had possessed only a limited supply, but the French were not to know that. Their volleys cleared the road while their skirmishers climbed the small valley’s side to chase away riflemen who had already retreated. It would take an hour, Sharpe reckoned, before this brigade was in a fit state to advance, and when they did he doubted it would be with much enthusiasm, for they knew what was waiting for them.