But another thousand Frenchmen were coming from the south in their desperate attempt to escape from Spain, and those men knew they must fight through the pass if they were ever to reach home, and their desperation could make those thousand men far more dangerous than the brigade. Sharpe now rode back through the village to where a picquet watched the enemy approaching from the south.
“They’re still a long way off, sir,” Captain Smith reported nervously, worried that he had summoned Sharpe too soon.
“You did the right thing,” Sharpe reassured him as he drew out his telescope.
“What’s happening back there, sir?” Smith asked.
“We showed the Frogs a trick or two, but they still seem to want a fight. But don’t worry, they won’t be spending their Christmas here.” He could see the French refugees now. There were mounted dragoons up front, infantry behind, and one wagon, no guns and a crowd of women and children in the middle.
“That’s good,” Sharpe said quietly.
“Good, sir?” Smith asked.
“They’re bringing their women, captain, and they won’t want them hurt, will they? It might even persuade them to surrender.” Sharpe paused, his eye caught by a metallic gleam above the infantry’s dark shakos. “And they’ve got an Eagle!” Sharpe said excitedly. “That would make a nice Christmas present for the battalion, wouldn’t it? A French Eagle! I could fancy that.”
He collapsed the glass and wondered how much time he had. The column was still a good two hours marching away, which should be enough.
“Just watch them,” he told Smith, then he pulled himself back into d’Alembord’s saddle and rode back to the frontier. It was all a question of timing now.
If the brigade attacked the hill at the same time as the garrison approached the village, then he was in trouble, but when he was back at the northern ridge he saw to his relief that the enemy had already cleared the road of the barrels and that their voltigeurs were spreading out on the slope to herald the attack. The voltigeurs’ job was to advance in a loose, scattered line and harass the redcoats with musket fire. To prevent this, Sharpe sent his own skirmishers into battle.
“Mister d’Alembord! Light Company out! Pick off those voltigeurs.” The French were brave, Sharpe thought. As brave as could be, but also stupid.
They knew volley fire waited for them, but their general would not back down without more blood and Sharpe was ready to give it to him. He had already guessed that the enemy was inexperienced, because the voltigeurs were not forcing home their attack, but trying to stay out of range of the deadly rifles. They were just children, he thought, snatched from a depot and marched to war. It was cruel.
The French column advanced behind the voltigeurs. It looked formidable, but columns always did. This one was thirty files wide and sixty ranks deep: a great solid block of men who had been ordered to climb an impossible slope into a gale of fire. It would be murder, not war, but it was the French commander who was doing the murdering. Sharpe called in his Light Company, then sent them back to join Smith’s picquet. If the French Dragoons rode ahead of the approaching garrison then the riflemen could pick off the horsemen.
“But you stay here,” Sharpe told d’Alembord. “I’ve got a job for you.”
The column lost its cohesion as it tried to cut across the corners of the zig-zagging road. They were getting close now, little more than a hundred paces away, and Sharpe could see the men were sweating despite the day’s cold.
They were wearing, too, and whenever they looked up they saw nothing except a group of officers waiting on the crest. The line of redcoats had pulled back out of sight of the enemy, and Sharpe did not plan to bring them forward until the very last moment.
“Cutting it fine, sir,” d’Alembord observed.
“Give it a minute yet,” Sharpe said. He could hear the drums in the column’s centre now, thought whenever the drummers paused to let the men shout “Vive l’Empereur!” the response was feeble. These men were winded, wearing and wary.