So Gudin did.
GENERAL Maximillien Picard sulked. He sat by a miserable fire in the deep, cold valley listening to the moans of his wounded and knew that he had been well beaten.
He had scented defeat from the moment he had seen the demonstration volley the British had flaunted from their high ridge, but Picard had always thought he was a lucky man and he had hoped that his good luck would serve to drive his column up the hill and through the thin British line. But the column had been shattered and his conscripts, instead of tasting victory, were now more fearful than ever.
He drank from a brandy flask. It was three o’clock on Christmas morning, but he could not sleep. The skies had cleared, so that the Christmas stars were bright, but General Picard felt nothing but gloom. “Gudin’s doomed,” he said to his chief of staff Major Santon. “If we couldn’t break those bastards, what hope does he have?”
“None, sir,” Santon said.
“I don’t mind losing Gudin,” Picard said, “but why must we lose Caillou? Now there’s a soldier for you. And if we lose Caillou, Santon, you know what else we lose?”
“The Eagle, sir.”
“The Eagle,” Picard said, and flinched. “We will have lost one of the Emperor’s Eagles.” His eyes filled with tears. “I do not mind defeat, Santon, he said untruthfully, “but I cannot bear the loss of an Eagle. It will be taken to London and flaunted in front of that fat prince. And Eagle of France, gone to captivity.”
Santon said nothing, for there was nothing to say. To a soldier of France there was no shame like losing an Eagle. The birds might be nothing more than little bronze statuettes poised on a staff from which the tricolour flew, but they had all been touched by the Emperor and they were all sacred to France.
And in the dark hills above them, an Eagle was in desperate danger.
“I can bear anything,” Picard said, “except that.”
Then, from above them, all hell broke loose.
To the defeated French brigade in the deep valley it sounded like a battle to end the world. True, there was no artillery firing, but the experienced soldiers claimed they had never heard musketry like it. The volleys were unending, and the crash of those musket blasts was magnified and multiplied by the valley’s echoing walls. They could hear faint screams and shouts, and sometimes a bugle call but, above it all, and never ending, the hammer sound of muskets. There was volley after volley, so many that after a while the sound became continuous; a deep grinding sound like the creak of a hinge on the gate of hell.
“We should go up and help,” Picard said, rising to his feet.
“We can’t, sir,” Santon insisted, and he pointed up to the crest where a line of British soldiers still stood guard. The moon was unsheathed from the clouds, and any Frenchman trying to climb the slope would be a sitting target for those riflemen. “Gudin must fight on his own,” Santon said.
And Gudin must have been fighting, for the musketry, instead of fading, grew in intensity. Picard reckoned it must be Caillou who fought, for surely poor old Gudin could never fight a battle like this. Every now and then a brief glow showed in the sky, betraying where a group of muskets flamed together, and soon the heavy, foul-smelling smoke spilled over the pass’s lip to drift down the slope. And still the splintering volleys ground on.
UP IN THE PASS, Sharpe loaded his rifle. He did it quickly, trained to the intricate motions by a lifetime of soldiering, and when the gun was loaded he raised it to his shoulder, held the muzzle high into the sky, and pulled its trigger.
“Faster!” he shouted, “faster!” And all around him redcoats and greenjackets peppered the sky. They fired volley after volley at the stars and, in between the volleys, they whooped and screamed like demons.
“I pity any poor angel up there tonight, sir,” Patrick Harper said to Captain d’Alembord. “He’ll lose a few wingfeathers, so he will.” And then Harper fired his volley gun at the moon and down in the valley the deafened French gasped, thinking that at last the artillery was joining the fight.