But one hundred Frenchmen went free. One hundred Frenchmen, their women, their children, their colonel and an Eagle. They went free because Sharpe, to help an old friend, had given that friend a victory, and Sharpe now watched Gudin’s men go down the slope, and he saw the men of the defeated brigade run up to greet them. He heard the cheers and, in the silver moonlight, framed in the lens of his telescope, he saw the brigade officers cluster around Colonel Gudin.
Unlucky Gudin, who, on Christmas morning 1813, had saved an Eagle and fought his way to freedom. Colonel Jean Gudin, a hero at last.
“Do you think they’ll ever find out that it was all faked?” Harper asked.
“Who’d ever believe it?” Sharpe asked.
“No one, I suppose,” Harper said, and then, after a pause. “A happy Christmas to you, sir.”
“And to you, Patrick.”
“I suppose it’ll be mutton for dinner?”
“I suppose it will. We’ll buy a few sheep and you can kill them.”
“Not me, sir. You, sir.”
Sharpe laughed, and then turned south towards the village. It was Christmas morning, a crisp, clean, new Christmas morning, and his men were alive, an old friend was a hero and there would be mutton for dinner. It was Sharpe’s Christmas.
The End