Sharpe's Christmas s-17

by Бернард Корнуэлл

  "The baby is sideways, " he told Gudin. "It should be headfirst."

  "If you cut her, she'll die, " said Gudin.

  "So?" The surgeon despised soldiers' women. "She'll die if I don't cut her."

  "Just keep her alive as far as Irati, " Gudin said, "and there you can operate."

  "If she lives that long, " the surgeon muttered, and just then a dull rumble sounded from the mountains ahead. It sounded like distant thunder, but there were no storm clouds over the peaks and a second after the rumble had faded the small wind brought the crackle of musketry.

  "You see, " Caillou spurred back down the column with a look of spiteful triumph. "There's enemy ahead."

  "We don't know that, " Gudin said. "That sound could have come from anywhere."

  "They're waiting for us, " Caillou said, pointing dramatically towards the hills. "And if we'd abandoned the women, we'd be there already. It's your doing, Gudin. I promise if my Eagle is lost, the Emperor will know it's your doing."

  "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.

  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.

  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.

  And only fifty paces away.

  "Now, Sergeant Major, " Sharpe said, and he stepped back through the advancing ranks and tried not to feel sorry for the Frenchmen he was about to kill.

  «Fire!» Harper shouted, and this time the whole line fired in unison so that their bullets smacked home in one lethal blow. "Platoon, fire! " Harper shouted before the echo of the volley had died away. "From the centre!»

  Sharpe could see nothing of the enemy now, for they were hidden behind a thick cloud of grey-white powder smoke, but he could imagine the horror. Probably the whole French front rank was dead or dying, and most of the second rank, too, and the men behind would be pushing and the men in front stumbling on the dead and wounded, and then, just as they were recovering from the first volley, the rolling platoon fire began. "Aim low! " Harper shouted. "Aim low!»

  The air filled with the rotten-egg stench of powder smoke. The men's faces were flecked with burning powder scraps, while the paper cartridge wadding, spat out behind each bullet, started small, flickering fires in the grass.

  On and on the volleys went as men fired blindly down into the smoke, pouring death into a small place, and still they loaded and rammed and fired, and Sharpe did not see a single man in his own regiment fall. He did not even hear a French bullet. It was the old story, a French column was being pounded by a British line, and British musketry was crushing the column's head and flanks and flecking its centre with blood.

  Sharpe had posted a man wide of the line so that he could see past the smoke.

  "They're running, sir! They're running! " the man shouted excitedly. "Running like hell!»

  "Cease fire! " Sharpe bellowed. "Cease fire!»

  And slowly the smoke cleared to show the horror on the winter grass. Blood and horror and broken men. A column had met a line. Sharpe turned away. "Mister d'Alembord."

  "Sir?"

  "Take a white flag and ride to the southern road. Find the garrison commander.

  Tell him we broke a French brigade and that we'll break him in exactly the same manner if he doesn't surrender."

  "Sir! Sir! Please sir! " That was Ensign Nicholls, jumping up and down beside d'Alembord. "Can I go with him, sir? Please, sir. I've never seen a Frog. Not close up, sir."

  "They've got tails and horns, " d'Alembord said, and smiled when Nicholls looked alarmed.

  "If you can borrow a horse, " Sharpe told the ensign, "you can go. But keep your mouth shut! Let Mister d'Alembord do the talking."

  "Yes, sir, " Nicholls said, and ran happily away while Sharpe turned back to the north. The French had broken and run, and he doubted they would be back, but he was not willing to care for their wounded. He had neither the men nor the supplies to do that, so someone would have to go down to the enemy under a flag of truce and offer them a chance to clear up the mess they had made.

  Just in time for Christmas.

  Colonel Caillou watched the two red-coated horsemen approach under their flag of truce and felt an immense rage surge inside him. Gudin would surrender, he knew it, and when that happened Caillou would lose the Eagle that the Emperor himself had presented to the 75th.

  He would not let it happen, and so, in a blind fury, he drove back his spurs and galloped after Gudin.

  Gudin heard him coming, turned and waved him back, but Caillou ignored him.

  Instead he drew his pistol. "Go back! " he shouted in English to the approaching
officers. "Go back!»

  D'Alembord reined in his horse. "Do you command her, monsieur?" he asked Caillou in French.

  "Go back! " Caillou shouted angrily. "We do not accept your flag. You hear me?

  We do not accept it. Go! " He leveled the pistol at the younger officer who held the offending flag of truce, a white handkerchief tied to a musket's ramrod. «Go!» Caillou shouted, then spurred his horse away from Gudin who had moved to intervene.

  "It's all right, Charlie, " d'Alembord said. "He won't shoot. It's a flag of truce." He looked back to Caillou. "Monsieur? I insist upon knowing if you command here."

  "Just go! " Caillou shouted, but at that moment Nicholls's horse stumbled a pace forward and Caillou, overwhelmed with rage for the anticipated shame of surrender, pulled the pistol's trigger.

  The white flag toppled slowly. Nicholls stared at Caillou with a look of astonishment on his young face, then he turned in puzzlement to gaze at d'Alembord. D'Alembord reached out a hand, but Nicholls was already falling.

  The bullet had broken through one of the gold laces his mother had sewn onto his jacket and then it had pierced his young heart.

  Caillou seemed suddenly shocked, as if he had only just realized the enormity of his crime. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Instead, a second pistol sounded and Caillou, just like Nicholls, toppled dead from his horse.

  Colonel Gudin put his pistol back in its holster. "I command here, " he told d'Alembord in English. "To my shame, sir. I command here. You have come to offer terms?"

  "I have come to fetch your surrender, sir, " d'Alembord said, and saw from Gudin's face that he would get it. The battle was over.

  SHARPE heard of Nicholls's death while he was still watching the French take their dead from the northern slope. He swore when he heard the news, and then he stalked back to the village with pure bloody murder in his head.