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.

"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.