Gudin took the Eagle, then hugged Sharpe and kissed him farewell.
'After the war, Sharpe?' he said huskily. 'I shall see you after the war?'
'I hope so, sir. I do hope so.'
There was one last charade to mount. The men guarding the frontier ridge fired their muskets, then ran in pretended panic as Gudin's small procession approached.
And from the valley below, General Picard watched in amazement as a small group of Frenchmen appeared at the ridge's crest. They were only a few men, a mere handful, less than a tenth of those he had expected, but they had fought their way through; they had even brought a wagon through.
And then Picard saw a golden glint shine above the dark shapes who fired back at the ridge behind them and he raised his telescope and stared intently, trying to track down the elusive gleam, and suddenly there it was. It was the Eagle. He could see its spread wings and its banded flag.
'They've brought the Eagle! ' Picard shouted. 'They've saved the Eagle! ' And his defeated men began to cheer.
The firing in the high pass died slowly to leave a layer of gunsmoke lingering above the road. The riflemen and redcoats grinned. They had enjoyed the nonsense. None had wanted to spend Christmas in this high country that was so far from their beef and plum-pudding, but the expedition had turned into a game.
It was a pity about Ensign Nicholls, of course, but what had he expected?
Everyone knew that Mister Sharpe was fatal for ensigns, but at least Mister Nicholls was to be buried in France. Sharpe had insisted on that. The boy had come to fight the French and, for all eternity, he would hold a tiny scrap of captured French soil.
But no one else had died. No one else had even taken a wound, and the regiment had turned back a whole French brigade, while in the village, under the guard of the Grenadier company, 900 French prisoners waited to be marched back into Spain and captivity.
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.
