"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.