On the road to Lisbon

"Wouldn't be the first time," Sharpe said, grateful nevertheless for Padstowe's sensitivity. He eased his own pack off and sat down on the grass by the edge of the road. "I don't want you to think I'm fussin'," he began slowly, "but I do need you to tell me if you need to stop or slow down or somethin'. I get you back to Lisbon anything less than fit, apart from your arm, and Sir Arthur'll hve me guts."

"Here," said Stephen, half-collapsing against a tree. "I am much obliged to you, Perkins. If I could have a moment?" Perkins nodded, wide-eyed, his face pale in the darkness. Stephen was confused, and somewhat hurt. Sure, he had shouted a little when Padstowe had not woken, but that had been at everyone, and he did not know what he had done to make the young man so nervous of him. "Are you all right, Perkins?"

The same jerky nod. "I'll leave you be, sir." He moved some space away, allowing Stephen to empty himself in something resembling privacy. Spitting in an attempt to rid his mouth of the bitter taste of bile, Stephen limped back to the boy, who offered him his arm.

Stephen smiled at the young rifleman. "I am sorry to be of so much trouble to you," he said with as much kindness as his pounding head could manage. He was glad of the lad's help, however scared he seemed to be, for now his legs were trembling again from pain and exertion. He tried to pull himself back under control as they came upon the rest of their band.

"Probably not your guts," Padstowe said mildly, seating himself carefully next to Sharpe and removing his hat. "Probably your balls, salted and displayed on his desk as a warning to any other such careless individual."

Stephen raised his eyebrow at the conversation he seemed to have wandered into. He moved a little way from Padstowe and Sharpe and sat down, noting sadly that Perkins moved with a real sense of urgency to be back with his fellow soldiers once he had safely deposited the doctor. No surprise, really. He washed his mouth with some water from his canteen, spitting it out, and then taking a drink.

"Yeah, them an' all," he replied, watching Perkins move away from Maturin to sit between Hagman and Cooper. What had got into the lad?

"Balls, guts. Hell, he'd have my head, an' all." Several years' acquaintance with General Wellesley, and he still felt like a raw recruit trying his damnedest to please, without quite knowing what would please the man.

He pulled some bread out his haversack. "It ain't much, but do you want some?"

Padstowe accepted the offered bread, chewing thoughtfully as he stared up at the cloudy sky. He gave a glance over to the doctor, then back to the grass in front of him.

"It's not really me you have to worry about," he said quietly so Maturin would not hear. "It's him. He probably has not seen fit to tell you, but along with the cut to his leg he has a fractured skull which is not doing him any favours."

Sharpe looked hard at Padstowe. "I knew he'd bumped his head, he had that glassy look in his eyes, but I didn't realise it were that bad. And how bad a cut to his leg?" No wonder the doctor wasn't looking so good.

"What, exactly, happened back there?" He waved along the road, indicating the general direction of the village and, beyond it, Obidos.

Padstowe swallowed the mouthful of bread, considering how much he could tell Sharpe, or how much he should tell.

"We had to search a man's house for the papers," He had lowered his voice so much that it was now barely above a rumble. "I was to take the ground floor whilst he searched upstairs. Unfortunately our man was home, went upstairs and found the doctor at his bureau. I did not see everything that happened, but there raised voices and a shot, and when I got upstairs the man had Maturin pinned down, a pistol in his hand and the doctor a gash across his leg."

He paused.

"I put my pistol to the back of the Frenchman's head, telling him to discard his weapon, but he was stronger than I thought and quick; so quick he put a ball in my shoulder and threw me back against the wall. I must have fainted, because the next I recall was the doctor's face above me, white as a sheet, and the Frenchman lying dead on the floor with the doctor's catling in his throat."

"Ah." Not so different from Copenhagen really. Only Sharpe thought Padstowe was probably better at it.

"You didn't hit your head, as well, did you?" And he'd have to get Pat, or Dan Hagman, to take a look at the doctor's leg. If he'd let them. Doctors made the worst patients, and to top it all, Maturin was a physician.

"Just a knock," Padstowe said dismissively. "Enough to stun me at the time, but no damage. All things considering I rather believe I got off quite lightly."

"Right. Just don't do anything stupid that'll mean you lose your arm." And friend or not, Sharpe had no right to say that to a superior officer. Wouldn't be the first time he'd said something to a superior officer that he had no right to.

"Perkins!"

He watched the lad scramble up and come over. "Keep an eye on the doctor. If he looks like he's going to go unconscious or something, let me know."

"Yes, sir." Though there was a look of consternation on the lad's face as he said it.

"Don't worry, he ain't goin' to eat you. Now get back to the others; you've got five minutes longer before we get movin' again."

Padstowe frowned as Perkins went away again.

"I'm worried about that boy."

"Perkins?" Sharpe frowned. "'Ave I missed summat?" He thought about getting Cooper to watch the doctor instead, but really didn't know what he could do about Perkins.

"Hasn't been the same since Calderón held that knife to his throat. Been looking like a frightened rabbit for the past day."

Maybe he was being too hard on the lad. He mentally revised his plan to have Perkins do any scouting ahead on this journey. Maybe keeping him closer to the rest of them would help him calm down a bit. He looked at Padstowe, at a bit of a loss, and decided to ask his friend's advice. "What do you reckon I should do wi' him? I don't want him startling at nothin', and he does look like he'd jump at his own shadow."

"Maybe you should have someone talk to him," Padstowe said. "One of your men. Hagman probably; I know they're skirmishing partners and that he's fond of the lad. That would be best. You can't do it, as you're his officer, and I can't because it's none of my business."

Not his regiment. He gave a disgusted snort. Not as if he had a regiment anymore...

Maybe he should, at that. Hell, they were his men, and what did it look like, not even being able to see one of them was upset, pissed off and God only knew what-all else?

And now he was pissed off with himself, and that wouldn't help anyone. Besides which, it was time to get moving again.

He stood up and swung his pack onto his back.

"Right. Up you get, lads, let's get going. Harris, you're on point."

Padstowe picked up his hat and put it back on, levering himself back up again.

"Are you coming, doctor?"

Stephen's head jerked up when he heard Sharpe say they were moving off. The rest had done his leg good - he would even hazard putting some weight on it - but his head swam more. At least the nausea was done away with. He managed to get to his feet, swaying and unsteady, when he heard a voice at his side. He gasped, looked up - it was Padstowe. "I am."

The captain frowned at the gasp and saw evenin the dim light the doctor's eyes still somewhat unfocussed.

"Stphen," he said, gripping his arm to support him. "Are you fit enough to go on. Because if you are not take your own advice for once and rest. We may be able to rig a stretcher for you."

"Of course I am, Captain," he snapped back. "We have just rested, and I am much better for it." He stopped, knowing that he had been unfair, and feeling guilty for it. "I am fine," he said in a much softer tone of voice.

This was worse than Sharpe had wanted. He really didn't look too good, even in the failing light. "Doctor, if you can't go on, I need to know. Because otherwise you're puttin' us all in danger."

He sighed. "If you need to rest, we can get off the road and find somewhere to hide up, but if you're determined to go on, it'll cause problems if you find you can't. You need to be honest with us, an' I'm sorry for harpin' on about it."

Head wounds were always the worst to deal with, and medical men made lousy patients.

Stephen blanched at Sharpe's words, and looked around at the arrayed faces. "I-" He swallowed, and nodded. "I can go on. I will keep up. It is a passing weakness - they come and go - and I say that as a doctor, and not from pride."

There was nothing for it. There was no way Maturin would admit to weakness, and Padstowe suddenly recalled his bodily lifting the doctor through the water gate when he had stood there protesting. But this was a completely different scenario, and they needed to keep moving. He nodded.

"Very well. We keep going."

"Right." Only Sharpe planned on keeping a very close eye on the doctor; they didn't need him declaring that he was fitter than he was and then passing out on them unexpectedly.

"If you need a break before I call one, tell me. Otherwise we march for another hour." Though without a watch, it was likely to be more than that. Not that you could read a watch in the dark, of course.