On the road to Lisbon

"Ah, yes, the capitaine." Uncocking the pistol, he struggled into a sitting position. He blinked, some lucidity returning for his rest - the effects of the concussion still remained in strength, but he felt a little more able to cope with them. "They cannot be moved here?" Something was wrong - he frantically patted his chest - the file was there, but the papers were not.

"Brought to you," Raoul considered. "Prud'homme we could, I suppose. He bleeds, we cannot stop it, and ... But not Corbeille, the ball is in his back, and we have nothing to carry him on." He blinked. "I do not think he will survive if we move him."

Padstowe saw the doctor's sudden frantic searching, refilled the mug from the pot and calmly walked over to them.

"They've safe," he said flatly. His mood was such that he would rather be economical with his words today, seeming as it was his tongue that had run away with him last night. He silently handed down the mug to Stephen. "Tea. I'm sorry we have no coffee."

Sharpe turned over, muttered something and went back to sleep. It would not take much to bring him, a trained soldier, back to full wakefulness. Somewhere, in a corner of his mind, he was aware of people moving around, but there was no hint of panic or confusion that meant he was needed awake.

He shivered a little; he had not wrapped himself in his blanket as usual as he had fallen asleep where he sat after all the fighting was finally done. He stirred a little as someone - Harris? Perkins? - wrapped a blanket round him, but he didn't wake.

Harper glanced over his shoulder as Harris went over to Sharpe, wrapping a blanket around him. Harris left the Lieutenant to sleep, so Harper would do the same. If anything was wrong, Harris would let him know.

"Tea." Raoul spoke flatly. In fact, he would have enjoyed a cup of tea, even with these men, but there was something so normal about it, so English, that it twisted in his stomach.

But it was unreasonable to make demands, now that the Captain was awake his position became again more precarious. What would he make of the agreements reached the night before?

Stephen sighed in relief, and took the mug. He wondered for a moment at the Captain's mood, but such things were not only usually in cases of desanguination, but common. And considering what had happened the night before. "It is the drink of the world." Normally he despised tea, but it was liquid, it was hot, and - sipping at it - it was vile but at least it was strong, and it quenched the thirst admirably. He finished it in one long mouthful, and handed the empty mug back to Padstowe with a smile.

Sharpe was still asleep, his men seemed well, and Padstowe was looked ten times better than he had the night before, for all his palid, pinched look, and so he could see to the French. "Then I must go to him. Sergeant, there is a bottle in one of the saddle-bags, a little more than a pint - would you bring it to me, please?" He turned back to des Sablières. "If I go with you, can I be assured of my safety? Once we arrive, there will be no stuff that I am 'not an enemy combatant' and therefore truce does not apply, or anything of that sort?"

Padstowe glanced at des Sablières, his expression one of bored neutrality. If the doctor could treat the wounded first, then perhaps they could clear up this mess once and for all. He merely wanted to go home.

"I could send one of the men with you if you are worried, doctor," he said. He might as well attempt civility to the Frenchman as well. "Tea for you, monsieur?"

The captain's offer was welcome. His mouth was dry and tasted of blood. "That - would be very kind. But after the doctor has seen my men, perhaps."

And then to the doctor. "You are a doctor - I am satisfied of that, at least, and you will be treating my men. As such a truce will always apply, whatever else. And - we are not exactly alone there, you know. Your 'friends' have their eyes on us." He smiled, though it hurt to do so. The area round his nose and eyes felt as tender as if smashed with a hammer. A hard head, this doctor.

"And pain - you spoke of laudanum. Some of my men are in pain, and they have to ride today. We cannot remain here in limbo for ever."

Harper glanced between the Doctor and Raoul, before heading over to the saddlebag in question. He knew the Chosen Men were watching him, so kept a stern face - he didn't want them thinking they could let their guard slip against these Frenchmen.

The bottle was where the Doctor had said, and Harper found it easily, quickly returning it to its owner. He didn't want to leave them alone for too long.

"Very well - I will come now." He was not fully satisfied, but looking at the young French captain, he thought an abduction unlikely. An idea occurred to him. "Captain, might I have another mug of that tea?"

"Certainly, doctor," Padstowe said. "And perhaps once you have shown the doctor to your wounded, monsieur, you might care to return for a cup of tea? We will be able to discuss our plans more easily then."

Because Padstowe did not believe all the tea in China or India could possibly make him feel better, but may put him in a better mindframe for negotiating.

Stephen took the mug of tea, and noticing that the French captain's powder horn was closest to hand, he pulled it from his belt, and tapped a measure into the mug. He stirred it with his finger, tasted it, made a face, and then added more powder.

"I will stay with him, if you do not mind." He had pledged his word for the doctor's safety. "But I will return, and we can talk. We should talk."

He flinched as the man took his powder, and then watched, baffled.

Sharpe rolled over and woke, instantly alert for trouble. It seemed there was none, which was just as well as he couldn't have done very much. His thinking was still woolly, even as he stretched and sat up. His shoulder ached where someone had hit or kicked him last night in all the confusion, but it couldn't hurt as much as Padstowe's did. Somehow he'd avoided getting creased by a bullet, though he didn't know how, it had been so dark and confused.

And there was a fire going, with a kettle. He cracked a smile. Trust his lads to think of tea first. Though one of them was cleaning a rifle. Which reminded him - must be woolly-headed to not think of his rifle first! - where was his rifle? He really needed to clean it and give it a bit of oil.

Stephen took another sip of his concoction, and then spat it out. He pulled up some likely-looking stalks of grass and added them to the cup, giving the impression that they were stewing. The Irish sergeant had brought him the bottle of laudanum, and he called "Go raibh maith agat!" to the man across the camp. He was glad now that he had taken no laudanum himself, and that Padstowe had refused it - this was the kind of dose Stephen might take for an undisturbed night's sleep, he thought bitterly - it would not be enough to give a proper dose to all the men who might need it. That is where his 'tea' would come in.

"You will need to help me to them, I am afraid."

Padstowe nodded, and turned to see that Sharpe was now awake and sitting upright against the tree.

"I shall leave you to M. des Sablières' care, doctor," he said, inclining his head politely and then going to to make his way across to the rifles officer.

"Of course." Raoul offered his arm. "You are still in pain, and - your head? If we had any alternative, I would not ask you for help, you understand? But I cannot even ask a local doctor to help -they would not do so for us." Treacherous ground, and Raoul stopped speaking, concentrating on helping the doctor without spilling his brew.

Someone - he thought at first it was Harper - called something in Gaelic. He realised it was the doctor and frowned. He didn't know the doctor spoke Gaelic. But then, there was a lot about the doctor he didn't know. He wondered if anyone did.

He sat there for a moment, letting the sights and sounds of camp revive him a little. He smelt the woodsmoke curling up from the fire and grinned as the wind shifted a little, giving Perkins a faceful. The boy coughed and moved round the fire to the other side.

He could see the kettle in its place. His men always took it with them, never complaining about the extra weight they inflicted on themselves. They always knew they'd want a cup of tea, wherever they were. He hadn't let them light a fire last night, but they were making up for it now.

He wondered if he had the strength and co-ordination to stand up, decided he didn't, yet and sat back down to see Padstowe approaching.

"Mornin', sir," he said, deciding it was best to use the honorific with all these Frogs and what-not about.

Stephen considered asking for one of the Chosen Men to accompany him, but decided against it - if the French were to breach their truce, then one rifleman would not stop them. He picked up the bottle and the mug with one hand, and then used the tree to lever himself up - he was loath to appear weak in front of des Sablières. Even his Luciferian pride had its limits when confronted with his current amount of pain, however, and he gratefully took the Frenchman's arm. "I understand."

"I will check on the Lieutenant and yourself when I return, Captain." He was still trying to figure out Sharpe and Padstowe, and how they related to Richard and Jonathan.

They had removed the bodies of the men killed in the path - including that of the trooper shot by Maturin - but the horse's body had merely been shifted to the side. It was strange. For that moment they were alone. He could have easily overpowered the doctor, in his weakened state, and since everyone clearly held him as valuable, have used him as a lever to extricate his men. But he could not do so.

"Mind your feet here," he said. "The ground is uneven, and ... Would you like me to carry the mug?"

The irregulars, most of them, were loosely spread out in the woods around the two groups of soldiers. After the call to stand down, Calderón had moved them out of immediate sight, but had waited until the two groups had separated before sending them to watch-posts a little further away from the clearings. He would not relax his guard until the Frenchmen were gone.

Movement in the clearing where the British had made their rough sort of camp drew his notice. Two of the green-jackets had roused and with them the red-coat officer. Calderón made his silent way closer to observe, in part out of curiosity. The French officer had joined them and now Esteban was awakened. In the light cast by the fire somebody had started, he could see faces and guess at actions.

His eyes narrowed slightly when the Frenchman moved, lending his arm to Esteban. What was this? Suspicious, the scout watched the pair as they started toward the place the French had chosen as their own camp. He disliked this situation, for Esteban had taken no green-jackets with him for escort. Calderón followed the pair, taking care to remain in the trees so he would not be seen. The irregulars would reappear in an instant if he called for them, perhaps the only comfort he could take at the moment.

"Morning, lieutenant," he said, the smallest of smiles quirking at his lips. He'd picked up another mug on the way across and offered it to Sharpe. "I take it you'll be wanting this? Seeming as everyone else has had some."

"Thank you, yes." He handed the mug over. "I do not have enough laudanum for all of your wounded, and for the dying, a placebo will work just as well. I find that men do not believe that a drug will do them good unless it is almost undrinkably hideous in taste." He was speaking to hide his nervousness, a very real fear, for they were now out of sight of the British camp, and despite the pistol tucked into his breeches, he knew that he would not stand a chance against the Frenchman in his state.

"I do not like to see it abused, but we must leave at once, if we are to go at all. There are considerations." Such as if the English found out - if he himself found out - exactly what had happened in that sleepy village of whose name he was still unaware. That might alter things with - literally - a vengeance. This morning, thinking rather more clearly, he had decided that saving St-Laurent was not an issue.

"We cannot leave if the men cannot ride. There is one - who has been at my side these last two years - whose arm is shattered. He will not complain, but I am concerned."