On the road to Lisbon

The exchange had only added to Stephen's determination - he accepted help getting into the saddle from Cooper, but once on he sat up as straight as a ramrod.

Sharpe hid a smile. If nothing else, Maturin certainly had determination. By the bucketload.

He moved over to Hagman and made sure Perkins couldn't overhear. "Dan, keep an eye on Perkins for me. Talk to him, find out what's eatin' him."

As if he hadn't got enough to worry about.

Seeing Maturin safely mounted Padstowe did the same, heaving himself up into the saddle and urging his horse on after the riflemen. If this was going to be the shape of things all the way back it was going to be a long journey...

"Captain Padstowe?" Stephen spoke in a low murmur as he brought his horse into step with Padstowe's. "I am concerned for one of the riflemen. I feel almost that he is afraid of me, and I do not know what I might have done to warrant this."

"I should not worry too much," said Padstowe back. "I think it was more our Spanish friend who is to blame than you. Lieutenant Sharpe is keeping an eye on him."

"You have noticed it as well then?" Stephen looked ahead of him to where Perkins marched. "Why would Calderón be to blame?"

"Well, I think holding the knife to his throat would have done it..."

Had his shock been any greater Stephen would have fallen from his horse. "He did what?"

Padstowe's head snapped round.

"Didn't you see him? You were standing in the doorway when it happened."

"I couldn't see - my eyes were blurred - I just saw men in green at the bottom of the stairs!" Stephen was hissing, trying to keep his voice low in his fury. "That is why I asked you! I asked you what had happened and you said that there had been 'confusion'."

"I thought you were asking why Calderón was doing it," Padstowe hissed back. "I did not know that you could not see what he was doing!"

"Oh, for God's love-!" He looked at Perkins. "I knew there was hostility - I thought they disliked him because they thought he was a local. How could he have been so... hot-headed, so impetuous? He is normally so cautious."

Sharpe looked round at the low voices behind him. There was something wrong there; Maturin looked almost apoplectic, or something, and Padstowe didn't seem much calmer.

He dropped back to be level with them.

"Is everythin' all right?"

Harper, continuing to keep up the rear of the party, watched as Sharpe fell back beside the horses. Though Harper could easily make out the figures ahead of him, the voices didn't carry over the short distance.

Padstowe looked down at Sharpe, his face not at all happy.

"Something of a misunderstanding, Richard," he said bitterly.

"Right." He wasn't sure that he did see, exactly, but it looked as if it was all in hand. Well, he hoped it was anyway. He had far too many things to worry about as it was.

(OOC: I'm off to beddy-byes now; I'm on the early shift tomorrow. See you!)

[OOC: Night. I'm going now too - have to be up early tomorrow as well.]

Stephen was still raging inside, but his fury was no longer directed at Padstowe. Not only had Calderón done such a reckless thing, such a damaging thing, but Stephen had asked him later what had happened, and Calderón had not answered him. He concentrated on steadying his hands while the Captain answered Sharpe, glad that the darkness went a long way towards hiding his expression. Once Sharpe had moved away, he leant back towards Padstowe, speaking in a low murmur. "Should I speak to him?"

[OOC: Good night both of you! ]

"Maybe," Padstowe said. "Sharpe has already asked Hagman to speak to him, but perhaps a word or two from you might have some benefit. An apology at the least. Wait until we next rest and then draw him aside."

Stephen nodded morosely, Padstowe's simple answer serving to take the edge off his anger. It would flare were they to meet the scout, but it served no use until then. Normally he would have balked at having to apologise for another's actions, but he liked the boy Perkins, and every misunderstanding in the group could grow into someone much bigger and more dangerous. "I will do that then."

"Good." Padstowe lapsed into silence, but continued to ride alongside the doctor. If Stephen had not even been able to see what Calderón had been doing...

They continued onwards, eating up the yards that, over time, became miles. Stephen decided that he had tied to cingulum too tight around his torso, judging by the growing pain around his sternum - he would loosen it when they stopped. A voice in the back of his head was whining that they must have been going for much, much longer than an hour, but he was damned if he would ask to stop. The pain in his head was not so bad, he told himself, and the pain in his leg was positively superficial. He would check on Padstowe's shoulder when they stopped, he decided, after he spoke to Perkins.

His shoulder was hardly troubling him now, the motion of the horse not really disturbing the wound and only the odd stab of pain now and again. What bothered him was more the feeling of weariness that was slowly overtaking him; which was absurd. He had been sleeping all day, and had barely been up and about for five hours - he had endured far worse, sometimes gone days without sleep and not felt too many ill effects, but this to his mind was ridiculous, and it irritate him.

They rode on through the darkness.

Stephen could not stop a small sigh of relief escaping him when he finally heard Sharpe halt and give the order to stop for ten minutes. "Rifleman Perkins, if I may beg of your assistance?" First he would sort this, to the best of his ability, and then he would talk to Padstowe.

For the past mile, the Dutourd letter had been weighing heavily on his mind, and he had considered sharing it with the British officer, but the letter had been in the secret compartment of the desk, addressed as an uncoded private missive to Prideaux - even the clerk would not have seen it. If they were caught, it would still be safer to introduce himself as Maturin - that is what he would do if captured in his physical capacity, either by sea or on land. There was no evidence that the French were chasing them, but his instincts told him that something was not right, and his instincts were rarely wrong.

When he'd left the village, he had gone a mile or so back toward Óbidos. The odds of French pursuit were high and he wanted to see for himself if there was any immediate danger of discovery. There was nothing yet but that meant little. It wouldn't take much time for a cavalry patrol or even a troop of infantry to be gathered and sent out. Once he was satisfied that, for the moment, the group of British in the village were safe enough, Calderón started on the journey toward Lisbon.

The padre had come through for him well. He crossed paths with a couple of men who, like himself, followed the armies around and set out with them along the road. There would be others appearing as if out of the earth once day broke. Calderón and his two companions did not go far before leaving the road. There was little good in staying on so public a route, at least at night. The clouds overhead made it more difficult to see as well. Finding and following the group wasn't likely until morning. Still, Calderón and his companions kept padding along, making up ground that had probably been lost while he'd back-tracked toward Óbidos.

The trio halted for the remainder of the night after what Calderón judged to be almost two miles. None of them carried anything to use for bedding but they needed none. All they required, they wore on their backs. The hard earth was as good a bed as a feather mattress, after all. Calderón, having re-acquired his straw hat, settled into a slight hollow in the ground and covered his face with his hat. It would take very little for him to awaken even with the hat. Besides, they'd hear any travellers on the road. Once the sun rose, they would resume their passive pursuit.