On the road to Lisbon

Oh God, that bloody note. He hadn't had a chance to act on it... and the thought of those cold blue eyes boring holes into his skull suddenly brought the headache back.

"No, and he's probably going to shout at me. Though Heaven knows I've been busy enough since he got here. But if we're going that way, I probably ought to give him a proper report an' all."

"Too busy to see him?" It can't have been a direct order then, and Padstowe carefully pressed for more.

"What is it he wants to see you about?"

"No idea. He just said he'd like to see me at the earliest possible convenience to me, but it was a request not an order. And what with one thing and another, I ain't had a chance to see him."

And if it was an invitation to take tea and biscuits with the General, he'd eat his hat.

'At the earliest possible convenience'? Padstowe's mind boggled at the phrasing. What could the General want to see Sharpe about that relied on his 'convenience'? And why had such a request made Sharpe blush?

"Most officers would have taken that as an order," he said thoughtfully, chivvying his nag along a little faster.

"Yeah, which was why he said it wasn't," Sharpe said. "Here." He dug the (now rather tatty) piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it over. "See? Last line."

But why the General wanted to see him, he couldn't say.

Padstowe glanced through the lines - written in the General's own hand, no less - and saw for himself the odd phrasing, including, as Sharpe had said, the last line clearly stating that this was not an order.

It was signed simply 'AW'.

"Curious," he said, handing the note backto Sharpe. "Curious indeed."

"Ain't it just," Sharpe said, accepting the note back and tucking it away. "Wouldn't have thought he'd want to ask me so much as the time of day. Though I don't reckon it's for tea an' biscuits wi' the General."

Though the sooner they were back, the sooner he'd find out. And he really had no excuse to put the meeting off any more. Bugger.

"Might get the tea," Pasdtowe said. "But probably not the biscuits; he doesn't eat much during the day, so if he offers you biscuits be worried."

Not that he imagined for a moment the General would. He knew that Sharpe and Sir Arthur had a history, knew that each held the other in the highest regard, though they would never dream of admitting it to the other... But this note? He did not know what to think and merely shook his head again.

Sharpe didn't even expect tea. Just to stand to attention in front of the big desk while the General stared coldly up at him and made him feel about as insignificant as any Private felt.

He still had the telescope. The only thing of any material value the General had ever given him. Sometimes he wondered why he hadn't pawned it, what it was that made him hold on to it. He wondered if Sir Arthur realised he still had it.

"Be lucky to get the tea. Probably have to just play Sergeant with the man. Y'know, 'Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir.'" Sir Arthur was the only man who scared Sharpe, but he wouldn't admit that to anyone, even on pain of death.

"Well whatever you end up doing you'll have a far more interesting day than I shall."

He scuffed at a stone on the road. They were starting to come into other traffic from the city now and he wondered if he should remount yet, then decidedto leave it a little longer.

"Who will you see first; him or Hogan?"

"Dunno. Either way, I'm going to want to pull someone's head off." He frowned. "Probably be best to see Sir Arthur first. I want to pull Hogan's head off anyway, and seeing him first won't help me feel any better."

(OOC: I have work this afternoon. Would you tell Lieutenant Leat someone's sent him a message, and please don't be too angry with the Marines?)

"Might I suggest it be better you pull Hogan's head off first? Somehow I think it would be better if you see the General not anticipating decapitating one of his officers?"

"Could do. Though I'd rather not walk into his office and find myself snapping at him. He wouldn't appreciate it. Well, I reckon he wouldn't."

He wondered if he should mount Noix and ride into Lisbon. It'd make some of those snobbish types sit up and stare, even if he did look like a sack of potatoes.

Padstowe doubted Sharpe would have the nerve to snap at the General, but even if he did Sir Arthur was probably one of the few men who could effectively deal with Richard Sharpe in a temper.

They were getting close enough to the city for appearances to matter, and Padstowe halted his horse and mounted up. He looked down at Sharpe.

"Might as well get some use out of that beast whilst you have it. What do you say; a triumphal ebntry into Lisbon?" He smiled. "And your horse is better than mine..."

Why did born officers make it look so easy, riding a horse? Sharpe gritted his teeth and hauled himself into the saddle, where he tried to figure out what to do with his hands, knees and feet. The ground looked an awfully long way down from up here, too.

"Triumphal entry be blowed," he said, trying get comfortable. "I'll be lucky not to fall off before we get anywhere near the place." Somehow, he just knew the Chosen Men were grinning stupidly at him. They'd never seen him on a horse before, and he could barely remember the last time he'd ridden one. Probably at Assaye, he reckoned. Well, that was six years ago, or so, so it was no wonder he didn't feel right.

"You steer mostly with your knees," Padstowe said, hopeing to be helpful. "Sit a little more forward in the saddle - that's it - and push your knees together. The reins you hold like this -" He indicated his hand. "- only of course with both hands. And to get it going you don't always have to dig your heels back; horses quite often obey verbal commands as well... though I suppose that won't be very useful as she probably speaks French."

"She might speak French, but I don't. What's her name mean, anyway?" Sharpe asked, attempting to follow Padstowe's instructions. He had to release one hand to sling his rifle across his back, which made her a little skittish. "Calm down, you bloody thing. Please?"

He looked around, thinking how useful a horse could be on the battlefield, allowing an officer to see over the heads of the men, even while giving the enemy a perfect target. Now, would they cancel each other out, or would the usefulness outweigh the fact the enemy could clearly see the officers? Interesting question, that...

Oh, this was going to be good.

"Noix de Mai - translates as Nuts of May. A reference to the colour of her coat, I believe."

Sharpe blinked and turned to look at Padstowe. "You are havin' me on," he said, then clung to the reins as Noix jibbed at the movement.

"Coom on, be'ave yourself. Please. Even if you don't speak English."

Padstowe smiled.

"Harris!" he called. The rifleman looked up. "Be so good as to tell Mister Sharpe what Noix de Mai means."

"Sir? Nuts in May, sir." The rifleman grinned briefly, then sobered up at the look on Sharpe's face. "Sorry, sir."

"Well, I can't go callin' her that and keep a straight face," Sharpe declared, still trying to imitate Padstowe's seat. "Don't think she likes me much, either."

"You've only been on her two seconds," Padstowe said flatly. "Give it time. And just call her Noix, if you don't want to use the full version."

Why - how - did people manage to make this riding thing look so easy? There was a reason Sharpe preferred shanks' pony; he didn't have to try to persuade his legs to do what he wanted them to, or take him where he wanted to go.

He hoped it would grow easier, but somehow doubted he would ever really look the part of an accomplished rider. "All right, girl, I know I'm a bloody bad rider. Please don't do anything stupid, will you."

Padstowe smiled.

"Always ask a girl nicely, Richard."

[OOC: Nightie night to you. I need to go get some sleep.]

"I allus do, Jonathan. What d'you take me for?"

At least Noix seemed a little calmer now, and he was finding his seat more comfortable. Maybe he could learn to do this, after all.