On the road to Lisbon

Padstowe smiled down at Sharpe.

"Thank you, much better. Shall we be off then?"

He turned to Stephen at his exclamation, laughing at the look of pure joy on the doctor's face.

"Let's hope his web-footed lady meets him soon!"

"Let us hope so." Smiling fondly up at the trees, Stephen gently urged his horse into movement. He scanned the village for a glimpse of Marta, but apart from their men and Father Miguel standing in his threshold, there was no one. He could not blame them.

Sharpe shook his head, the disbelief he felt written across his face. "Is he always like this, or has that bang on the head affected his wits?" he asked, before deciding he really didn't want to know the answer. Maybe Harris could keep him happy.

He turned to his men.

"Right. Dan's already off, scouting ahead. I want you to stay alert for anything out of the ordinary. If a mouse sneezes, I want to know about it. Let's get the Doctor back to General Wellesley in one piece."

Stephen looked at Sharpe. "Always like what, Lieutenant?"

He hadn't been meant to hear that... oops. He tried to explain. "Excited about something... birds and things." And coming out with long names for them, but he didn't say that part.

And he'd thought Harris was bad!

Padstowe smiled beneath the wide brim of his hat and urged his horse on. He would let Richard extricate himself from that one...

"When there is something to be 'excited' about." In truth, a nightingale was not in the least bit exciting, but Stephen was glad for anything to distract him from the symptoms of his concussion, let alone the spasms of pain in his leg. He realised how tightly he was gripping the reins in an attempt to keep his balance, and forced himself to relax. "It was a nightingale. It is the male that sings, and not the female, as was once thought, but only the unpaired male."

Padstowe grinned back at Sharpe and winked.

"Whistling for the ladies, poor fellow."

And Padstowe was ignoring the fact he'd dug himself a hole. Great. He hefted his rifle and glanced along the road. He wondered how to get himself out of it; clearly, the man could talk about the subject till the cows came home. "Hmm," he said, deciding that actual words would only make it worse.

Stephen suddenly felt melancholy. Dil had called him 'nightingale', and he had been too - uselessly chirping into the night while other men no doubt laughed at the dull, brown, plain little bird, sorrowfully announcing his desires to the world. "Vox et praeterea nihil." Shaking his head, making his vision blur, he labeled the wild ache as a sequela of the fracture, and began to categorise his symptoms. He could not cope with thinking about Diana in his state.

Well, he wasn't talking any more. Sharpe was unsure whether that was a good thing or not, though he was inclined to think it was good, especially considering their current position.

He decided that they would stop in an hour or so. Or sooner if it looked as though Maturin or Padstowe required it, though he wouldn't let on the reason why. He didn't need his head bitten off, after all. Perkins, Cooper and Harris were keeping a watch to either side, and the party was brought up by Harper, who was more than capable of bringing up their rear.

Stephen rode for a while in silence, and sensed that Sharpe was relieved by this. Padstowe was in front, his wide-brimmed peasant's hat incongruous with his red uniform, showing at the wrists of the oilskin coat - he seemed to be in better spirits at least. Then there was the red-haired Harris, the boy Perkins, who seemed slightly scared of him for some reason, Cooper, who had stared at them as they hid the papers - Stephen watched him warily - and finally, behind them, a huge dark man, tall and broad. The kind green-jacket, Hagman, who had helped Padstowe treat his leg, was nowhere to be seen. His vision was still blurred, but that didn't matter too much, for true darkness was falling now.

Sharpe glanced up at Padstowe. He was used to seeing his friend in the cocked hat of a Captain in His Majesty's 50th Regiment of Foot. Seeing him with a peasant's broad-brimmed hat would take some getting used to.

Hagman was up ahead. The old poacher's talent for seeing in the dark was one Sharpe had come to rely on during the journey south last winter. His men trusted Hagman, and so Sharpe had come to trust him too.

He just hoped that Doctor Maturin would be able to trust him to get them back safe. Soldiering was something he was good at; he knew and trusted his instincts and he hoped Maturin would let him do the job he was here for, should he be needed. He noticed Perkins sending surreptitious glances in the Doctor's direction, and wondered what had made the lad nervous of him.

They carried on much in silence for the first hour or so they travelled, by which time the darkness had fallen completely and Padstowe found it hard enough to see the green-jacketed riflemen either side of him, never mind the road itself. But Sharpe and his men were used to travelling in such conditions, and he trusted his friend to see them safe back to Lisbon. The captain reined-in his horse a little, dropping back so that he was now beside the doctor.

"How is your leg coping?" he asked quietly.

"It is fine," Stephen answered through gritted teeth. "And your shoulder?"

He sent Cooper up to find Hagman and take over from him. Cooper, being another Londoner like himself, wasn't as good at reading the ground as the Cheshireman, but Sharpe didn't want to tax Hagman too hard. He was the oldest one in the group, after all, and could only take so much at a time. Besides, all the others would get a chance at scouting ahead, even Perkins. Though he would keep a closer eye on the lad; he was still fairly new to the whole thing.

He was aware of Padstowe dropping back and decided they would stop for a rest soon, despite Maturin's answer.

"Fairly comfortable," Which was the truth, being as now the arm was in a fixed place the wound was troubling him less. "What are your plans for when we reach Lisbon?"

"I honestly had not given it much thought. After a bath and as long a sleep as my tincture can give me, I had planned to set about decoding and analysing the papers." He decided not to mention aiding Calderón in whatever he had planned. "And yourself?" He concentrated on Padstowe's voice; talking distracted him from his head at least.

"Report to Headquarters first," he said simply. "See what Hogan wants done, check if anything has occured in my absence - then seek my own repose," He smiled. "Which will probably include a bath. Though what my landlady will say to this -" He gestured to his shoulder. "I do not know."

Stephen smiled in response. He supposed he ought to speak to Hogan and Wellesley at some point, but as a volunteer, he had never been required to report to the Admiralty - his presence had been politely requested. "I am averse to making any solid plans before we reach Lisbon safely, God willing." It was one of his few personal superstitions. "Though I suppose Sir Arthur would be used to receiving a report after this sort of operation - might I ask for your assistance should one be requested? I am unfamiliar with how such things are done in the army."

The two riders both sounded fairly cheerful, but even so, Sharpe decided to call a halt. Cooper was not so far ahead that he would miss them; he had to keep in contact with the rest of the party anyway, to be able to warn them of anything untoward.

"All right, we'll take a ten-minute break here," he said. He stopped by the horsemen. "We'll be quicker stopping for a short break every now and then than pushing ourselves and having to rest for two hours later."

"I agree." Stephen gently swung his right leg over the horse's back, and began to lower himself. Quite apart from needing to relieve himself, the hour of riding had resurrected and exacerbated all of the symptoms of his concussion, and he wished to find a place in which to surreptitiously vomit. "Rifleman Perkins, may I trouble you for your shoulder for a moment?"

Padstowe reigned in his horse, carefully slipping from the saddle and landing with a grunt. Thank the Lord it had been his left shoulder, else he would not have been able to manage this. He watched the doctor hobble off with Perkins before walking over to Sharpe.

"We have a fair amount of cloud tonight," he said. "Should make it harder for anyone to track us."

Sharpe saw Perkins bite his lip, bur move to assist Maturin to dismount anyway. "Good lad," he said approvingly, and looked up at Padstowe. "You all right gettin' down by yourself, or would you like a hand?" he asked. He didn't really object to helping people mount, or dismount, their horses. He only objected when people expected it of him, as though it was his duty and their right. Though by the time he'd asked the question Padstowe had both feet on the ground and was walking towards him.

Around him, the Chosen Men were unfastening their packs, although they kept a good watch on the road, which was no more than he'd com to expect of them.

He looked up at the sky himself, in response to Padstowe's comment. "It'll make it harder for us too, though, Jon. Not so easy to see the ground when it's cloudy, you know."

"Bit late for that now," Padstowe said, giving a half-smile. "But as I told you before, I can manage. Besides," he said, lowering his voice a little. "I wouldn't wish to undermine your authority by having your men witness their officer acting as my mounting block."