Reporting In

Padstowe saw the aide standing patiently in the corridor and frowned. Sir Arthur must have been looking out of the window when they came into the stables courtyard...

"I'll leave you here then, shall I?" he said.

"If you must," Sharpe said. He glanced across at the aide before looking back at Padstowe. "You sure you're alright now? I don't want to find you passed out when I get out of there."

The captain gave a dismissive snort.

"Just don't trip over me on your way out," he said as he turned and started back down the corridor. "If you survive your meeting, that is."

He was going home for bath. A lie-down and a bath.

The ADC watched quietly as Captain Padstowe left, then coughed delicately to try and get the savage-looking rifle officer's attention.

"Mister Sharpe? This way if you please."

Though what Sir Arthur wanted such a man for God only knew...

"I'm comin', I'm comin'," Sharpe said, and came quietly, wishing he'd had time to make himself a mite more presentable. He had three days' worth of stubble, he really needed to change his shirt and God only knew what he'd managed to do to his jacket.

(OOC - nice banner. I notice Padstowe's smack in the middle of it... )

Padstowe was right about one thing; Sir Arthur had been taking a turn about the room to stretch his legs when he had caught sight of the captain and lieutenant arriving in the stable yard. He could not help but wince as he observed Sharpe's seat, watching him dismount like a drunken spider as his long legs tried to negotiate their way around the horse to the ground. He recalled the note - still as yet unanswered - and frowned. He did not know why he had written it, still did not know why he wanted to talk to the man or what about; only that he was curious.

He had sent an aide to find Sharpe and should he be seeing anybody to wait for him. Now he waited patiently, perched on the windowsill and watching the comings and goings in the yard. Curiosity quite often killed the cat, it was said, and the General wondered which one of his nine lives he might be on. Hopefully only three or four.

[OOC: I quite like it too. I didn't know that picture was going to be used, but yes, it's a nice touch.]

"Lieutenant Sharpe, Sir Arthur," the aide said, and stepped aside to allow Sharpe into the tiger's den.

He was surprised to see Sir Arthur sitting on the window seat, but said nothing, contenting himself with watching the other man warily.

The General did not turn from his observations until he heard the door close, signalling the aide's departure. He looked up to see Sharpe standing only a few feet into the room, watching him carefully. Sir Arthur gestured to the vacant chair on the other side of his desk.

"Sit down, Sharpe, you're making the place look untidy."

Quite a poignant opening line coincidentally, considering that it appeared Sharpe had not had the chance to shave or tidy himself or his uniform in any way before coming here. There was blood on his jacket.

Sitting down wouldn't make the place look any less untidy. The only way that would be achieved would be for him to leave, now. He found a chair and sat in it, bolt upright.

He'd need to soak the jacket for a week to get the blood out of it, but thankfully it wasn't his. At least, he didn't think it was his. He hadn't noticed any new pains, apart from those caused by sitting in the saddle for longer than was natural, although even five minutes was longer than was natural, as far as Sharpe was concerned.

"Sir."

Sir Arthur smiled inwardly at Sharpe's overly-formal attitude and posture. Same as ever around him.

He left his seat at the window and sat down behind the desk, folding his hands on the top and scrutinising the rifleman closely.

"i trust," he said mildly. "That is not your own blood?"

"Don't think so, sir. Got clouted round the head, but I don't think I got sliced." Or shot, or stabbed, but there was no need to rabbit on. He wriggled internally at Wellesley's scrutiny.

And he found it amusing, sort of, that Sir Arthur always tried to sit behind the desk when Sharpe was in the room, as though he were using it to hide behind, though why that should be Sharpe couldn't say.

Wellesley realised that this may very quickly turn into the simple 'yes, sir', 'no, sir' exchange that usually made up their conversations if he was not careful.

"I am glad you are still in one piece; though I do not think the same can be said for Captain Padstowe."

Glad? If Sharpe had had to put a name to the emotion Sir Arthur was feeling right now, it wouldn't be 'glad'.

"He got a bullet in his shoulder, sir. Doctor Maturin patched him up all right, I think, sir. He didn't say the Captain was going to lose his arm or anythin', so I reckon he'll be all right."

And why did it feel wrong to be sitting down in front of Wellesley? He'd feel more comfortable standing to attention in front of the desk like usual, but Wellesley always knew how to keep him off-balance.

Wellesley gave a grunt of approval; it seemed that Padstowe would come through alright, and that Maturin was still with them, though he'd doubtless find out more about that later.

He got up from his seat, foer a loss of anything else yet to say, and went over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine.

"Would you care for a drink, Sharpe?"

Sharpe blinked and surreptitiously pinched himself. Wellesley was offering him a drink. 'Tea and biscuits' he'd said to Padstowe, and wine wasn't so far from tea and biscuits as all that, if the host in question were Sir Arthur Wellesley.

"Um, yes, sir," he said, clinging to some vaguely-remembered sense of politeness. It wouldn't do to gawp at the man like some common yokel, even if that's what Sharpe felt like he was doing.

The General concentrated on pouring the wine, picking up the two glasses and handing one to Sharpe, though he did not return to his seat. He wandered over to the window again, staring down at the yard as he took a sip, seemingly deep in thought.

"You shall be receiving orders shortly," he said abruptly. "Detailing that you and your men shall be attached to the 3rd Company of the 60th Rifles, which in turn shall be attached to the 62nd Foot for the duration of the forthcoming campaign."

Well, that was interesting. Sharpe valued the independence he and his men had had, though running errands for Hogan had severely curtailed it. This way he might actually get some soldiering done, though he would have to persuade his men it was a good thing.

"You are not transferring us to the 60th, sir?" he said, trying to clarify matters a little. "Just attaching us to them, as a detachment of the 95th?"

Calderón felt as though he were an alien. A red coat and white trousers were hanging uncomfortably on his limbs and a black shako stiff atop his head. Clean-shaven and feeling like he'd just scrubbed a year's worth of dust off his body, he brushed at the hem of his coat self-consciously. The white collar and facings of his coat seemed to reflect the sun in a most maddening way too. Now he remembered why he disliked coming to Lisbon so much.

This was how he had come to Portugal originally. A private soldier who had joined the British army to help protect his country. He'd not stayed a soldier for long, once he'd caught the notice of the Intelligence men, but he was still maintained on the regiment's books as a batman for an officer that nobody could ever quite track down. It was helpful when he did come to Lisbon and had need to pass where only soldiers could go.

So it was that he was walking toward the British headquarters building dressed as smartly as a staff officer's batman could be. The entire way, he went over and over the proper accent he should use, in addition to the slang he might be expected to use if he encountered any other privates along the way. He only hoped that he could avoid any of the men who had been travelling back from Óbidos.

"I been sent for Major Hogan," he said to the headquarters sentries upon arriving at the building. "My cap'n's got a note for deliverin' to him. I ain't to give to nobody 'cept the major."

God but it felt strange to speak like that again!


OOC - Calderón returns, somewhat like a bad penny! *grins* Anybody's welcome to turn up and ruin his day.

"For the timebeing," he said. He turned back to Sharpe. "This is very much an experiment to see whether Rifles companies can work alongside or as part of regular Line Regiments, as you will not doubt appreciate it may have more advantages to have my specialist skirmishers distributed throughout the army in equal force instead of lumped together in a couple of regiments."

He paused.

"Though you shall for the moment answer to Captain Vickery and he in turn to Colonel Edrington, I have not yet decided what to do with you in the long term." Perhaps this meeting may give him some idea.

"So, by my reckoning, sir, you're giving Colonel Edrington one and a half companies of Riflemen for this experiment." He had a sip of the wine, using the pause to try to organise his thoughts. "So if I answer to Captain Vickery, and he answers to Colonel Edrington, will we still be 95th, or will we end up being on Captain Vickery's muster list?"

He had a list of questions as long as his arm, but knew the General would quickly get tired of answering them. "And will Sergeant Harper stay a Sergeant?"

"You are being attached, Sharpe," Wellesley said. "As men of the 95th, not amalgamated into the 60th."

Right. That answered that question. He hoped that this Colonel Edrington, whoever he was, could answer the others; he didn't want to rile the General unnecessarily. "So I still have the right to promote or discipline my own men?" That was good; he didn't trust anyone else to promote or reward his men and he certainly didn't trust anyone else to hand out acceptable punishments.

And Vickery... the name sounded familiar, but he wasn't sure he could put a face to the name. Ah well, he would be able to soon enough. He just hoped he could work with the man.

Wellesley fixed Sharpe under his cold gaze.

"For any minor offences," he said flatly. "Anything serious will as usual be referred to a higher authority - but if I hear complaints along the lines of 'one law for the rifleman and one for the rest' I shall reconsider my decision. Do I make myself clear, Sharpe?"

"Crystal, sir," Sharpe said. He assumed a hurt expression. "You don't trust me, sir, do you?"

And why does everyone think it's one rule for us and another for them, he wondered, taking another mouthful of wine but keeping a close look on Wellesley's face.

The General let a smile quirk at his lips.

"I know that I can trust you to fight well, Sharpe," he said. "But I also know that I can trust you to get into trouble - with boring frequency. You are somewhat unorthodox in your methods and though none can complain on the results you tend to upset a lot of people along the way."

The smile disappeared almost as quickly as it had appeared.

"What I am trying to say is that you should be careful."