Lisbon: Officer's Mess

Padstowe picked at the fish on his plate absently with his fork, yet his mind was elsewhere. He was reflecting on the meeting with the General earlier that afternoon; it had lasted several hours, so eager was Sir Arthur to get things moving. However, Padstowe had brought with him disturbing news. On his last trip north to meet his contact in Oporto he had learned that Soult had unexpectedly received reinforcements - reinforcements to a tune of six thousand. Mostly infantry, but with two battalions of cavalry and some field artillary. It meant that Soult was planning to push south, and soon.

The General had remained silent as the captain delivered his news. Once Padstowe had finished he had glanced down at the map spread out across the table in front of him and nodded.

"Very well," he had said quietly. "Then we shall push north."

Which meant that things were going to start moving a lot sooner than anybody had ever imagined.

The atmosphere inside the mess was thick with cigar smoke, men's chatter and the smell of spirits. Padstowe eyed the glass of sherry next to his plate reluctantly. It was not usually the done thing, to drink sherry with food, but it was the only decent drink he had as yet found for a reasonable price and the wine was pathetic or rot-gut stuff. He sighed again, and wondered what would be his fate in the next few weeks.

Sharpe entered, paused and almost walked out again. The other officers were already halfway through their meal.

"Damn." He said it softly, but maybe not softly enough as the nearest officer to the door looked at him, scowled and went back to his food.

Padstowe looked up as he heard the not-so-soft curse and saw Sharpe standing in the doorway. He waved to him discretely, indicating the seat he had saved for him.

He noticed someone raise his arm and realised Padstowe had saved him a place. He sat down between Padstowe and an officer of the 60th. Hogan was on Padstowe's other side, but seemed to be engrossed in his dinner..

"I was starting to wonder where you got to," Padstowe said as Sharpe took his seat and the steward came to take his order. "Feared you might have run into trouble on your way here."

"Trouble would have to watch out if it ran into me," Sharpe said. The servant poured a glass of wine, which he drank thirstily, caring nothing that it was piss poor stuff.

"Busy day?" Padstowe asked mildly as the other man downed the contents of his glass.

"Set the picquets, check the picquets, check them again, kick the guard awake, kick two of them sober, write reports. And one of my Chosen Men lost in a shooting match. Five rounds at fifty paces and he lost at the last shot."

"Lost?" No wonder the man looked so peeved. The remainder of the 95th may not be a proper company, but Sharpe was fiercely proud of his men and the defeat must have stung. "Who was he up against?"

"Some lad from the 60th. It was a fair competition, from what I've heard. Dead heat right up till the last shot."

The officer of the 60th on his other side showed a sudden look of pride, and turned to begin a conversation with his other neighbour.

"Hm." Padstowe did not know whether it would be wise to make any further comment, and returned to absently poking his fish. It occured to him that it might be an idea to try eating some it at some point, but he seemed to have no appetite any longer.

"Hagman din't seem to mind too much," Sharpe said, pausing as the waiter slipped a plate in front of him. He suddenly recollected that the lad who'd done it was the same one who'd knocked Padstowe flying, and turned to pick at his food.

Padstowe peered at the contents of Sharpe's plate with interest.

"What did you order?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Sharpe replied, looking down in puzzlement. "It don't look like roast beef, though, that's for sure."

"What did you ask for?"

That might narrow the field of suspects.

"Roast beef. I think." He poked at it. It didn't wriggle away, or try crawling up his fork, so it was at least dead. Which was something to be thankful for, anyway.

Padstowe frowned.

"Well, whatever it is it looks as if it might be edible."

"I hope so. Want to try some?" He picked up a forkful of stuff and dubiously tasted it. Chewed. Swallowed. "Mm. Actually, that ain't bad."

Padstowe blinked. His already non-existant appetite disappeared even more.

"I think I will not, though thank you for the offer," he said quietly.

"Not hungry? At least you've got something that vaguely resembles fish. If you ordered fish, that can only be a good thing."

He suddenly realised someone had refilled his glass, and had another sip of wine. "Where the hell did they get that stuff from?"

"Hell quite possibly," Padstowe said, taking reluctant gulp of sherry and sitting back in his chair. "That or they mixed sugar in with the kitchen vinegar."

"An' here I thought Portugal was supposed to be a place where they made proper wine and stuff."

"I believe the 'proper' wine is locked away somewhere safe whilst les ingleses get to rotten stuff," said Padstowe bitterly. He took a sip from his glass. "Though the sherry is passable."