Last Night in Lisbon

Maggie felt her face burning, and her startled eyes darted at the other men to see if they were in on the joke. Fortunately they were laughing amongst themselves and paying no attention to her.

"Gabriel Cotton, what on earth are you talking about?" she hissed. Suddenly she seemed to understand, and her face softened into a motherly reproach, affectionate but condescending. "You're drunk."

"Harris!" Perkins whispered, looking a bit alarmed. "What's going on? I think we should go. Should we go?"

"I ain't had more'n a drop, Maggie, and I never been so serious in me life." He bit his lip. "On'y, on'y, you don't have to, if'n ye don't want to. But please, just think about it, just a little. An' if ye say no, it won't change nothin'. I'll still look out for ee like I promised." He pushed his cup toward her. "Have summat to drink. I know it was a shock, like, but I din't mean it to be."

She stared in amazement, first at him and then at the cup before taking a large sip. She looked distressed, but it was simply the surprise and confusion of it all. Staring in disbelief, she opened her mouth but couldn't think of anything to say.

"I don't understand, Gabe!"

Maybe he should take her outside, away from this lot. Hopefully the 33rd had gone somewhere else by now.

"Here, Maggie, let's go outside. It's a mite rowdy in here. If ye don't mind, that is." He was as nervous as anything, and the cooler air outside might help settle his nerves.

Harris leaned back and sipped at the glass. Falling down drunk was not to be allowed. "I could tell you stories about women..."

Perkins couldn't hear much of their conversation, but he knew that he himself wanted to get away by any means possible. He reached over and knocked Williams' glass onto the floor.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, mate! It's all right, I'll go get ye another. Come on, Harris, you better translate for me."

Maggie nodded to Cotton's suggestion and let herself be led out in a daze.

Williams had decided that Harris was just too miserable, and he interrupted. "Oh they wrote tales like that in Wales too - and ones so tender that you know you will never find a love like that. But this young lass won't lead Cotton astray, not like that. Because he's a sensible lad. And she's a fine lass, and Welsh, too. So one of the family."

But it would be a shame if Cotton got himself tied to this woman. The time for marriage was when you got away from British Generals, and Soult, and Hakeswill, and Infantry Colonels...

Perkins hadn't outgrown that stage, where you knocked things down, and usually made things worse. And did he really want this lad to buy him drink that he would only spew up later. Cotton was tied into an emotional conversation - one of the 95th was as ungainly as a colt, the other a red-haired curmudgeon.

"No thank you Perkins. Cotton. I'll be off. Order of march puts you -well the 62nd in front, then us, then the 33rd. So don't worry about that. I'll see you at the camping ground." He smiled at Maggie. "Don't give him too hard a time," he said, and with a nod to the Riflemen left the bar.

[And the time now is for bed. So goodnight from all of us to all of you]

"That's better," Cotton said, leaning against the wall and running his hand through his hair. "I was gettin' hot in there. And it's too noisy by far." He dropped his hand and looked at Maggie.

"I really don't know how to say this, Maggie," he said, slowly, trying to look at her face. "But I like you, a lot, and I wondered if... if I could court you. If you'd be my woman, like... like..." He bit his lip nervously. "Like you was Jem's woman," he finished quietly, so quietly he could not be sure she'd heard him. "You don't have to answer me now, just think about it fer a bit and maybe say yes when you've thought?"

And his stomach was trying to tie itself in knots. Why had he ever thought this would - could - be a good idea?

Maggie searched for an answer but she couldn't think straight. She tried to understand what possible motive Cotton might have for taking such an interest, apart from the most obvious one. He was too respectful for that, surely. Surely! Of course he was. He was as transparent as a window, guileless and kind. She stared at the ground.

"I can't think, Gabe. I don't know. Let me tell you tomorrow. All right?"

"O' course. I didn't mean to throw you all out of kilter, like, neither."

Why had he asked her? He'd gone and thrown their friendship into ruins because he couldn't keep his mouth shut that he liked her. But she hadn't said 'no' outright, so that was something to be grateful for.

Perkins looked out the window, watching the pair walk down the street into the dark. He turned back to Harris, perplexed.

"What was all that about? Seems like they'd be happy."

Harris rolled the brandy round his mouth, before swallowing it and replying. "I don't know either of them, Perkins, and there is nothing easy about being happy. Looked to me as if she hadn't ever thought of him in that way."

A woman might decide that a firm hold on one decent man - and the Rifleman seemed a steady sort - was better than continuing to look around. But although the man should do the asking, it was for the woman to say Yes or No. And a sensible man knew which answer he would get before he asked.

"Now, Perkins. Take this and buy another bottle of brandy for the rest of the lads. From Mr Sharpe." He nodded towards the other Chosen Men (surely not all thirty odd!] who had not joined Cotton and his friend. "I need a bit of peace and quiet."

"Peace and quiet!" Perkins repeated with a laugh. "You sure you came to the right place?" But he took the money and ambled off to the bar, leaving Harris alone at the table for whatever meditation he might see fit.

Oddly enough, he had remained in his red coat uniform. He wasn't sure why except that he was not in a hurry to leave Lisbon now that he'd gotten a little comfortable walking about as freely as a soldier could. He brushed invisible dust from his coat facings and stepped over the threshold into the tavern. He had never entered one of these places in his current guise and he hoped that he could maintain the appearance of being just another red-coat. At least he was shaven and clean. There was no chance of anyone recognising him has a free-wandering Portuguese peasant.

"Hullo. fellows!" He greeted, in what he hoped was a common enough tongue.

Another redcoat, this one alone, and not one of the rowdy 27th either. In fact... Harris frowned. This one shouldn't be here. He should be back in England. He lifted the brandy bottle invitingly.

[Are you wearing your old 32nd Regiment uniform? Would Harris be able to recognize it (since they were both with Sir John Moore)? If not, I'll rewrite this to make sense.]

Perkins stared. Wasn't that the man...? Surely it was the same man who had held a knife at his throat at the priest's house! Doctor Maturin's friend. But that didn't make any sense. Why was he here, wearing the English redcoat uniform?


[um... is this an oops? Am I not supposed to recognize...?]

(OOC - Calderón - or Davenport, since he's about as his English self - was meant to be of the 32nd, but I may very well have goofed on whether they were in Portugal at the time. If I have, then... doggone it. But run with it anyway, I guess! >_< Perkins may or may not recognise him, Calderón is washed and shaven, and what-not. It definitely ups the awkwardness factor if he does, or even if he thinks he does!)

Ah, bloody hell. That green-jacket was there. He hadn't thought he'd see that lad again. Perhaps the lad wouldn't recognise him, at least fully. Even if he did, it was too late to withdraw without seeming suspicious. Calderón pulled off his shako and grinned, sliding easily into the role of a foot-soldier as if he was born to it. There was another green-jacket present, with a bottle lifted in welcome. That alone was invitation enough.

"Be 'bliged fer a glass, mate," he said as he joined the others at their table. "Been a good while since I had summat strong fer meself, y'know. Name's Davenport, by the by. Ain't it a fine evenin' fer a tot 'r two in peace, sure!"

Looking uncertainly at Harris, Perkins decided that he must have been mistaken. The resemblance was striking, but this man was obviously English - wasn't he? And since Harris couldn't very well continue his solitary meditation with a talkative redcoat at his side, it wouldn't hurt if Perkins rejoined him at the table.

"I've got a bottle," he said. "I think there's plenty to go around. I'm Ben Perkins." He paused and added tentatively, "We haven't met before, have we, mate?"

Harris looked round the bar. Admittedly there were no actual fights, but voices rose and fell in argument or slurred assurances. And Perkins was back, so he might as well be sociable.

"Harris," he said. "Any evening's good for a drink in peace, except perhaps this one. You based in Lisbon?"

Perkins and Harris. He nodded at each of them as he set his shako onto the table top. Perkins he knew already, though of course he couldn't let on.

"Pleased to meetcha both," Davenport replied. "I dunno if I know ya from b'fore, Perkins, but mayhaps we passed onna street some-place? Me officer's jus' back from Falmouth, like, so s'been a while since I were 'round here. Still 'justin' to it, y'know."

It was an answer to both riflemen's questions, neatly rolled up into one. Davenport looked around for an unclaimed mug before deciding that he would have to call for one from a barmaid. He lifted his hand into the air and added, "Feels strange bein' some place wi'out me regiment, it does!"

Perkins nodded. "We ain't been here long, and we're already leavin'. I keep getting lost, and now I'll never find my way around!"

"Wet behind the ears," Harris said. "But the Lieutenant thinks he can at least be trained to come back to the Company. If pigeons can do it, surely Perkins can." He filled his own glass, and the one the barmaid brought over. The level in the brandy bottle was getting low, so he asked her to bring another. That would probably bring him into debt once they were on the march - but what would that matter? Might as well die poor.

"We're off tomorrow morning. Not an early start, though. Put on a bit of a show. Regiments marching out to face the foe. Gallant display, ordered precision, burnished brass and polished steel. Come out and watch. We'll be the green bit stuck in the middle of a waste of scarlet."

[And now I must go. It half-past -two here and I've lost the ability to type or to string words together (or to recognize anachronisms. And Harris is getting drunk (JUst to annoy Sharpe. )

Goodnight]

Davenport grinned. "Ever'body was wet behind his ears some time. Be glad to come an' see ya lads off, too."

He poured himself a glass and toasted. "To marchin' out, an' all what goes wi' it, eh?"