Preparing to Leave Lisbon

The Chosen Men had finally gone off to find a tavern, leaving Sharpe alone. It wasn't that he didn't want a drink. He just wanted to be away from them for a bit, and he felt guilty about wanting that. But they were going to see enough of each other on the march and his men would probably get sick of the sight of him long before the campaign was over.

So he had given Harris enough money for a couple of bottles and told them not to get drunk. And he was now wondering whether he should find a tavern himself or go and swear at the prices in the Mess.

He would probably be best avoiding the soldiers on their final night's rampage, but wasn't sure where to go.

Stephen was not worried about Padstowe, not yet. He had waited until eleven bells at Padstowe's lodgings and had then gone to Headquarters, with no success. It was true that Lisbon was said to be dangerous at night - especially tonight, with all the soldiers drunk before the big march in the morning - which was why he was wearing his sword, but Padstowe could take care of himself, and there had been no word about an injured or attacked Captain. He was feeling irritated, emotionally drained from his interview with Wellesley, sore and tired, but he wanted to finish decoding the military papers before the morning.

He would try Lieutenant Sharpe next - he had found the address of his billet at Headquarters, and he knew that the two men were friends. He sighed, shifted his crutch, and began to make his way in what he thought was the right direction.

He'd made up his mind that he was going to go and find a tavern. Hopefully he could find one without too many soldiers causing a ruckuss.

He left his billet and headed up the street. He was about to turn the corner when he bumped into someone on a crutch.

"Beg pardon," he said and was about to carry on when he saw the man's face and recognised him. "Doctor Maturin? What're you doin', wanderin' the streets at this time o' night?"

Stephen leant on the wall to steady himself and looked up at Sharpe, considering the coincidence. "Looking for you, Lieutenant. Have you seen Captain Padstowe tonight?"

"No, I ain't. He needed to have a word with Captain Vickery of the 60th, though, and I dunno if he's there or where he is."

He looked at the man in front of him. "But you ain't in any fit state to be traipsin' round Lisbon lookin' for someone, not on a crutch wi' soldiers out gettin' drunk an' all."

Damn. "I am perfectly all right, Lieutenant - I thank you for your concern but it is unnecessary. I doubt I would be of any interest to soldiers, drunken or not. Have you any idea where Captain Vickery might be, at all?"

"Prob'ly in his billet. But if you leave a message at Headquarters for Captain Padstowe, he'll get it."

'Perfectly all right'? Hadn't Padstowe said something about him having a fractured skull, or something?

"You look half done in," Sharpe said, thinking. He had money on him, and the man looked as if he needed to sit down somewhere. "I was just goin' for a quiet drink, but I don't know that I want to sit in a corner by meself. Could I buy you a drink?"

Stephen nodded morosely. Even if they were to rendez-vous now, they would not be able to make much headway in their work. He would check Padstowe's lodgings again, to leave a note for him, and go to his bed after that.

He looked up at Sharpe's offer. "That would be very kind, Lieutenant." He would not mind the chance to talk to Sharpe, actually - for one thing, he was very conscious of the fact that Sharpe and his men had saved his life, and more, at very great risk to themselves. "Though it is I who should buy, I think. Where are your men tonight?"

"Out enjoyin' theirsel's. Last night afore we march, you know. It'll be long enough before they see the inside of a tavern." He looked up and down the road. "Don't suppose you know of a decent place near here that the redcoats won't have overrun?"

He hadn't really had much to do with the Doctor, who had seemed an intelligent but enigmatic man, and the chance to have a proper conversation would be good.

"I must convey my thanks to them." Stephen shrugged helplessly. "I know Lisbon barely at all - I visited the city once or twice, in my youth, but I have largely forgotten it. And I would not know which taverns might be particularly frequented by your soldiers."

Sharpe was taken aback. Thanks, for doing their duty? Only it had been a bit more than their duty. But if those papers were what he suspected them to be, they had had to get them here safe, by hook or by crook.

"In that case, we'll try this one," he said, picking a tavern almost at random. It was close enough to Headquarters and the Officers' Mess that he thought the redcoats would ignore it.

"If you don't see them before we leave, I'll pass on your thanks," he said, feeling a little clumsy about making the offer.

Stephen smiled, and he thought of what Wellesley had said about this man earlier in the day. "That would be good of you. But I must also thank yourself, Lieutenant Sharpe." He had been angry at the officer's impetuosity, but looking back on it it was perhaps the only way they could have delivered the papers safely to Lisbon. His smile waned a little when he thought of the price that had been paid for it.

"Me?" Sharpe was genuinely surprised by the admission. He had thought that the Doctor was angry with him for starting a fight against impossible odds, but Sharpe had been worried by the Frenchman who'd insisted on searching the papers, and the odds hadn't been so impossible after all.

"A lot of it was because of your mate, the Portuguese cove," he said. "If it hadn't been for him, we'd've had our goose cooked good 'n' proper."

"Yes, sir, you. I admit, at first I was... well, furious is the word, but perhaps I am over cautious. And it worked. José, after that initial misunderstanding, was remarkable, as he always is. And Captain Padstowe, and you. In truth, I never expected to reach Lisbon, yet here we are. I do not know what would have happened if you had not acted when you did. No. That is a lie. I know exactly what would have happened, and that is why I thank you."

More words than Sharpe thought he'd ever heard the Doctor say at once before, and he grew bashful under the praise.

"Talkin's all well an' good in its place," he said, remembering that night. "But the French civilian, whoever he was, didn't seem to care about words, and I don't know what those papers were, but I did know that if he looked at them, we was all in fer it. So I jumped afore he knew what was happenin'. It were either that or let them take our weapons off us and leave us in a sticky situation, like. Well, that's what I reckoned, anyway."

"You reckoned correctly. I think I am only beginning to understand how dangerous a man the Citizen was. I tend to have little else at my disposal other than words - or silence, as it was - and so I rely on them too much, perhaps." Stephen blinked at the light as they entered the tavern, and fell silent.

"An' me, I'm best wi' fightin'. I ain't so good with words."

Sharpe had no idea what made him say that, but he felt he needed to explain himself to the Doctor somehow.

"Fighin's all I've ever done, and I'm good at it. It's what got me here."

He felt in his pocket for some change. "Do you prefer wine or brandy?"

"No, allow me, I beg. I would be more inclined to trust the brandy." Stephen pulled some coins from his pocket, thoughtfully brushing the dust off them. "You are good at fighting, indeed; I am not. I hate violence." It was true, for the most part, he thought to himself. He hated most forms of violence, real violence, that was, particularly unnecessary violence.

He motioned to a table. "Got you here? To Portugal?"

Sharpe was unwilling to embarrass his companion, and returned his money to his pocket. It wasn't the violence; he didn't really see himself as a violent man. It was the fighting that he was skilled at, seeing the weak points. Maybe that did make him a violent man, after all.

"Portugal? No." He gestured at his sash and jacket as he sat. "I mean, got me to a commission. Used to be a Sergeant, once, and a Private before that."

Stephen was puzzled. In the navy is was perfectly common - usual, even - for a man to rise through the ranks based on prowess and competence alone - in fact, it was the only way. Money could only buy so much - after that, it did not matter who rich or well-connected a man was: if he was a bad sailor and a bad leader, he would never raise his own flag, while a powder-boy with skill and wit could become an Admiral. He may have a longer way to climb, but every man had a chance to do it. "Give you joy of your commission, then. Is that not usual in the Army? I understand it to be common practice at sea."

Cotton pushed open the door and paused in the doorway. Mister Sharpe was here, with a civilian wearing a rusty black coat who had a crutch propped up beside his chair. He ignored them, as they seemed to be ignoring him and Maggie, and led her across the room to an empty table in the corner.

"Here we are, Maggie. You sit yourself down, and I'll see about gettin' us summat to drink."

He wasn't sure what he'd expected Maggie to say to him, springing it on her like that, but at least she hadn't downright refused. He wanted to drown his sorrows, but he needed a clear head in the morning. At the moment, he just felt miserable.

"No, it ain't common in the Army. If you start in the ranks, you're bloody lucky to get higher than Sergeant. If you've got the money, you can purchase a commission, and then every step up to Colonel. You don't need the skills on land that you do at sea, after all."

He grinned. "I don't reckon there's more than one officer in twenty that came up from the ranks, and most of those are stuck being Quartermasters."

Stephen smiled. "Then it is an even greater achievement than I had first realised; pray forgive my ignorance. Is further promotion possible, by means other than money? Shame, shame if it is not."

Still feeling a bit stunned, Maggie sat in the chair indicated and stared at the table. A few moments free of Cotton would help her gather her thoughts, even if it was only the time it took to order a drink.

Sharpe wanted a Captaincy, but to get that he would have to be back with his Regiment, who would probably shove him straight back into the QM's Stores.

"Possible, but unlikely. For me, anyway, seein' as how my own Regiment's back in England. It's usually through casualties and seniority, if it ain't purchased. But because the 95th are in England, they ain't goin' to get any casualties, and they won't remember to promote me when I'm senior Lieutenant, me bein' stuck out here."

Not that he wanted any of the 95th's captains to snuff it, it was just the only way he was going to get a step up.

"There's always the chance I could get gazetted Captain - promoted by gazette - into another regiment, or even the 95th, but Horseguards can always refuse to ratify a gazette."