Preparing to Leave Lisbon

Cotton got two mugs and a jug of wine. Even if it was piss-poor stuff, it was wet, which was something. He hoped he hadn't upset Maggie, or spoilt their friendship by speaking out of turn earlier.

He sat down, poured a mugful of wine and put in front of Maggie, before pouring himself a cupful.

"I'm sorry, Maggie, I didn't mean to say anything I didn't ought to have," he began, feeling bad about throwing Maggie into confusion.

Stephen nodded, and sat in silence for a moment. "I ought to get our drinks. Will you take wine, or brandy?" He had questions - how might one be gazetted, in the army? Some great victory, as in the navy? How did Sharpe come to be separated from his regiment? But his disliked question-and-answer conversation himself, and did not wish to inflict it on a man he liked without justification.

"It's all right, Gabe," Maggie replied automatically. It seemed to come naturally to her, soothing someone's worries, or at least attempting to negate them. She might worry for herself at times, but she hated for anyone else to have that burden. It didn't seem fair on them. "It doesn't seem fair on you," she said aloud without understanding why.

"Brandy, I think. And thank you."

He liked the man, though he couldn't say why for sure. And he was sure he was starting to sound morose and depressed about his chances of promotion - or rather, his lack of chance. And he did not want to slip into a black mood. Not now, the day before shifting out of here to go fight the French.

Stephen stood up to gain the attention of the man at the counter, begged his pardon in Portuguese for not going to him, but might they have two brandies? He knew his appearance did not recommend him, so he angled his palm so that the coins glinted, proving their existence.

"What's not fair on me?" Cotton asked, not understanding. Nobody else ever cared whether things were fair on him: not his dad, when he'd said Cotton would have to start earning his keep; not Master Burgess, who'd had him and his family turned off for no good reason; not the recruiting sergeant, who'd got him half lushed and given him a shilling to enlist.

Maggie was... Maggie was different. And he hadn't thought of her as anything but a friend before, and now... now he didn't know how he thought of her.

"Life's not fair, but you just have to get used to it an' all," he said. "Can't tell the clouds not to rain, after all."

"You speak Portuguese?" Sharpe asked as Maturin sat down again. "Not many British who can speak Portuguese. Even among those who've been here since afore Christmas."

Maggie realised that she had been staring at the man with the crutch, staring vacantly for the sake of staring, but now she noticed him speaking to the tavern keeper.

"Well look there," she said quietly to Cotton by way of changing the subject. "That English man speaks Portuguese. Least I reckon he's an English man, sitting with yon rifle lieutenant. That must be mighty useful, speaking Portuguese. Imagine going to market and being able to say, 'This bread is stale' or the like."

"I am not British," said Stephen, handing over his coin to the barkeeper as their brandies arrived. Then, deciding that stopping there might be seen as rude, he continued, "My father was Irish, and my mother was Catalan."

"Rifle lieutenant?" Cotton twisted round to look. He noticed the black facings of the man's jacket, and the way he held himself. "Sharpe."

He really didn't want to get drunk if Sharpe were here; he'd get a proper tongue-lashing if he showed up hungover tomorrow, and Sharpe would tell Captain Vickery exactly what had happened and... Not a train of thought he wanted right now.

"Aye, must be useful, that. Bein' able to say you want half a dozen eggs as well as the sugar, not instead of, like."

"Beg pardon," Sharpe said. "My Sergeant's Irish. Pat Harper, from Donegal. Though you probably know that, after our journey here."

He wasn't sure what else he could say, and hid his confusion by taking a mouthful of his brandy. "Good stuff, that is," he said when he pt the cup down/

Maggie was already finding her thoughts straying. She couldn't seem to focus, but any subject would be preferable to that of courting.

"Those men, from th'other tavern, outside. Someone said they were the 33rd? Are they the ones that have a - " She hesitated a moment, as if afraid to speak of the devil and have him appear before her. "Sergeant Hakeswill?"

"I do; I recognised his accent, and he has the Irish, of course. I was fostered in Cahirciveen, in Kerry, to the south-west." Stephen sipped his brandy - the taste was so familiar, but weak without the opiate. "It is indeed - very palatable."

"Never been to Ireland," Sharpe said. "Probably just as well, of course, me bein' a soldier an' all." He was glad he hadn't been, what with the troubles between the native Irish and the English, symbolised by the redcoat Army.

"You will forgive me, but I am extremely glad to hear it, Lieutenant Sharpe. Just as well, to be sure."

"Aye, they are." Cotton bit his lip. What had Maggie heard about him? And, more importantly, had she heard about his threats to Cotton?

"You want to keep away from that one if'n ye can, Maggie. He ain't no good for the likes of us. His sort only mean trouble."

"I know. I already know," she replied quietly, taking a sip of the wine to pass the awkward moment.

"Nothin' to forgive. Been to Flanders, India and now here with the Army, but never Ireland."

What did she know? He wasn't going to press her; he didn't want to talk about that bastard now.

"I'm sorry f'r earlier," he said instead. "I din't mean to make you feel awkward or nothin' like that."

"And I pray that you will not, Lieutenant; at least, not in your professional capacity. India..." He had loved India, and Fate had decided that only grief should come to him there. He had been both holy man and Untouchable in India, an accidental murderer twice over. "It is a strange place, India."

"Aye, it is that. Strange place full of strange things. Dangerous ones too."

And it was in India where he had saved a General's life and been rewarded with an officer's sash.

Stephen sat, deep in thought and staring into space, his glass in his hand.

Sharpe said nothing. He was thinking about India, and how it had changed everything for him. He'd learned to read there, in a cell with a tiger as guard. He'd made and lost friends, gained an enemy and come to the notice of General Wellesley.

He drank a silent toast to the place.

(OOC - And Sharpie, Sharpe and Cotton are off to bed before they all fall asleep!)

Maggie set her glass down on the table.

"I'm not coming on the march." She looked up into Cotton's startled eyes. "I'm staying in Lisbon. I'm sorry, Gabe. I know it's dangerous, and it's dangerous to stay here too, but it's more dangerous on the march, and I can't ask you to look after me, and give you that responsibility on top of everything else you've got to do already. I know you were a good friend to Jem, but I'm not your responsibility, and if something were to happen to me you'd never forgive yourself - I know you, Gabe - and that's not fair. I think you're a good man, but you only think you like me because you feel a responsibility - no, let me finish. Maybe you feel like you need to take Jem's place and take care of me where he left off. But you need to live your own life, not Jem's life. You can find your own girl, a new girl just for you, not your old mate's hand-me-downs."

She hadn't expected to sound so bitter or preachy. She hadn't expected to feel pained either. She reached out for her glass again, but it was empty.

"You'll find a nice girl who will appreciate you for who you are, not for what you can offer her. Me, well, I don't rightly know who you are." I'm just tempted, sorely tempted by what you can offer, Maggie thought ruefully. She looked down again. "I'm real sorry, Gable."

No? She wasn't coming, and she'd said no? He tried to get his thoughts into some semblance of order instead of sitting there like a mesmerised rabbit.

"I didn't ask you a-cause of Jem, Maggie, though I know he was a good man to you. I axed a-cause I like you, for you. Ain't nobody can take Jem's place for you, and I wouldn't try. I just want you to see me as more than Jem's mate. And you ain't a hand-me-down, so don't say things like that about yerself."

He sighed and topped his mug up, refilling Maggie's as well. Now was not the time to get drunk, even though he felt like it. "If you was to.. to walk out wi' me, doesn't mean you'd have to marry me. It'd just let you get to know me a bit better, and maybe you'd find y'r way to likin' me prop'ly."

And mebbe you could learn to see past the fact I have to run after an officer most the time, he thought, and picked up his mug, drinking half its contents straight off. No, he wasn't going to get drunk on this stuff.