Preparing to Leave Lisbon

Stephen remembered what Wellesley had said about Sharpe - it seemed that the respect was reciprocated. "Is he a good commander?"

Sharpe nodded emphatically. "Aye. The best. Won't get more of his men killed than he can help. And he ain't lost a battle bar once, an' that was in the middle of the night." And he'd had a hand in that, the only time he'd been on the other side - and that was due to some damn silly scouting mission, or some such.

"He's a very intelligent man. Very clear-headed. And surprisingly kind." He smiled at his companion. "He has a great confidence in you too, Richard."

Sharpe just looked at his friend. "Me? You must be jokin'. He - I'm only a Lieutenant, an' not likely to even get to Captain."

"I swear on the four Gospels. He told me that I could trust you with my life, because he did."

He had to look away; there was suddenly a lump in his throat. "He said that? To you?"

Assaye; it must have been Assaye he was talking about. But that didn't explain why he had said that to Stephen. Why he couldn't say it to Sharpe himself.

"He did, so, just this afternoon." His mind was in the meeting, when he had been overwhelmed with emotion in front of Sir Arthur Wellesley of all people, and when he wrenched his mind to the present he realised that Sharpe was looking away from him, and his voice was cracked. He looked at his new friend with concern. "Are you all right, Richard? Have I said something wrong?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Really." He looked at Stephen, trying to allay the concern present in the other's voice. It wasn't that he didn't trust the other man, it was that he couldn't lay bare that part of himself to anyone. "I promise. I'm alright."

Stephen nodded, not entirely convinced. He briefly touched Sharpe's elbow.

"Here," he said, pointing down a smaller street. "This way is faster - I came by it earlier."

He pushed the unaccustomed emotion to one side and took a look. Nothing unremarkable down there; it seemed safe enough. "Just be careful with that leg of yours," he said, turning the corner into the the side road.

"I will." Stephen planned to be far more careful with his head. A wayward knock to the leg might open the wound - one to the head could kill him. The street was quiet - not unsurprising, considering the hour.

"How's the head now?" Sharpe knew that he'd been hit hard - he thought he remembered Padstowe saying something about a fractured skull.

"It is fine," Stephen replied automatically. "Yours I have seen - you have felt no ill-effects since we returned?"

"Bit of a headache, but that's mostly worn off, o' course." He'd noticed Stephen assert he was fine without even thinking about it, but had no intention of calling him on it and possibly embarrassing him.

"I am glad of it-" Stephen thought he heard something behind them, and looked over his shoulder. The street was empty. He had been unusually jumpy since Obidos, he thought, not entirely without reason.

"You'll only be hearin' a bunch of soldier gettin' pissed," Sharpe said. "They're marchin' tomorrow, so they'll drink tonight away and wonder why they can't see straight in t'mornin'."

"That will be it - there is a tavern just ahead of us." They passed it, and Stephen was not surprised to see what was happening inside. "How many women will follow the army north, do you think?"

"I dunno how many women there are with each regiment at present. Though, officially there are six wives - official, married wives, married in Church with the colonel's permission - allowed with each Company. That's sixty wives to a battalion. Official. But regiments that stayed here over winter will have picked up more, even if they're unofficial, soldier's women." He shrugged. "Impossible to say, even this early. In India, the baggage train was nearly twice as long as the army it were followin'."

"You astonish me. How are they fed - must they find their own food? What if you are too far from a vill-" He looked up and frowned. There were shadows looming at the end of the street.

Sharpe noticed them too, but carried on talking to prevent whoever it was thinking that something was wrong. "No, they officially get half-rations, if they're official and on the strength - on the books. Unofficial wives have to fend for themselves. They're usually pretty good at it too."

He hoped the shadows didn't mean trouble. It was just as well he'd insisted on accompanying Doctor Maturin home.

Stephen understood. "And what about the soldiers themselves? Do the rations come out of their pay?" The shadow was big - too big, he thought with some relief. It must be someone on horseback - no thief or drunken infantryman.

"Yes. They get paid a shilling a day, but out of that they pay sixpence for food, and further money for kit and necessaries that they need. 'Specially if stuff's gone missing, which it does. It's a lucky man who gets fourpence a day, seeing as they have to pay for pipeclay and blackball as well as other stuff."

Was that hooves he was hearing? Who was so arrogant as to be riding at this time of night? Unless it was a Provost, of course, on the lookout for any rowdy soldiers, to haul them off to the guardhouse.

"Really? That hardly seems fair at all." Stephen kept his eyes on the shadow - the horse was turning the corner now. "And is there reward for participation in a victory? In the navy there is the chance for prize money."

Even in the darkness and the gloom, he could see the faint glitter on the man's uniform - an officer then. He felt relieved, though he wondered why the man would be on horseback at this time of night. Unless he was going out of the city or coming in - the man was quite young, and he looked up at him curiously.

"No, not really. But we're all volunteers, officially, and half the Navy seem to have been pressed into service, so maybe they need to make sure folks get some money out of it. Or have the chance to."

It didn't look like a Provost. There was the faintest sparkle of starlight on gold lace. What the hell was he doing, riding like that at near midnight? Arrogant fool, Sharpe thought.

"Yes, but did you not tell me that while officially-" Stephen was interrupted by the young officer on horseback.

"You there! Get out of the way."