Preparing to Leave Lisbon

Sharpe stopped and looked up, putting one hand on the hilt of his sword. "Who's askin'?"

He glanced at Stephen. "Keep to the side; this might get messy."

But Stephen had already stepped forward, a fierce look settling on his face. "The street is wide enough, sir, but if you think it is not, then you will-"

The officer looked at him in disgust, and then snarled at Sharpe, "How dare you speak to an officer like that? What is your regiment?"

Obviously going for the 'let's talk down to the insolent scumbag of a soldier' routine, then.

"Quite easily, really. 2nd Battalion 95th Rifles."

Was he an Ensign or a Lieutenant? Too young to be anything more than that, really, Sharpe thought. Stupid boy, whoever he was.

"'Quite easily'? Name! I shall inform your officer of this, you impudent bastard - I shall have you flogged!" The man was in his early twenties, and now red in the face with anger.

Stephen dropped his crutch and unsheathed his sword by a few inches. "Will you withdraw that remark?"

Sharpe snorted. "Good way to get yourself killed, Doctor, 'specially the state you're in," he said in an undertone.

Speaking louder, he addressed the boy on the horse. "You may certainly inform me officer, if you like. On'y, me actual officer's in England at the moment. I'm Lieutenant Sharpe, of the 95th, currently attached to the 62nd. And if you was to get off that horse, I'd introduce meself prop'ly, like."

Stephen glared at Sharpe. "I am quite capable-"

The officer ignored Sharpe, hearing only his first sentence and blind with fury at the man's insolence, and stared, utterly aghast, at Stephen. "And you would threaten an officer with a weapon?! I shall have you both court martialled - you will be flogged raw! How dare you?" He raised his riding crop.

Sharpe came within an ace of swearing at Stephen. "Idiot."

He pushed Stephen out of the way, as gently as he could, all things considered. He could take a blow much easier than the injured Doctor, especially considering the man still hadn't recovered from that blow to the head.

The crop was on its downward swing now and Sharpe merely let it pass his head to land on his shoulder before grabbing the boy's arm and pulling him off the horse.

"I said, I am Lieutenant Richard Sharpe, of the 2nd Battalion 95th, and you're welcome to try to bring me to the triangle again."

Shocked, Stephen threw up his arm to protect his head as he was pushed out of the way and against the wall. A jolt of pain went through his leg and he clung to the wall for balance, looking around to see Sharpe pull the officer from his horse into the filth of the ground and shake him.

"Listen to people when they say things, will you?" Sharpe said and let go of the shocked officer.

There had been a time when he would have loved to have done that to an officer, and hadn't been able to.

"Sorry about that, Stephen. Are you alright?" he said, stepping away from the sprawled redcoat to take his friend's arm.

"Not at all; it is- I am fine- Thank you." Stephen looked at the officer on the ground, staring up at Sharpe with a look of horror of his face. He straightened up, sheathed his sword, and looked down in disgust. "No manners at all. If you do not ask our pardon, I shall call you out."

Sharpe managed to turn a snort of amusement into a cough. Stephen, call him out, when he could barely stand without a crutch?

"He ain't worth it, Stephen. You'd beat him easy. Mebbe too easy. Crutch an' all."

Stephen looked skeptical at the cough, and raised an eyebrow. "Why, Richard, I could use the crutch as the weapon." Then he glared at the officer. "Get up. Name. Regiment."

The young man looked like he wanted to tell the small, scruffy civilian where to go, but then he caught sight of Sharpe's face over Stephen's shoulder, and he scrabbled to his feet. "Lieutenant Waldegrave. 62nd Regiment."

At least he wasn't any higher than Sharpe. And Sharpe was willing to bet that his Lieutenancy predated the other's. Judging by his uniform, it did, by a very long way. The fact he was 62nd could be a problem later, though.

"Don't go threatenin' people like that. It ain't clever. And you never know when you're goin' to come unstuck."

A look of deep dislike was settling on Waldegrave's face. He stared at Sharpe, the very tips of his ears red, resisting the urge to brush some muck from his brand new uniform.

His eyes darted to Stephen, who was bending to pick up his crutch. "And who are you? Sir."

"I am the man who is still waiting for your apology, Lieutenant," Stephen said icily, propping the crutch under his arm.

A Lieutenant. In the 62nd. Bugger.

And he couldn't listen, nor could he seem to take some friendly advice. Bugger again. He was going to be spending as much time as possible with the Rifles, he could see it coming.

At least he'd addressed Doctor Maturin somewhat civilly. That was some improvement on earlier, anyway. And Sharpe tried not to smirk as he realised he'd had a nice soft landing, at least.

(OOC - I need to go to bed soon; I'm on the early shift tomorrow, and then I've got all this wonderful stuff to do to make this place even better!)

Waldegrave stared and gritted his teeth. He had no idea for the man was, and he was certain that he was a civilian, but the absolute certainty of authority in his voice, the dangerous officer accompanying him and the intensity of the man's pale eyes in the dim starlight compelled him to answer. "Sorry."

Stephen bowed, his posture one of perfectly judged incivility. "I am Maturin. Go and see to your horse - your shouting startled her."

[OOC: Okay then - I shall see you tomorrow! Huzzah for wonderful new stuff!]

Sharpe reckoned the horse couldn't have cared less; she was probably used to her rider yelling at the smallest provocation, but he really couldn't care less and just wanted to see the back of the arrogant little thing.

"Come on Stephen, no more excitement for you tonight," he said, ignoring the baleful look the younger Lieutenant shot him.

"Infamous spoilt arrogant weaseling poxed vicious rude brute-beast," snarled Stephen as they walked away and around the corner. "Did he catch you with his crop, Richard?" He looked over his shoulder. "Poor mare, to have such a master."

Sharpe grinned at the impressive list of epithets. "No, he didn't. Not where it'd hurt, anyway. Got me sleeve an' the rifle, mostly." He shook his head. "Poor soldiers, to have him as an officer. I bet he's the floggin' type, an' all."

He was relieved, and grateful - Sharpe was more than half a foot taller than him, and if the crop had caught his arm and shoulder, it was more than likely that Stephen's head would have taken the blow had he not been pushed out of the way.

He looked over his shoulder again, and a horrible, paling light dawned on his face. "He said he was of the 62nd - is that not the regiment you have been attached to? Will that cause you trouble?" He looked wretched.

It probably would mean trouble, but Sharpe cope could cope with trouble. "It is, an' mebbe, but what was I supposed to do? Let 'im hit you?" As if he'd've done that, even if Stephen wasn't wounded.

"You could have- we might- I should not-" He looked down, his face a dull red from rage and shame, and scowled at the ground in front of them.

What/ Sharpe could have what?

He sighed and slung his rifle more comfortably. "Look, Stephen, there are some officers in the army who'd be better off if they had sawdust f'r brains. He's one of 'em. Now, if we had been ordinary soldiers, d'you reckon he'd've been happy if we had stood to attention and saluted him?"

"You mean he would not have been satisfied?" Stephen had of course met cruel, harsh men in the navy, but they were never stupid, if they had made it to a position of such authority, and even those men had been kept on a tight leash by Jack. He remembered when he had first gone to the sea, and his ignorance of military discipline, and how Jack had promised he would never be flogged - he had not realised how much comfort he had drawn from it until Jack had mockingly threatened to have him flogged around the fleet for desertion. "What excuse would he have had?"

"Anythin' 'e wanted. Not standin' straight enough - extra drill. Not havin' me jacket done up right could be an extra guard, even, with some officers." He sighed, and the last residual dregs of anger at the boy drained away, leaving him feeling tired and drained.

"It's tough, bein' in the army, anyways, an' it can be hell to be in the ranks when you've officers like that who've got a mite of authority over you 'cause they was born in a posh house and you was born in a hovel," he said. He glanced sideways at Stephen, bit his lip and made up his mind. "Did you know I was flogged meself, when I were in t'ranks?" he asked.