Preparing to Leave Lisbon

"I find these days I prefer a ship, for all its dangers and discomforts. Things are simpler at sea." At sea, he could rely on the omniscience of Captain Aubrey, as trusting as any newborn or innocent, and be certain of the care and companionship of Jack. He suddenly missed his friend, with an almost physical ache. He was lonely on land now, a fact he tried to disguise for himself with his work. A fact that had led him to be sitting in this tavern as midnight approached, talking to a rifles officer he liked but barely knew. He took a mouthful of brandy.

"Aye, sailin's good, if you have enough time to get used to bein' at sea." The journey back from India had been better than the journey out, by virtue of being an officer and being given an officer's accommodation on the way back. The long voyage had also meant he was able to overcome the feeling of seasickness that he had for the first week or so at sea.

"I have had the time - I have been afloat since the year 1800. I am sometimes surprised by how long it has been. It now feels strange to sleep in a bed that does not swing. There is animosity in the navy towards soldiers - does the reverse apply in the army?"

Sharpe hadn't thought about that much. He did so now, hesitantly. "Not so much, I don't reckon. They can't march, and they don't know what to do if faced by cavalry, but that's summat you only face on land. I think sailors look down on anyone who ain't one of them, soldier and civilian alike. It takes skill to do what they do, and they're justified in sayin' it does." He remembered the crew of the Pucelle and they way they would do death-defying stunts almost without thinking about it.

"But then, us infantry soldiers look down on the cavalry, so mebbe we don't need to look down on the Navy."

"Really? Why so? I would have thought the cavalry would look down on the infantry." Jack would have laughed and laughed at even such a weak gripe, thought Stephen sadly. He hoped Sophie's pregnancy was going well. He hoped Jack was happy.

"The cavalry...?" Sharpe frowned, then his face cleared as he got the joke. The brandy must have been stronger than he'd thought, because it was really quite funny. He didn't know why he hadn't got it straight away. He ginned, then began laughing. "The cavalry look down on the infantry. All the way down their long noses."

Stephen was momentarily stunned by Sharpe's response. He wondered if Sharpe was humouring him, and then realised that he didn't care. His face broke into a wide, genuine grin.

It was good brandy, and he had been drinking it on pretty nearly an empty stomach, but it was more than that. It was the release of tension that Sharpe hadn't even noticed. He brought himself under control, wiping his eyes. "Beg pardon, didn't mean to sound mazed," he said, when he could finally speak.

"Not at all, not at all," said Stephen, grinning like an innocent himself. He had bought the bottle of brandy, and he picked it up now. "Another drink with you?"

"Certainly." Sharpe pushed his mug towards his companion. "Y'know, my friends call me Richard," he said, wondering why he didn't add 'or Dick' before realising that the friends he had in this life, as an officer, didn't call him Dick. The knowledge saddened him a little, as though he had lost something.

He stopped for a second, and looked into Sharpe's face. A genuine offer. He smiled warmly. "I am Stephen," he said, pouring the brandy. Until a few years ago, he had been 'Esteban' in his mind - it had come as a shock to understand that now he was Stephen, to all the people who mattered the most.

"Thank you, Stephen," Sharpe said, accepting his refilled mug. It wasn't every day you were offered first name terms with a physician to the General, after all.

Stephen put the bottle down, cut a piece of bread, and began to absent-mindedly rub it with a piece of garlic. "It feels like weeks since I had a proper meal. I am become a naval creature, I find - I need no watch, for I carry one in my belly." The nausea had finally worn off, leaving a void in its place.

"Must be nice, when you can eat at the same time, regular as a clock," Sharpe said, picking up his own bread and making a sandwich by folding it in half over a piece of sausage.

"Routine is important for the tight running of the ship, I have been told and seen myself; meals are only neglected if a dangerous storm is blowing, or an enemy has been sighted. Exactly this much tobacco, exactly this much vile grog, one pound of pork this day, one pound of beef the next. The days run together, when there's no land - save Sunday, of course. It is good to know that there is a ration for you, save if the ship is truly in dire straits. There is more variety for the officers though, and then there is always fish as well. The midshipmen eat the rats, sometimes. My rats, once."

"Don't think I've ever been hungry enough to eat rats. Though bein' as we're on land, there's allus rabbits and suchlike to get for the pot. And you'd be fair flummoxed to know how many men 'listed just to get their tot of rum every day."

Stephen laughed like a door creaking. "I can say that I have eaten worse things than rat. A rat would have been a feast worthy of the Queen of Sheba." He stopped laughing. "I can believe you - we have our ration of grog in the navy. A vile, wretched, evil thing - and if a man is ill, and I ban him from the stuff, he is allowed to have all of his rations in one go when I release him! An awful, barbaric custom - but work, discipline and tradition are the Father, Son and Holy Ghost in the navy, and I would be a heretic far more damned for denying tradition than the Paraclete."

"I daresay you can eat pretty much anythin' if you're hungry enough. But we c'n forage about a bit on land, so there's nearly always summat to put in the pot. I never heard of a soldier havin' all his missed rum rations at once though." He wondered for a moment if Stephen were one of these Temperance men, then remembered the fact they were sitting in a tavern, each with a cup of brandy.

"Is it the size o' the ration that bothers you, then?" he asked, thinking that he couldn't be against the principle of the thing.

"Quantity - and the water they mix it with. It is necessary, of course, but the creatures in one cup would outnumber the populations of Dublin and Barcelona combined, but it is the only way of getting the men their antiscorbutics. And, of course, when they get drunk..." He stopped, feeling a little hypocritical. He was not drunk - nowhere near - and he had not been drunk since the days of his youth, but he now remembered that it was probably unwise to be drinking strong brandy with a fractured skull. He shrugged, and took another mouthful. Jack would say that his interview with Wellesley had left him "quite shaken up", and he felt it, as he felt the effects of his mad dash around Lisbon in search of Padstowe. "Do you have much trouble with drunkenness in the army?"

"A fair amount of the men 'listed for the rum, o 'course, and you wouldn't believe the number that are here because some recruitin' sergeant got them drunk and slipped a shillin' into their pocket. Or their beer. The Navy has the Press, but the Army don't, so all the soldiers are volunteers. Officially, anyway. And gettin' them so drunk they can't remember their name, givin' them a shillin and swearin' blind they took it of their own free will the night before is sometimes the only way a Sergeant can get his 'volunteers'. Most of 'em turn out to be good soldiers, but there's allus some that can't hold their drink, and get in trouble for it."

he had another mouthful of brandy; it really was quite good, certainly better than trying to drink the wine. "Scottish soldiers don't tend to get drunk that often, English ones do and end up regettin' it, Irish ones tend to get into fights, and the Welsh... well, not all of the Welsh drink, even when they can."

The description of the army's recruiting made him morose, but then he remembered his own recruitment, and it had not been so very different. He had welcomed it as though the offer were being made by the Archangel Gabriel. Stephen smiled to hear the description of the Irish. He had been labeled among the Fire-eaters himself, at one point.

He felt relaxed, and sat back in his chair - the professional exchange of information was a rather illiberal conversation, but it was a cover for a growing camaraderie, one he welcomed in his loneliness. He did not quite know why, but he wanted Richard Sharpe to like him.

Maggie suddenly sat up and disengaged herself from Cotton. "But are you sure? I mean, you don't mind? That I'm just - that I'm still missing Jem, and that I don't--" She caught herself before saying something hurtful and changed it to "that I don't know what I want yet."

Cotton let her sit up, and wished he had a handkerchief he could offer her, although she wasn't crying.

"I don't mind, Maggie. Of course you still miss Jem." She probably always would, but there was no need to say that, and upset her. "And not ever'body allus knows what they want, all the time. You mebbe jest need to think on it a bit."

He wasn't really sure what else to say; women's emotions always confused him. But they liked talking about things, even if he did want to give them an answer. Maybe she just wanted to talk. He put her cup into her hand. "So what do you think you might want, then, lass?"

Sharpe had met quite a few different people over the past couple of weeks, and he wanted the good opinion of all of them. Which was strange, in a way, because usually he didn't care what folks thought of him. Most men saw someone from the gutter, and never stopped to think about what that actually meant, so they never tried to get to know Sharpe properly. Strange how first Captain Padstowe, and now Doctor Maturin, had actually bothered to have a proper conversation with him. It had disconcerted him when Wellesley had done the same, but then, they'd been acquainted for sixteen years, near enough.

And Maturin - Stephen, he reminded himself - had piqued his curiosity a little. Though maybe, like with Padstowe, it was best not to pry.

She was surprised by the question. She didn't know why she was surprised, but it took her off guard. "I don't know. I don't think anyone's ever asked me that before." She thought for a moment. "Home. I want to go home. And I want to be safe. And I don't want to feel alone. And, I would like to have a friend," she finshed, looking at him with an unwonted shyness. Then she added, "What is it you want?"