Second day on the march

"Where did you say they were, Perkins?" Sharpe asked, taking his canteen back, and hiding his amusement at the formality of introductions as an army division marched past them.

(OOC- and I really should get to bed...)

"Around the other side of the hill, sir, about two miles down the road."

"Show us the way, Perkins," Edrington ordered.

[OOC: I too ought to go to bed.]

"Yes sir," he replied after the briefest glance at Sharpe.


[OOC: Good night, all. Please save some excitement for me tomorrow! Chat amongst yourselves as much as you like while we're on the road. I wonder if Sharpe and Perkins should ride too, for speed? I'll leave it to you good people to decide and move Perkins around as you please.]

Whilst this had been occuring the rest of the column had moved along, and now Sir Arthur frowned as he saw up ahead the small knot of mounted men standing to one side. Sharpe and Edrington it seemed to be, which was not unexpected... but was that... Doctor Maturin? The General squinted. There was no mistaking that short stature and scruffy wig; but hwat was he doing out here?

"Stay here," he said to his ADCs. "I wish to speak to Colonel Edrington. I will return shortly."

And with that he spurred on, breaking out of the side of the column and making he way to the small group.

"Sharpe. Edrington." He reigned in, greeting each man with a nod, then turned to the doctor. "Dr Maturin. I thought you were with marching with McGrigor and the rest of the staff?"

It was not a rebuke, but a query, and the doctor's presence this far ahead in the column could only mean that either Maturin had got his order of march about-face, or something was terribly wrong.

"Sir." Sharpe came to attention, and glanced at Stephen and Edrington.

"Doctor Maturin has come to say that Captain Padstowe is in hospital, sir. Someone gave him a rare beatin' the night afore we left." He indicated Perkins. "And Rifleman Perkins here came to tell me there's some dead bodies up ahead. There's evidence to believe they're French, and the locals got them, sir. I were just about to take a look for meself."

"I will thus be staying in Lisbon for a little time, Sir Arthur, once I have seen to this. I apologise for my absence, but yours is the lesser need, I feel. Now..." Stephen rifled through his leather bag, fully aware of and cursing this Edrington's presence. He took out two spare bottles, which he had filled with water as a precaution.

"You are to take this is the morning," he said, waving the green bottle, "and this before sleep," waving the brown. "I have your regimen here," he said, handing over the packet of military papers. "Attend carefully to that - it contains all of my instructions concerning the physic and diet; diet especially, Sir Arthur - and do not doubt, I will know if you have not attending. It is as thorough as you asked for, however, and with that, you will not miss me at all."

Edrington did not know which seemed more unlikely - Waldegrave's fireeater turning out to be a short, fussy physician, or Wellesley being given diet instructions, which he had apparently requested.

"I am sorry to hear about Captain Padstowe," he said to Sharpe, while Maturin discussed health matters with the General. "I spoke to him - the day before we left." A rare beating. "A robbery, I suppose, or ..." Or drunken soldiers taking a sudden dislike to an officer - if it was found to be so, there would be a need for exemplary punishment. He had warned Waldegrave of the dangers, but Padstowe had not seemed the type to inspire such dislike.

"Someone made it look like that, but he won't be found. He'll have hidden the stuff, or got rid of it, long since. It's been two days, plenty of time to dispose of stolen goods."

And now he had not one but two senior officers he had to get rid of before he could go and check out what Perkins, Harris and Carty had found. Bother them. Always poking their noses in where they weren't wanted. Even Sir Arthur didn't always steer clear of things that didn't concern him. Not yet, anyway. Dead Frogs are goin' to concern him quicker than you think, a little voice whispered in his head. He ignored it.

It sounded like the remains of Raoul's mutineers, from the little Perkins had said. And from the way he'd looked when he cauht up with the marching troops, they hadn't died very prettily. Or very easily.

"... and do not make that face at me, General: I have been kind with my physic thus far." Stephen turned away from Wellesley, and looked down at Perkins with a kind expression on his face. "Is your breath all caught up, now? Please to lead us to your discovery."

Still standing to attention, Perkins eyed the officers and doctor uneasily. Normally he would have felt overawed in the presence of the colonel and particularly the general. And with half his mind he was listening to what they said about Padstowe, which was a horrible shame. But now that he had overcome most of his nausea and shock, his primary feeling was a sense of urgency. Bloody officers, quit talking and get moving! Hurry up!

The doctor had addressed him. Finally, it seemed they were leaving. He nodded and glanced once more at the general.


[ooc - off to work. goodbye!]

"With respect, sir, I shall go and take a look and report back." Sharpe addressed both senior officers at once, deciding he had neither the time nor the patience to work out who had precedence. If there was anything to report beyond what Perkins had already told them, he'd give it to them. In as much detail as they needed.

And if they didn't get a move on, they'd have even further to go to catch the column up.

"General. Colonel." Stephen nodded to the men in turn, and then spurred Bethany on to a walk with a flick of the reins and a click of his tongue, following Perkins.

Edrington glanced at the General. Would he accept Sharpe's dismissal? As for himself he had no intention of being left behind. Raoul's men? Was this all of them? Was there still a small group of French cavalry on the loose? Sharpe was part of his command, by the orders of the General, and as such, he intended to make sure he was kept informed.

"I shall come with you, Mr Sharpe. Lead the way, Perkins."

He gave some thought to Sharpe's words - Someone made it look like that. Given Padstowe's job that could be a serious problem for those remaining in Lisbon.

Saddled with the Colonel after all. Bugger. He waited a heartbeat to see if the General also wanted to come. After the other day, he didn't think the General could do anything to surprise him any more.

Wellesley seemed content to let his soldiers do what they did best, and turned to return to his own place in the column.

Sharpe shrugged, hefted his rifle and turned to follow Stephen and Perkins.

Harris came back from scouting around, recognizing a degree of nervousness that was caused by the lack of human life in this valley. The bodies were an outrage, and the constant approach and unwilling withdrawal of the carrion birds made him flinch each time. But there was no one else around. The group of riders had stopped, and - moved on. No sign of battle on the road. Just in the valley.

Carty had been shaken out of his normal cheerfulness.. The happy memories of that girl would be buried, under this evidence of the cruelty of man. Two lessons learned in less than than twenty-four hours. And the inventiveness of that slow death - the thorns, the crucifixion, the knife cuts... He stood to one side and examined them, and his mouth tightened.

When he felt he could trust his legs again, Carty walked, or staggered, back to Harris, who was staring down at the body on the thorns.

He was looking down at the writing on the man's chest. Harris could read; he was famous for it in the company. "What is say?" Carty whispered, the grammar Harris had been drilling into him blown away.

It said - the blood which he did not want to touch, and the other wounds made it almost impossible to read. But from the little he could make out, he was sure that it said "Padre Miguel" Which made sense. The village was not far away. On the other side of the road the column was on. They had carefully avoided this main route on the way back from Obidos, although the French would have wanted to be even more careful.

Carty did not know about Father Miguel, or about the Frenchmen. And Harris was not going to tell him. "I can't be sure. There's too much blood. Wait until the Lieutenant gets here. I want him to see it like this. That man was alive when they cut that into his chest."

Stephen looked over his shoulder, exasperated to see that they would be accompanied by this bloody colonel. He frowned - something jolted in his memory, as though he had seen a figure approaching him by a flash of lightning, but could not recognise him. Where did he know this man from? Colonel Edrington of the 62nd-

Des Sablières's friend, the one who had visited him, the one he had mentioned in that terrifying fit of loquaciousness on the road to Belem. He racked his brains, trying to think of what the capitaine had said about him: he knew him from England. He had known des Sablières was a prisoner, and had visited him. What had Raoul said? "He would not have understood, so I could not tell him. I could not tell him about what we were doing, or about you, or anything. Because if I had tried to explain... So I said we were a scouting party who ran into trouble. And he knows I lied to him."

He looked over his shoulder again, despairing. Sharpe and Edrington were catching up to them now, for Bethany was walking in step with Perkins.

You did not have to be sensitive to realize that neither Sharpe, nor his friend Maturin welcomed your presence. Edrington was not going to be told what he could and could not see by a Lieutenant. Waiting until Sharpe gave him a report would not do. Sharpe was a fast walker, which made up in part for the fact that he was not mounted. They were catching up quickly with their guide and the doctor, who was Sharpe's friend, as Padstowe was.

How much of this was connected, Edrington did not know, but when you added Hogan into the mix, and young Raoul, things began to get very murky indeed.

When they moved away from the bodies the carrion birds returned. The large ones, the Spanish vultures, looked at him from their mad red-ringed eyes, as if assessing him for their next meal. The ravens and crows squabbled over the remains and Harris threw stones at them.

The sound of a horse on the track made him gesture to Carty to be ready. Not the lieutenant, unless he'd decided to use his present. But most surprisingly the rider was Dr Maturin, whom Harris had not known to be with the column. But at least he would realize what had happened here.

Stephen saw the two other riflemen - one a boy of Perkins' age, the barrel of his riffle trembling as he watched him approach, and Harris. Stephen muttered a thanks to his patron, and dismounted with a grunt and a hiss. "Your colonel is joining us, with Lieutenant Sharpe, a little behind us," he said to Harris with a significant look. Thank God Harris was there - he had cursed him when the Chosen man had looked over his shoulder at his coded missive in the cart with the wounded, but now he thought his guardian angel had prompted Sharpe's most intelligent man to do such a thing. Pray God he prompted him into understanding now.

Perkins saw the doctor stopping ahead and then realized that he was speaking to Harris and Carty who had walked out to meet them. Perkins glanced at Sharpe and then ran forward to join the group. The doctor was speaking to Harris, and Carty was standing there pale and silent, much like Perkins himself.

"You all right, Mícheál?" he asked in a whisper.

Harris thought about this. And nodded. "He'll be interested in what we've found here, no doubt. I hope it doesn't turn his lordship's stomach. It did the lad's - both lads," he added. "Come and see." The one Perkins had found first, with its eyes gouged out and fingers severed.

Carty swallowed and nodded. "Yes. You are?" There was a new man, a man he did not recognise - short and pale, wearing a ragged black coat and a wig. "Who is he?" he added in a whisper.