7th Day - starting out for Pombal

At this point, he didn't care who he spoke with, as long as he got his report passed on properly. Calderón glanced at the other green-jacket, who had blessedly remained silent thus far. When would the third one come back?

"About a mile from the village, within easy alarm distance," he answered. "They are all infantry - I watched for a day and saw no cavalry."

Ah. Here came that third green-jacket. Calderón inclined his head in a show of courtesy at the boy's report. Perhaps there would be an officer sent forward soon, as he didn't relish the prospect of wandering aimlessly about the column in search of one.

"Is he sent for, your Mister Sharpe? Or even Colonel Edrington?" Calderón asked, in English.

"They're just behind us, on the road," Harris said. "If you go down, they'll come to you. Perkins, go with him, and make sure you take him to the Colonel." He looked at Calderon. "Don't worry, you'll get to give them the information."

Upon hearing that the order for the army to march again was given, Hunter packed his belongings into the saddlebags and. straightening his uniform, mounted. 'Now, Fernao', he said after the boy got onto his own horse, 'I'm quite sure that as a servant you are not to hang around me during the march', noting that the boy was about to protest he hurried on, 'but seeing as you are new to the whole thing, you'll follow me for the present but at a little distance'. Fernao nodded reluctantly, he might be wise for his age but apprehension and worry did not care how old you were. He patted Maçã, his horse, gently as he settled into the saddle. 'For aristocracy, you don't know much about dealing with servants' he said, hiding his other feelings behind a smirk.

Hunter grunted 'Haven't really had the chance to learn'. Firebird sensing the stirring of the army camp around her, and being used to military ways, danced a little in anticipation. 'Now, now, dear', said Hunter switching back to English, 'You'll have your run today, I believe, maybe I'll even let you loose upon the French if we meet any worth your while. Of course, you shall have to promise me that you'll be sensible: I seem to have acquired a servant who is. In our little trio we can only afford one nitwit, and since the honour has already fallen to me, you'll have to be a paragon of good sense'. He searched out the small clique of ADCs and staff officers that would likely keep themselves near Wellesley during the march. He rode up to them greeting those present as appropriate, and having engaged in a couple of minutes of small talk, let Firebird fall back.

Fernao as promised was keeping himself some yards away and seemed to have forgotten Hunter completely, studying the British army with avid curiosity. Hunter wrapped the reins around the saddle's pommel and drew his sabre out halfway, tasting the blade. Finding it as sharp as knew it to be he thrust it back, but didn't take up the reins again: at such a sedate pace and knowing that she had to stay with the Staff group of horses, Firebird did not need direction. George took out a map that he had the foresight to transfer from the saddlebag to his jacket and studied it. There was talk of French in Pombal, a whole regiment, and judging by the map they would reach it quite soon. 'Well now, dearest', he spoke to the horse, 'I wonder what the General intends to do, if the talk is true', he paused, 'I wonder what we shall do? We'll know, no doubt, ... when pigs deign to fly', he muttered.

It suddenly occured to him that with all the nocturnal and morning excitement he quite forgot to do what he'd meant to do since setting out from Lisbon. He sabre was sharpened while he travelled on the ship and he'd refined the edge on it on one of the stops he'd made while travelling to catch up with the army; his two pistols were loaded and were now snug behind his sash. However, two other weapons were quite forgotten since he did not have occasion to use them often. Carrying them was an affectation, but they have proved useful those times he had to rely on them. In his boots were hidden two knives, or rather daggers. Presently he took one out, rummaged around in the saddlebag for a sharpening stone, causing Firebird to snort unappreciatively, and set to putting an edge on the wicked looking blade.

Carty stared at the newcomer. He was Portuguese, like the man who had done those unspeakable things to the bodies they had found, but Harris was being civil, and he followed his lead. He was glad that he had - French, and close, very close. He looked up at Harris questioningly.

Perkins looked dismayed when Harris told him to escort the Portuguese stranger to where the Colonel was riding. Why couldn't he have sent Carty instead? He knew the man was an ally, but the memory of that knife at his own throat made his skin crawl, as did the memory of those dead hussars.

"Come on," he said begrudgingly, speaking with a loud voice and gestures to indicate that the man should follow him. "Come with me."

Calderón nodded, showing not even the slightest inkling of his wariness at being sent off with Perkins - he had no doubt the boy held a grudge againt him, but with perfect justification.

"Thank you," the scout said, again Portuguese. Then he looked at the green-jacket called Perkins and added in English, "Lead on, if you please."

Harris watched them go, and then turned to Carty. "That's the difference between us and the French," he said. "The peasants here are on our side - so they come to us with information about the French, which in this case will be very welcome." He saw the boy's expression. "What's wrong?"

Carty nodded towards the Portuguese man, now leaving. "He is Portuguese. He is one of ee-reg-oo-lars?"

Harris gave him a blank look. "Possibly. Or just a villager who doesn't like the French coming in and driving him and the others out."

The irregulars were on their side - at the moment. But Carty had seen their work and no one could have liked what they had done to those French Hussars. It was almost certain that Calderón had not personally been involved in that. He had been with them, after the French had left, and for that day at least, he couldn't have been mutilating Frenchmen 30 miles away. But he could not reassure Carty on that point. As far as Carty knew, he had never seen the man before.

Perkins led the way past the ranks, keeping silent but occasionally giving the Portuguese man a shrewd glance out of the corner of his eye. Lacking Harris's powers of reason, it had not occurred to him that this man could not have been involved in the horrible killing of the escaped hussars. And now that he thought about it, he wanted to know if the man had been there. And he wanted to know if the man condoned or participated in such behavior often. But perhaps it was better not to know. Soon his imagination was filling him with revulsion for the little Portuguese fellow. Well, the sooner he could leave him with the colonel, the better.

Edrington saw the Rifleman approaching with a Portuguese. "It's one of yours," he said to Sharpe, and then recognized him. "Rifleman Perkins," he called.

"Sir!" Perkins saluted smartly. "This man - this Portuguese man wants to speak to an officer, sir." He looked uneasily at Sharpe.

Calderón nodded at the two officers that Perkins led him to, just barely resisting the impulse to salute.

"I have news about Pombal," the scout said in English, keeping his gaze on the red-coated officer.

Sharpening the knives did not take George long: they were kept in good condition and the edge merely needed to be refreshed. He put them back into the boots. He studied the Staff group: they seemed to be busy talking amongst themselves, Hunter's existance seemingly forgotten. 'No time like the present' thought Hunter and gathering up the reins directed Firebird to Fernao. 'I'm going to take a look at the army lines. I won't be long, but if it looks like one of them needs me', Hunter gestured towards the Staff officers and ADCs, come and fetch me, I'll probably be somewhere up ahead'. Fernao nodded and Hunter nudging Firebird into canter, sped away.

Edrington breathed a sigh of relief at the man's excellent English. Searching for an interpreter could take forever. "So tell me," he said. "I am Colonel Edrington of the 62nd. This is Lieutenant Sharpe of the 95th."

[OOC: would you like to fill in the bits where I go uh-huh, and tell me more. And even Thank you, General Wellesley should be informed immediately. I really must get to bed - it's after 3 in the morning. But thank you, all. We will now be able to attack with knowledge! Captain Hunter - Feel free to take the news to the General - and to comment on your own behalf]

OOC - Glad to! I'm going off to bed myself after this post.

IC -

He already knew Lieutenant Sharpe, but of course he couldn't let on that he did. Again inclining his head, Calderón said "A pleasure, sirs."

There. Pleasantries now aside - though he hadn't bothered to introduce himself - he could move on to more important things. "I am lately from Pombal, where a regiment of French currently resides. They are approximately seven hundred in number, and all infantry as well. I watched them for a day and did not see cavalry or artillery. It almost seemed like they were readying to leave."

Calderón paused and looked at both officers in turn, wondering if either of them might have questions. Instead, he was thanked for his report and told that General Wellesley would be informed directly. Ah. The scout nodded his understanding and turned to his young green-jacketed guide.

"Is there any water that may be spared? I have not taken rest or drink in some days."

Hunter saw Edrington and Sharpe and thought it polite to greet them. As he cantered up he also notice a man who looked Portuguese. He smiled at Sharpe and saluted Edrington, but decided it was best to withdraw since the group seemed to be engaged in a serious conversation. However, Edrington presented him to the Portuguese man and bade him stay so that he could report the information to Wellesley.
When Calderon asked for some water, Hunter took his canteen and passed it to the man.

The aide-de-camp was quicker than Perkins. Well, it suited him just fine not to share his water with this sort of man. Though at the rate he was drinking it in such great gulps, he might still be thirsty after draining the canteen. Pombal... how far away was Pombal?

Sharpe looked at the man Perkins had just brought down to them. What was he doing out here? One of the irregulars, somehow involved with whatever Padstowe and Maturin had been up to and now come down to the column with information for the General.

A regiment of infantry in a village called Pombal. Whatever they did would be for General Wellesley to decide.

Edrington smiled his thanks to the Portuguese. At least some one who knew about such matters had confirmed the villagers' figures, which could have been a rough estimate at best. Seven hundred infantry should be a reasonable match for two regiments of foot and the Scots Greys, if one could get the right conditions for the heavy dragoons to operate in. Captain Hunter would be the best person to take the news to Wellesley, though it would probably not cause any changes in plan.

"Captain Hunter," he asked, "do you have any questions? If not, it's much as we thought, only now confirmed rather than guesswork. Sir Arthur should be told."

He managed to empty the canteen in only a few healthy swallows and handed it back with a faint expression of embarrassment. Calderón looked warily at the gathered officers after he swiped stray drops of water from his chin. Would they have any questions for him? Would General Wellesley have any? He'd stay if they did, but his preference was to be on his way again as soon as he could.

"Will there be any questions from your general?" The scout asked.

"Picquets. I assume they have them posted. Can you show me - on a map where they are?" He smiled at Sharpe. It would make his job a fraction simpler, if they knew where and how many picquets they would need to prevent giving the alarm.

He studied the man, and noted his eagerness to be on his way. Was that wariness about the army, or a desire to be elsewhere... "Are there other - villagers about?" he asked. "It would be helpful to know..." Because if this man was an Irregular, and was not alone, they might have unexpected support who could easily become targets, or just caught in the cross fire.

Hunter took back the canteen. He was not sure whether Wellesley was going to want to see the scout, George himself could think of a few questions to ask the man: it seemed like Edrignton had everything well in hand, but he decided to brave the Colonel's displeasure.
'Also, if you know, Senhor, would you tell us what is the French position within Pombal? I assume they have some buildings fortified? Perhaps a church, it seems a popular place for a defensive position. And do you know if they have a powder store somewhere?'

Calderón nodded. He could indeed do that. "There are others, yes," he answered, understanding the colonel's question. He'd spoken to some during his day in the village.

The other red-coat had questions too. Calderón went back over the village's layout in his mind and said "There are some fortified, on the outskirts. I did not see a powder store, but a likely place would be the church. The regiment seemed to be preparing to depart when I left the village to come here."

That was interesting, if true. Picquets identified, the likely site of any powder store, and the French preparing to leave - Edrington studied the man. Something was not quite right - the report was - too good, for someone who seemed to be a peasant. Possibly an Irregular, or even a former soldier, but was he trying to lure them into a trap?

"Why should we believe you?" he asked.