Yet another posada in Lisbon

"You're quieter," he mumbled, sitting up and taking the tea from Sharpe and taking a gulp. He grimaced as it went down his gullet, the taste sending shooting pains up to his skull, but he knew he would feel better for it. He pressed the flannel to his forehead and shut his eyes.

"What time is it?"

"Time?" He didn't have a watch, had never had one. Couldn't afford one. Well, he could, but it didn't feel right, flashing money around like that. it wasn't as though it was a steady income. Once gone, it was gone and he'd be as poor as ever.

Mind you, there were other ways of telling the time. He squinted at the sky. "About quarter past four. I think." He was usually within five minutes or so; it was a skill learned in the ranks, by those who could never afford watches, and it came in handy at times. And some officers could never figure out how they did it, which made it even better.

"Don't worry, you're not going to die any time soon," he said, turning his attention back to the man on the bed.

Possibly, Padstowe thought as he felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. But he may be up for the high jump.

"Anybody call round to see me whilst I was... out?" he asked carefully.

"Well, there was Hogan," he said carefully. The Engineer had arrived soon after Cotton had left.

"He didn't stay long. Seemed satisfied that I'd managed to call round to find you out, but got cornered and pressed to have a cup of tea." That it was somewhere around Sharpe's third cup, he failed to mention. "He didn't say what he wanted, though. Sorry."

Bugger. Hopefully it had not been anything important... though if it was there was every chance the major might call back.

"No message, no summons of any sort to pass on if you saw me before he did?" Hogan must have said something.

"Oh, there was something. There's a surgeon by the name of Maturin, or something like that, arrived recently. He's been up at Headquarters, and Major Hogan said he hoped you'd meet him. Said something like you had lots to talk about, though he didn't say what, exactly."

Sharpe sighed. It was nothing to do with him, of course, but he didn't like being kept in the dark. That usually led to trouble for people, trouble he had to go and clean up, along with the Chosen Men. And it wasn't as if they hadn't earned some time to themselves... though with Hakeswill on the prowl, any trouble could only be good, if it got them out of Lisbon for a bit.

Maturin. Maturin, Maturin... The name sounded familiar and he frowned as he tried hard to remember where he had heard it before. No, it had gone for the timebeing. He shrugged, then wished he hadn't.

"Lots to talk about," he muttered darkly, taking another swig of tea. "I'll talk when my head doesn't feel as if a whole magazine has exploded inside it."

"Shouldn't drink so much," Sharpe said, though it had been amusing to watch. "Though I'm amazed Cotton didn't end up as drunk as you, or drunker. Unusual lad, that."

"Probably why he's a batman," Padstowe replied. He winced again and re-soaked the flannel. "Most likely he does the same for Vickery quite often; officers with fart-catchers can afford to."

"Officers with fart-catchers can afford to what?" Sharpe asked, wondering if he'd missed something. Then he realised what Padstowe meant. "Oh. Can afford to get drunk." He had a sudden thought. "Did you ever tell Vickery that Cotton flattened you the first time you met him?"

Padstowe blinked. He had pretty much clean forgotten about that.

"No, was never going to. It was an accident and I would be an absolute ass of a jack pudding to be put out for long by an accident."

He forced himself to take another swallow of tea, screwing his eyes shut and pinching the bridge of his nose. Hangovers were certainly God's way of telling you that getting pissed was not a good idea.

"Tea not sweet enough?" Sharpe asked, noticing Padstowe's expression. Sharpe himself wasn't used to sugar in his tea; he couldn't afford it and even if he could, he couldn't get a regular supply when out patrolling or running errands with the Chosen Men on Major Hogan's behalf.

"Too bloody sweet!" Padstowe was not used to tea with sugar in either, having spent long months away from civilisation and without access to sugar. Besides, any small amount of sugar he came across he usually passed on to Bethany, his mare, for a treat.

Somehow, it hadn't occurred to Sharpe that Padstowe might not like his tea with sugar. "Here, have mine," he said, holding out his mug. Though the way Padstowe's landlady kept his mug full, He'd had enough of the stuff for one afternoon anyway.

"Sorry, didn't realise you don't like sugar in your tea. I'll remember that next time."

Padstowe swapped his mug with Sharpe's and took an experimental sip. Better. He took a larger swallow and then looked thoughfully at his friend.

"Have you or your lads had much contact with the 60th?"

"Not really. I know they were involved in the skirmishing at Vimeiro, but I was stuck behind with the stores. And of course, they were sent back here before Sir John Moore started his retreat last winter, and the 95th were still with the army."

He crossed to the window and chucked the unwanted tea out of it before turning to look at his friend. "What makes you ask?"

"Nothing really, just wondering. Thought they being rifles you might know them a little better. I'm surprise you haven't fallen into conversation with Vickery."

Though perhaps maybe not that surprised. Sharpe was not exactly known amongst the Mess for his elegant smalltalk.

[OOC: Going walkies. Back in an hour or so.]

(OOC: I'll be going out at about half seven and back around ten.)

"Well, I have been fairly busy, running errands and suchlike for Major Hogan," he said. "And I don't go into the Mess all that often anyway." The dinner the other day was the first time in about two weeks that he'd eaten there, in fact, though he didn't feel the need to say as much.

Though Padstowe's comments made him think. "I should see if perhaps we can't do some training together. God knows my men haven't had the chance to practise skirmishing properly in months." Though that would place both him and his men under the command of another officer, which would be uncomfortable but good practise as well. "Maybe I should talk with Vickery."

"I would advise it," Padstowe said. "It would be a good idea for your men to get used to working with other skirmishing units. They've been on their own too long, and you won't stay a detachment forever."

He paused.

"Besides," he added thoughtfully. "It'll give you a chance for Vickery to see you at your best, in case any trouble should crop up for young Cotton."

Sharpe wondered for a moment where the wine bottle had gone. Last he'd seen it, it was still half full, and thinking about how his men would no longer be his men once the 95th arrived in Portugal and things went back to normal just made him morose and want to get drunk. He'd end up back with the stores doing absolutely nothing of any use. Just because he'd been in the ranks once.

"Get Vickery on my side, you mean?" he said. "Though how that'll help if Cotton ends up in trouble, I don't know." He paused as if about to continue, then a thought struck him. "You do realise that Hakeswill will have added you to his list after this morning, don't you?"

Padstowe stiffened, a look of surprise coming over his haggard face.

"I hadn't," he said quietly. He then seemed to shake himself out of his reverie. "But surely not! I haven't done anything to him. Have I? I was merely defending officer, and I defended my charge."

"Maybe not, but he won't see it that way. He'll see it that you got in between him and Williams facing a firing squad." He gave a half smile, which was quickly followed by a small frown. "Though Heaven knows, Wellesley got in between him and me being flogged to death, and he ain't tried anything on with Sir Arthur."

Although maybe that had more to do with Wellesley's position as General than anything else?

"Just watch your back. He'll still want me most, and if he can't have that, he'll find it easiest to get Williams or Cotton, but you be careful too."

That Hakeswill had not tried anything on the General was probably more to do with self-preservation than any lack of ill-will. The man would have to be suicidal, he winced again as another stab of pain went across the inside of his skull, and he pulled the cold, wet flannel across his forehead.

"I'm used to it," he said, attempting a smile but only managing half a one. "Besides, I'm tired of thinking of him for the moment, and if the bastard's got any sense he'll give it a few days before he tries anything else."

He glared around the room.

"Where did my damn boots go?"

Boots? Now, there was a change of subject... Sharpe looked on the floor by the bed, as the place Cotton had most likely put them. Yes, just under the bed...

"Here they are," he said, pulling them out. "Are you sure you want to be going out, the way you're feeling, though?"

"No, I'm not sure," Padstowe grumbled, taking the first boot from Sharpe and pulling it on. "But if Hogan is looking for me then I should go and see what he wants."

He stopped as he sat up again, a sudden wave of nausea sweeping over him. Maybe this was not so good an idea after all.

"But then again..."

[OOC: I shall slink off now, if you don't mind. I think I am need of an on-time night, especially with the builders coming early tomorrow. Night!]