Yet another posada in Lisbon

Cotton looked from one officer to the other in slight disbelief. He'd always thought the Officers' Mess had the best wine available. Well, that showed how much he knew about things.

Padstowe might do the same for anyone, but not anyone would do the same for him.

That thought only half made sense and he realised he was probably drunker than he should be if he had any sense. Never mind.

"More wine, sir?" he asked, deciding he should slow down a bit, just in case he needed to help the officer home.

"Don't mind if I do," Padstowe pushed his mug across to Cotton. "But I seriously think we should. Shouls ask the fellow if he would be interested in taking up the contract and get the stewards to do the haggling."

Cotton poured some more wine for the captain. "You should have proper wine in the Mess, sir. I think you should have words with the barkeep."

And who'd asked his opinion, anyway? Private soldiers shouldn't go volunteering their thoughts on things, especially when there were officers around. That was rule one of training, that was.

"We'd still be charged an arm and a leg for it, but at least it'd be worth it," Sharpe said, tasting his wine. "And I think you should say something to him, Jon. I wouldn't mind paying the Mess bill if this was on the table instead of that excuse for wine they usually serve."

"I'll speak to him later," he said, taking another drink. He was just starting to feel the effects of wine and negotiating a contract would require a clear head. Which he had no intention of having today.

"I should have thought your captain would have mentioned the piss-poor stuff the Mess provides. Bloody cheek I'd say considering what we have to pay for it."

He grinned. "Once or twice, sir, but I didn't think it was really as bad as all that. He likes grousing about things at times."

And that was too much like a criticism, and private soldiers shouldn't criticise their officers, either.

He had another mouthful. "Nice stuff." He was going to slow down enough to enjoy it; he'd never see this sort of wine again on a private soldier's pay.

Padstowe returned Cotton's grin.

"Just because we're officers does not automatically mean we get the finest. Most will try and swindle us for all we're worth before they cough up anything good if we're not careful."

He'd seen that happen. Probably because most officers' jacket were covered in gold or silver lace; traders could smell money a mile off, and the quality always had money, didn't they?

"That's why you should have someone like me to go out and buy stuff, 'stead of doin' it yourself, sir." He usually managed to get things cheaper than Mister Vickery could, but then, he liked the challenge of haggling for things.

"I have thought about it," he said. "Getting a servant I mean, but my duties don't exactly allow for one. Well, they do, but it'd be damned awkward."

[OOC: Going to osteopath. Back in roughly an hour and a half.]

"Oh." There wasn't much else he could say to that, and he didn't think the officer would appreciate being asked what his duties were, somehow.

(OOC: OK, see you later!)

Conversation stopper if there ever was one.

"So how long have you been with Captain Vickery?"

"Not long, really, sir. Since just after Christmas. But he seems to like me well enough." He hadn't actually spilt anything on the officer yet, anyway, which was always good.

(OOC and now I've got to go out! Be back around ten-ish, if you're still going to be up!)

Padstowe could see why, if this morning was anything to go by. Cotton was useful man to have around.

[OOC: Ok, I'll try and stay awake. ]

He hoped that having a sergeant with a grudge against him didn't mean the captain would find it easiest to return him to the ranks; he'd grown to like the position. And an extra shilling a week was always useful.

(OOC: Back! As you can see...)

The captain drained his mug and refilled it again. Suddenly the conversation seemed to have stalled. A change in subject was in order.

"Still, no point dwelling on it," he said with an attempt at cheerfulness. He raised his glass. "Here's to a swift kick up Bonaparte's arse."

"I'll drink to that," Cotton said, raising his own cup. He wondered what else they could find to talk about. Asking about what the officer did would lead to a brush-off.

The Captain was in the 50th, or was at least wearing their uniform. And they were from the west of Kent, the same county Cotton was from. Although officers didn't necessarily join - or remain in - their own county regiment, it might be a place to start.

"If'n you don't mind me askin', sir, are you from Kent?"

"I am," he said in reply to Cotton's question. "Little village called Cowden. Not much more than a church and farmsteads, but we're not that far from Edenbridge where they have the tanneries and the cattle market. Nice place, and with some good families."

He smiled fondly at the recollection of home, then grinned at Cotton.

"Good families, one of which is the Killicks. Only recently come into money, but good stock. They own several of the farms around, along with some shares in the tannery, same as my father. Have their pew in St. Mary's though, unlike us. Do you know what their house is called? Gabriel's Manor."

"Sounds a bit like home. My home, I mean. Little tiny place called Throwley, about seven miles from Faversham, where there's the breweries and brickmakers."

He grinned. "Gabriel's Manor, eh? Closest I'm ever goin' to get to ownin' a big house." He tried to be sensible; of course the captain wouldn't get the joke. "That's me name, you see. Gabriel Cotton."

Padstowe nodded indulgently.

"I was aware of that, Cotton, which was why I thought you might like to know."

He was also aware that he had been rambling - something he rarely did whilst sober - and took another gulp, before putting the mug down and topping it up.

"Faversham, eh? Buffs have the East, don't they? Never been there myself, though I've met a few chaps from out that way. Was your family in service? Only forgive me, but you don't strike me as a brickmaker."

Cotton smiled and relaxed a bit more; he was starting to like this officer. He'd almost forgotten their disastrous first meeting.

"No, sir. I was a farm labourer until the Squire died and his son had us turned out of our cottage."

Four - no, five - years ago, and the memory still hurt.

"I'm sorry to hear it," said Padstowe, and he truly meant what he said. His family were country gentry like Cotton's squire, and they too owned quite a bit of farmland with tennant families. His father was fairer than some landlords, but to his memory he could recall two or three evictions that had taken place in his lifetime. Now talking to Cotton he felt a pang of guilt for those moments. "Were they late with the rent?"

That was the most common reason, or excuse, although his father never turned people out on those grounds if he could help it. Only one of the three cases had been over rent.

"No." He sighed. It felt good talking to someone from back home, even if it was right over the other side of the county. He'd never told anyone the exact reason, but somehow he wanted to now.

"When I was mebbe twelve, thirteen, I got goaded into a fight with Squire's son. He was a right bully, and liked pickin' on us village kids. He was what, three or four years older than me? I was never goin' to win, and he knew it. So he had me on the ground when Squire rides past an' gives him a tongue lashing for fighting and what-all else."

He had another mouthful of wine, nice stuff it was, too. "And of course he never forgot it. So when the Squire finally gets put to bed with a shovel, he inherits the estate and decides he wants us out. Bastard. Nothing like his dad, he weren't. His dad were a proper gentleman."

"What's the family name?" Padstowe was curious now. He probably knew of them if they were of any consequence.

"Burgess." Though how likely it was that Mister Padstowe knew of them, he couldn't say. Of course, the gentry moved around a lot more than the likes of him, so maybe he did.

"Nice enough folk, the Squire and his wife, though Master Burgess was a nasty piece of work. Never could understand why, his parents being the way they were."

Padstowe snorted.

"Makes sense now. Had the misfortune to meet the fellow once whilst visiting the Sidneys - a perfectly vile man if ever there was one."

He glanced across to Sharpe.

"You're very quiet, Richard."