Yet another posada in Lisbon

"What about Hogan?"

The man was dressed now, but he looked as if he'd flop back down on the bed and fall asleep, given half a chance. It wasn't that Sharpe particularly wanted to go anywhere near Headquarters, but now that Padstowe was dressed, he probably should get out.

"Anyroad, the fresh air'll do you good. And you're dressed now, you can't go back to bed."

Watch me, Padstowe thought darkly, but then realised that he was just being childish. He sighed again and heaved himself up onto his feet.

"Very well, I suppose I should... though I sincerely doubt I'll get any 'fresh' air in this Godforsaken city."

He picked up his swordbelt and clasped it around his middle, settling his sabre on his hip before grabbing his hat. He cast a sideways glance in the mirror and wished he'd not looked. Bloodshot eyes and pasty skin did not suit him; or anyone for that matter.

Well, he was standing, which was a vast improvement on a few moments ago, in Sharpe's opinion. "Well, air, then," he said. Privately he agreed on Padstowe's view about its freshness. "Just remember to watch where you walk; you don't want to tread in anything nasty, after all."

He picked up his own shako from where he'd dropped it on first coming into the room. "Well, that's certainly seen better days," he said, and grimaced at the bedraggled green feather plume.

Padstowe managed a half-smile as Sharpe regarded his plume - somehow it always made him thing of a moulting parrot. He was abou to jam his own hat on his head when he remembered his hair was still damp, but then decided he didn't really care. He picked up his watch, checking the time before putting it in his pocket, made sure he had his purse and keys and then gestured to the door.

"Out with you."

Sharpe tucked the shako under his arm and assumed an angelic expression. "Yes, sir. At once, sir. Anything you say, sir." He slipped smartly out of the door and waited on the landing for Padstowe to join him.

"Go to Hell, Richard," Padstowe growled as he shut and locked the door before joining Sharpe on the landing.

"Follow you anywhere, Jon," Sharpe said, leading the way down the stairs. It was a good thing Padstowe couldn't see the broad grin on his face or he was sure the captain would have pushed him down.

Even though Sharpe had his back to him Padstowe could swear by the tone of his voice that he was grinning. Bloody man...

As they reached the bottom of the stairs he stuck his head round the doorway into the kitchen.

"We're just off, senhora," he called. "I should be back later this evening."

"See that you are!" came the shrill reply. "And in a better state than you came back today!"

Padstowe grimaced and urged Sharpe to hurry up and get through the front door before she decided to give him another verbal battering.

Sharpe hurried up. Stepping out of the door, he glanced at his shako and realised there was yet another dent in it. "Bloody thing," he said, bashing it out and cramming the thing on his head.

Padstowe watched fascinated as Sharpe abused his shako.

"How does it get like that?" he asked as Sharpe jammed the thing on his head. "You only have to put the thing down on the table and it acquires new dents from thin air!"

[OOC: The Thing. Ha! Sharpe's shako has a life of it's own! XD]

"No idea," Sharpe said. "At least your hat lays flat when you put it down. Damn impractical things, though, if you ask me." He'd much prefer not to wear it, but going anywhere near Headquarters and the stuck-up snobs therein meant you had to be properly dressed. The Chosen Men might be able to get away with forage caps. Their officer couldn't.

"Well, not quite flat," Padstowe said, fidgiting slightly as he felt a trickle of water run down the back of his collar. "And you have to remember not to move back or turn suddenly incase you have somebody's eye out."

"Well, there is that," Sharpe said. "And they're bloody amazing for directing water straight down the back of your neck." He'd seen Padstowe fidget slightly and could guess at the cause. "Bloody fashion. Why can't someone invent something nice and easy to wear, that don't get damaged when you turn your back on it for more than a second?"

Yes, he groused entirely far too much sometimes, but it was fun.

"Lord knows," Padstowe sighed. "Probably for the same reason that most skirmishing troops are still running around in bright red and gleaming white."

Sharpe glanced at him. "Dunno about 'gleaming'," he said. "White trousers get pretty mucky pretty fast. 'Specially when you're sleepin' in them and what-all else."

He'd worn the same uniform himself in India, and he remembered his own trousers hadn't been exactly white after the first month.

"I was more referring to the crossbelts," the captain said, before lapsing into silence again. Quite a few of the older style of officer were not happy about men dressing in rifle green, nor of using weapons that were far more accurate than the smoothbore musket in a job that required accuracy. Idiots, each and every one of them, for any new weapon or tactic that could give the British the edge over Bonaparte was a welcome improvement as far as Padstowe was concerned. It would be foolish to cede an advantage just because some upper class fools didn't like the colour or cut of their uniform.

"Those make a nice target," Sharpe said. "Dan Hagman swears he can get a Frenchman at a hundred yards even if it were black as pitch. He'd just aim where the belts cross."

Mind you, if you were using a weapon that had an effective range of fifty yards or less, did it really matter if you wore bright red and white? You could hardly stand out more, and even were the whole army to wear green it wouldn't help matters much, with such a short-range weapon.

"But the Rifles have the advantage of a better weapon," he said. "And there's nothing like all the cleaning and polishing and suchlike that redcoat soldiers have to do."

"Which leaves far more time for proper training," Padstowe commented. "And doesn't entertain this ridiculous notion that good troops only have to look smart to win battles."

Now there was a man who could talk sensibly about matters. "Aye, you're in the right of it there," he said. "Pardon me for asking, but you weren't the 50th's Light Company officer, were you?" If he was, that would explain a lot, and if he wasn't, well, not every sensible officer was Light.

"And I really should talk with Captain Vickery," he said, mostly to himself.

"For all of two seconds," he said quietly. He shrugged. "Centre company."

He turned at the mention of Vickery.

"You might want to go and find him whilst I see what Hogan wants, unless you wish to see him as well and then we can both go. I could introduce you then."

Introductions couldn't hurt. Especially if Vickery was one of that snobbish type of officer who looked down on people like Sharpe up from the gutter. He hadn't really seen much of the man, after all, beyond a courteous nod when Sharpe came into the Mess three days ago for dinner. And then of course all they'd seen of each other since was a figure in a dark alleyway later that evening.

"If you wouldn't mind, Jon, I'd appreciate it. And Hogan did make some dark threats about getting me to report to Sir Arthur about what I'd done to help him out over the winter."

Padstowe grinned despite himself.

"How I pray I will be there for that for that conversation!" he said happily, turning right at the end of the street where they emerged down the side of the courthouse. "And I'll be happy to introduce you to Vickery. You'll like him, Richard; a very amiable fellow with some sound ideas on skirmishing. He's a John as well, you know."

Sharpe looked askance at Padstowe. "You really want to see me standing to attention in front of the General's desk, playing Sergeant at him? 'Yes, sir; no, sir; it weren't quite like that, sir; whatever you bloody say, sir.'"

At least Vickery didn't have so much to prove to Sharpe as a redcoat officer would; the man was already wearing the Rifles' green uniform.

"It's the look of barely contained amusement he gets whenever he interrogates you," Padstowe mused, remembering the Beau's last meeting with Sharpe at the quayside. "First he starts off looking as if would murder you on the spot if he could, only later give the impression that you are some sort of first class entertainment."

Sharpe blinked at that. "He's never given me the impression he's the slightest bit amused at me even being in the same room as him."

He wondered whether Padstowe had been looking at him and Sir Arthur, or someone else under the impression they were him and Sir Arthur.

"Entertainment. The only entertainment I'm likely to give him is falling over me own feet on the way in."