Yet another posada in Lisbon

Sharpe started. He'd been thinking about something else, and couldn't even remember what, now. "Don't mind me. I'm just enjoying the company, and appreciating not having to run round after people for once."

Padstowe grinned as he refilled Sharpe's mug. The thought of Sharpe running around after anyone save Sir Arthur was an odd one.

"So how did an honest man of Kent like yourself end up joining the Rifles?"

"Well, the hiring fair was a week afterwards and I went along, lookin' for work, as you would after summat like that. No luck, not even for someone like me who could do most jobs needed on a farm." He'd been proud of that, once, too.

"An' a recruitin' sergeant of the 22nd taps me on the shoulder. I asked if he'd let me see if I could find a place doin' what I knew. He must've been fair flummoxed acause he said yes. Only, I couldn't so I found meself in the taproom of the Wheatsheaf, clutchin' a shilling."

It hadn't been quite what he'd wanted, but he'd eventually come to like it, even if he had been in the awkward squad for drill at first.

"That was in '04. Three years later, the Light Company got a new captain, and he calls me in and says the 60th are looking for men to join their Rifle battalion, and he'd thought of me, what did I think? Well, I couldn't hardly say no to an officer, so here I am wearin' a green jacket. And servant to the company commander, too."

Things could be far worse, of course, but he always tried to look on the bright side.

Not the most typical of stories, but with a touch of familiarity to it. Sharpe's own sergeant, Harper, had joined up because of a poor harvest and little work at home.

"Sounds like you did not have much of a choice. How many are in your family, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Ten of us kids, plus Dad and Ma makes..." he counted on his fingers for a second. "...twelve. And how we all managed to fit in our cottage, I'll never know!" He had another drink, and topped his mug up. "What about you, sir, if you don't mind me askin'?"

He grinned to himself. He hadn't meant to copy the officer's words, but maybe it was just the way folks from Kent phrased things.

Twelve! Padstowe quite often wondered why the worst off insisted on having the largest families. Perhaps there was not much else to do... He swiftly pushed that thought away as unworthy and cleared his throat.

"Four; my father, my mother, myself and my younger sister. Well, seven if you count the dogs, as I believe father does. There was another child born, but it died before it was two days old; Sarah and I were too young to remember."

Four.. in a house the size of those the gentry usually lived in, they must have rattled around like... Now he was being daft. The Squire and his wife had had two sons. And of course the quality had servants, as well.

"I s'pose it's what you're used to," he said, looking at the wine in his cup. "If'n you'm used to a big house and a small family, it must seem strange to think about livin' in a small cottage with a big family. It were cosy, I'll say that. But we weren't all there all the time. By the time Malachi was born, Billy and Rebecca had left to go into service."

"All mine were there all the time," Padstowe said ruefully. "Sarah is good company, father has his head in the clouds most of the time, but mother..." he shook his head. "I probably needed all the space the house could offer to keep out of her way - and that was only because she could not be bothered to walk through all the rooms to find me. Her health, you know," he said bitterly, his tone making it perfectly clear what he thought of the Lady of the Manor's 'nerves'. "Then there were all the other family who would 'drop in' at the least excuse; cousins, aunts and uncles, godparents and any acquaintances that cared to come along..." he shook his head again. "I was happy to escape to the army."

Cotton noticed the look on the officer's face. "'m sorry," he said, and topped his cup up for him.

"We all got on with each other, most of the time, anyway. Had to. But Christmas was fun, everyone inside, tryin' to stay out of Ma's way, while she did the bakin'."

"I suppose you had to," said the captain, making the effort to smile at Cotton. "You sound as if you were lucky with your family. Either that or I'm simply ungrateful."

He glanced down at his cup and was somewhat surprised that it had seemed to refill itself. He pointed to it.

"Was that you, Cotton?"

"S'pose I was lucky, sir." The wine was definitely getting to his head now. He was still holding the bottle, so the Captain's question wasn't needed, really, but he must have had a bit too much as well. "Yes, it was. Sorry if you didn't want any more." He leaned over and topped Mister Sharpe's cup up for good measure.

"Had to get on," he said, turning back to the Captain. "Place the size of ours, we had no room for upsets. 'Specially in winter. Go for a walk to clear your head and you'd be half froze time you got halfway home."

"No, no - just as long as I know."

He drained about half the mug, then sat nursing it thoughtfully.

"She wants me to marry, y'know," he said suddenly.

Well, that was different. He tried to piece together a cohesive sentence.

"Y'r mother?" He was slurring his words, and had slipped back so easily into a broad Kentish accent. Too much wine. Shame it was so nice, though. "An' you don't like the girl?"

"Never met the girl," he said morosely. "Never met any girl she wants me to palm off on me."

He frowned. Hang on, that wasn't right.

"I mean, I've met them, but I don't like them. Not enough to live with one of 'em anyway."

He upended the last drops out of the first bottle into his mug, peering down the neck to see that it truly was empty. "Richard, dear fellow, the bottle stands by you. The other bottle, that is."

"It does, as well," Sharpe said, pulling the cork and re-filling Padstowe's mug. "So what sort of girl would you like to marry?" All this talk of home had made him a bit depressed; he'd never had a home worthy of the name. But he could talk about women.

"One that I like," he said doggedly. He was finding it harder to think straight. "One with more'n half a brain that don't prance or giggle all the time or looks like the backside of horse. Or think about dresses and hats all the time!"

He pulled a face, making clear his disgust at such women.

"Do y'know what she did last year, just before Vimeiro? Wrote my Colonel saying my father was desparately ill and could I come home to help her sort out the business? 'Course I went... but father was just as right as ever and all she wanted to do was flaunt me round the assemblies at Tunbridge Wells for the middle of the season! Said the girls would be more anxious to find someone by then. Bloody woman."

"Did you miss the battle, then?" Some women, no sense of duty or... or doing the right thing by your regiment.

"No. I told her what I thought of her plot and came straight back - turned out to be just in time before things got moving." He frowned. "But I already told you 'bout Vimeiro."

"Yes, you did," Sharpe said, watching the young Rifleman look from one officer to the other. "Only I've had a lot to think about today." He waved his mug apologetically. "Sorry."

"I saw you there. The 50th, I mean," Cotton said. "Was proud of you, runnin' after they Frogs like you done."

"First time I saw a French column runnin'," Padstowe said, nursing his mug again. Then he grinned to himself "Though I sometimes think the 50th are better running downhill. Good lads they are, good lads. I miss 'em."

"They must miss you, too," Cotton said. "Good officers aren't so common as you'd think. Not really." And had he really just said that? He blushed and had some more wine to hide it.

"'m not that good an officer," Padstowe shook his head, but then swiftly stopped as it made the room spin. "Not really. I went off'n left my lads..." It was mainly his misery over the loss of Harry Jemett that had made him move, but that wasn't the point. "But Richard, Richard here, now he's a good officer. Got cut off durin' Corunna, most his Company slaughtered, but what does he do? He takes all the way cross country down to Portugal, thirty riflemen. Thirty! Middle of winter, too. That's a good officer!"

Sharpe waved his hand as though brushing the admiration away. "They was all good men. Riflemen. The best. There weren't nothin' I couldn't've done with 'em."

"Rubbish," Padstowe snorted. "If they didn't think you were a good officer they would have buggered off. I wouldn't have followed some clueless bastard through the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter."