Yet another posada in Lisbon

"Thirty men 'cross country?" Cotton's eyes widened. "Anyone who says you're not a good officer is lyin' through their teeth, sir." And wasn't this the officer who'd been promoted from the ranks? Shame men like that got made quartermasters, instead of being allowed to be proper officers.

"Didn't give 'em much choice. They wanted to follow the rest of the army, and sent Pat Harper to do for me. Only I beat him, and said I'd report the rest for mutiny. But if we all got to Lisbon, I said, Nosey'd come back and we could give the French what-for."

"An' he will," said Padstowe, grinning. "He's the only one save Old Moore, God Rest His Soul, that's got got a chance. Beau'll see Boney off, I'd stake my life on it." he stopped. "Probably all will, come to think of it."

"Here's to Nosey beatin' the French," Cotton said, raising his mug. "'Cause if anyone can do it, he can."

"Amen to that!" laughed Padstowe, slopping the contents of his mug slightly. "Oh damn, I've got the table dirty now."

He peered at the battered wood surface and mopped at the spilled wine with his sleeve.

"Not your jacket, sir," Cotton said, noticing. "You'll get that all dirty." It took him three goes to untie his neck-cloth and pass it over. "Use that, sir."

"No I won't," Padstowe lifted up his sleeve to show the slightly sodden cuff. "Black facings, see? Doesn't show the dirt."

For some reason this made Cotton start to giggle. He was drunk, wasn't he? "But velvet... it ain't good, getting 'em wet like that, you know, sir."

"Oh." He peered at his cuff again and then shrugged. "It's had worse. Dunno why they have velvet anyway - broadcloth'd would be betterer."

He was muddling his words now, but he didn't really care, and took another mouthful of wine.

"Maybe, but velvet looks nicer." He started to re-tie his necker round his neck. The strangeness of the situation was adding to the wine-induced muddle his mind was in. Imagine, a Rifleman sitting at a table with two officers, getting drunk and not being threatened with having his rum ration stopped, or something like that.

"The table's had worse, an' all, sir. It'll be all right."

"I suppose..."

Padstowe had put his cup down whilst he had been scrubbing at the table, and now he that he looked up again it seemed that the mug had split in two. He blinked and then they mercifully merged back into one. Satisfied that it was now solid again, he picked it up and took a sip.

He was definitely beyond sober, and his mind slipped back to why they were here in the first place. He had cheered up a lot when talking about his home and family, but suddenly they seemed very far away. "You won't forget to talk with Captain Vick'ry, will you?" he asked, suddenly needing reassurance.

"What? Oh yes. Him. Yes, I will."

Drunk he may be, but Padstowe had a talent for remembering things which even survived through drunk. It had been a lifesaving skill on many an occassion.

"Nice fellow, your captain,"he said absently. "Got talking a couple of days ago. Said one of his sergeants played the oboe."

Cotton thought for a moment. "That'd be Sergeant Fischer. I dunno why he isn't in the band, though he's a good sergeant."

"Never seen a sergeant in a band before," said Padstowe. "Never played the oboe before either."

"I meant a military band of music, of course." And who'd said anything about the captain playing the oboe, anyway? Though it might be interesting to see...

"Didn't think the Rifles had a band either," he murmured. He was now doodling patterns in the spilt wine on the tabletop. "'m not musical at all. Had piano lessons - didn't for long, though."

He looked up at Cotton, a wistful gaze in his eyes. "Do you sing, Cotton?"

"Me, sir? A bit. Not like the rest of the 60th, though." He poured Padstowe another mug of wine. "Anythin' in particular you want to hear?"

"Don't know," Padstowe said. He wasn't particularly sure why he had asked in the first place. "I can't sing, though. I expect Williams can, being Welsh an' all. Can you sing, Richard?"

"Me? Can't sing to save my life. Sounds like someone skinning a cat, my singing does." He pushed his mug towards Cotton, hoping for a refill.

"Nosey can sing," murmured Padstowe. He was more talking to himself now than anybody in particular. "So c'n Daddy Hill - he can sing an' all..."

Cotton obliged Mister Sharpe, wondering why Padstowe had gone off into a pensive mood. Probably the drink, though. He stared at the contents of his cup and hoped things would sort themselves out without too many people getting hurt. He looked up at Padstowe's last comment. "Nosey can sing?" he said, surprised. He wouldn't have thought that the British commander would do anything as commonplace as sing.

"Heard him once," the captain said as he tried to pick up his mug and missed. "Was in his room and didn't think anyone was listening. I was next door, y'see. In the office. Only he didn't know it. That I was in the office. Next door."

"Left a bit, sir. No. Oh hang. Here you go." He put the mug into Padstowe's hand. "So, what was he singin' then, sir?"

"Thank you, Cotton." Padstowe lifted the cup very carefully and took a mouthful of wine, before very gently and deliberately setting it back down on the table top in front of him. "I have a feeling it was The Ash Grove... or possibly The Girl Left Behind Me. Or something else, I really can't recall. Sounded good whatever it was."