Waiting to enter Óbidos

The alcohol stung and he involuntarily lifted from the bed, but he was pressed down again, Stephen voice in his ear that it was over. Somebody gently prised the leather from his mouth and he heard a sob, realising a moment later that it had been him. Everything was hazy, distorted, his wits scattered to the four winds, and felt nothing but a dull throb of pain and an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. Faintly he felt something pricking at the skin of his shoulder, but the feeling was distant and did not bother him.

"Thank you," he managed to murmur. "Thank you..."

"It was an honour. Hush, now, my dear. It is all over." Stephen made other vaguely comforting statements as he wrapped a clean length of bandage around the padding he had pressed to the shoulder - hopefully the bleeding would stop soon. "All over now - go to sleep, so." He wiped Padstowe's face, impressed but unsurprised by his patient's fortitude, and saw that the captain was already drifting off. Good; the pain would have largely subsided by the time he woke, if he was granted a few hours by mercy.

Now that the operation was over and Stephen relaxed, his own pain came back to him, forgotten as he had treated Padstowe. He muttered a prayer of thanks to Saint Luke that his hand had not shaken during the operation, as it was now, with his legs. His head throbbed, and the blossoming stars were returning, and as he saw Calderón move outside the door to talk to the priest, he lowered himself to the floor. He brought his uninjured leg to his chest and even the freezing temperature of the wooden floor could not disuade from falling asleep where he lay.

Sharpe paused and turned to watch the Chosen Men. They were a little late in arriving at the village, but that couldn't be helped. He just hoped that he could find the man they had to see without much difficulty. Perkins was limping a little; he really needed to get his boot re-soled at the earliest opportunity, but he was making a valiant effort to keep up. He even managed a slight grin as he passed his officer.

Thankfully there was a villager on his way somewhere and Sharpe called Harris over to ask him where they might find the priest. Harris' facility with Portuguese always amazed Sharpe, but he was quick to take advantage of it.

"He says Padre Miguel should be in the house next to the church, sir," Harris reported back.

"Obrigado, senhor, " Sharpe said. "Right, lads, keep together and don't go getting into trouble." The church should be easy enough to find, but he didn't want anyone sneaking up on them.

Calderón was glad to be out of the room where Esteban had performed the operation. He disliked involved medical affairs like that. In a while he would check on the other two men, but for now it was probably wiser to grant them the chance to rest. He and the padre returning to the parlour, where the priest poured two tumblers of brandy. They toasted to good health, drank the inch of brandy down, and shared a few minutes' conversation about the weather.

Presently, the scout ventured outside. Dawn was beginning to lighten the sky. Calderón picked at the torn sleeve of his shirt for a moment before setting off toward the centre of the village. He had stopped at this village often enough to know it fairly well and, accordingly, knew where he might go for a warm meal. He had not eaten since mid-afternoon the previous day and it was beginning to catch up to him.

Padstowe slept fitfully. He was still cold, and his dreams chaotic and disturbing, each one merging into the other seemingly without end. Prideaux carrying a white-hot poker, his mother, Sharpe and Sir Arthur laughing at him, Hakeswill, poor dead Harry screaming at him that it was all his fault, Hakeswill again, Hogan wearing green and sitting on a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, Hakeswill laughing and cackling as he stuck Prideaux's poker into his shoulder, Sarah standing there screaming, powerless to do anything to help him and undoubtably she would be next...

Everything tumbled together and he moaned softly, lost in his nightmares.

He could not sleep. All he wanted was to do was to sleep, but he was having trouble breathing, the pain in his leg and head was making the room spin, and every time he closed his eyes, the faces... Jack, shocked and disturbed, Wellesley, sneering and cold, Calderón, impatient and angry, Prideaux, dead and animated, Jonathan most of all, full of blame and contempt, then the dark, pale faces that loomed at him, unrecognisable.

He hadn't been able to sleep after Mahon, or after he killed had Cannings. As vulnerable as his body was, his heart was so much more so.

The craving for laudanum was almost unbearable - it would dull the pain, it would soften the intense guilt, it would let him sleep for a few blessed hours, sleep more healing than anything else he could administer. But he did not know enough about the effects of the drug considering his present physical state, to say nothing of being ready should any pursuers find them. With Calderón absent, he would have to be alert, or easily woken at least, should he need to protect Padstowe. By God, he craved it though.

Padstowe moaned in his sleep, tossing onto his unwounded shoulder. Abandoning his attempt at sleep, Stephen pulled himself into the chair, swaying. Here he could be of use, here he was not the dead weight slowing the group down after causing their injuries. He felt Padstowe's pulse, and was satisfied - already it was strengthening, much less thready even after so short a time. He marveled at his patient's strength, and then felt his forehead - still cold. He pulled another blanket from under the bed, and arranged it on top of the captain as best he could, after checking the wound with his fingers. A small amount of blood, but drying - if the stitches held, they would do their job.

All this sneaking around was really not to Sharpe's taste. He much preferred battle, when you could see the enemy and knew what you had to do to defeat him. This... this cloak-and-dagger stuff was not something he felt comfortable with, and the underhandedness, or perceived underhandedness, made hims short-tempered.

Hogan had told him nothing beyond the fact he needed to find Padre Miguel, the priest of some tiny, out-of-the-way village, and he would ensure that the Chosen Men met up with the people they were sue to escort back to camp. No word about the identities of those people, or even how many people there were.

"Come on Perkins lad, keep up," he said, unable to stop himself snapping. Perkins was keeping up, far better than he should, considering the state of his boots. Sharpe decided that once they were out of this nonsense, he would make sure the boy got his boots mended properly. He'd pay the cobbler himself if that's what it took.

Ah, there was the church. That was something to be thankful for, at least.

Stephen heard voices - after a moment with his hand to his forehead he decided that they were real, and after another pause, that they were outside. They were mens' voices, ones he did not recognise, and the throbbing headache rendered his attempt to distinguish what language they spoke futile. They were in a village, after all - men going to work in the early morning, and they seemed calm enough.

It was only when he heard Father Miguel shut the front door of the house and run out to join the conversation that panic lanced through him.

Well, there was the priest, bolting out of the door as if the hounds of hell were after him. He motioned Harris forward to find out what the priest could tell them.

Harris only managed a few words before the priest waved his questioning aside and gestured them into the house. Right. This was getting stranger and stranger by the second.

"Perkins. Keep watch out of the window and call me the second you see anything out of place," he said.

Ignoring the boy's somewhat breathless "Yes, sir," he turned back to Harris. "Find out what's going on and what's so urgent we have to be bundled in here like.. like, well, like this."

Harris said something in Portuguese, listened to the man's reply and turned back to Sharpe. "Well, sir, it seems that the men we're supposed to meet have been wounded, sir, but he doesn't know how badly. And he's afraid the French will be after them."

And didn't that tell Sharpe a lot?

"How many men?"

They had picked this room for the operation because it afforded the best light, but Stephen could not see what was happening to the front of the house. He listened, straining his ears - he caught Father Miguel's voice again, talking at a rush in Portuguese. He moved over to the door, dragging his leg and propping himself up on the frame - he longed for a clear head, just for a moment, and then, "men inside".

It didn't matter if the men were friendly or here to arrest them - they were about to come in, that enough was certain. He pulled himself back to the bedside, cursing himself for a damned fool - why had he not reloaded the pistol when he had the chance? Wait, Padstowe - he had discharged one in Prideaux's house, but Sarah had given him two... blessing the generosity of Sarah Padstowe, he reached into the pocket of Jonathan's oilskin coat, and found the loaded pistol. Stephen knew he would not be able to stand for long enough to risk going behind the door. He turned the chair to face the doorway and sat down, hiding Jonathan with his body, his catling hidden in his left hand, and the pistol aimed at the door, his hand as steady as he could make it.

Another exchange of Portuguese. "Three, sir, but two of them are wounded. One of them was limping, he says."

Great. And that reminded him. "Cooper, swap with Perkins. If so much as a cat sneezes, I want to know about it. Perkins, fix that boot of yours as best you can. You may end up running on it."

He turned back to Harris. "Can I see them? We need to get them back to Lisbon, and I need to know whether they're up to the journey."

Were it not for the matron of the house he had gone to for a short breakfast, Calderón might not have been as quickly alerted to the presence of strange men in the village square. As it was, he was obliged to abandon his porridge and bread in a hurry. He slipped out through the back of the small house and circled round the backs of several others until he reached a spot that concealed him from easy view of the square yet allowed him to see what was transpiring. There were indeed several men in the square, moving toward the padre's home.

All manner of oaths and self-recriminations burst into his head as he moved away from his hiding-spot. How short-sighted of him to leave the two wounded men unguarded, even for a few minutes, regardless how safe he believed the village to have been. Hadn't he always told himself that no place was truly safe? Here was perfect proof of that! The scout took care to cross open spaces between houses as quickly and casually as he could, until he was close to the padre's house. He could not enter the dwelling through the front door, as it seemed that the strangers were already there. By God but he was not going to ever forgive himself for this oversight.

Calderón drew his short knife, thinking that he'd follow the group inside and grab one of them from behind. A little bargaining leverage might help convince these men that this house was not one they truly wished to be guests at. Now to wait, a few heartbeats, until all of them were inside.

The priest flapped his hands and sounded as though he was going to drown Harris under the torrent of Portuguese he let out.

The redheaded Rifleman looked at Sharpe and tried several times to say something before the priest finally let him speak. "He doesn't want to let anyone up there, sir. He's not sure how they would take it; they were pretty desperate when they got here."

And desperate men could do all sorts of damage before things were explained to them. "Standing around here talkin' ain't going to get them where they should be." And Sharpe could see the priest's nervousness at having these men in his house. Though that could be nervousness at having Sharpe and the Chosen Men in his house, of course.

"Just me, then. The rest of you stay down here." He turned to the stairs and gestured to the priest to go first.

"Amigo, sim? Friend," Sharpe said, hoping the man would have the sense to let the three men know they weren't going to be jumped by the French.

The voices continued. Putting the catling in his lap, Stephen reached and shook Padstowe by his right shoulder. "Jonathan! Jonathan, there are men outside." Padstowe stirred, barely, but hearing footsteps on the stairs, he picked up the catling again, trying to still his trembling.

Stephen did not lower the pistol as Father Miguel knocked and opened the door. "Padre, eu ouvi vozes."

Pastowe felt somebody shaking his shoulder and somebody called his name, but that in itself was distant and barely breached his subconsciousness, though it succeeded in bringing him out of his dreams. Why did they sound so urgent? He was in no state for urgency; just wanted to lie here quietly...

Sharpe sighed. Really, the poor priest was out of his depth. Mind you, Sharpe wasn't exactly in his depth himself.

If the men in the room had been injured, they would want the reassurance of knowing that they didn't have to defend themselves against Sharpe and his men. He hoped that they wouldn't be so twitch they'd shoot first as he squeezed past the padre. "Friend! I'm English, don't shoot." He showed his open hands to whoever was in the room before going in to face whoever was on the other side of the door.

There was no better time than now. Calderón stirred into motion, taking care to keep his knife concealed by his sleeve. He'd decided that he could create some confusion by pretending to be a distraught villager, desperately seeking the padre for help. At the very least, it might put the strangers into enough of a muddle that he could grab hold of one and put his knife at the man's throat. He murmured a short prayer for luck and went dashing forward.

"Father! You must come at once!" Calderón cried in Portuguese, pouring panic into his voice as he got near the front door. For appearance's sake, he hammered at the door a few times, calling out for the padre all the while. If nobody came to the door, he would barge in and drop the act. He hoped one of the strangers would become annoyed and attempt to silence him first.

The man shouted that he was English before entering the room; Stephen kept the pistol trained on him. He came in and out of focus, his faced blurred beyond recognition, but Stephen knew that jacket, that shade of green...

"Stop! There."

Sharpe stopped. He recognised that voice, but before he could say anything further a sudden hammering at the door made him turn. "Cooper! What the hell is going on down there?"

"Dunno sir, someone wants the priest, seems like!" Cooper shouted. There was more shouting and before Sharpe could say anything he heard one of them open the door. There was a startled squeak from... Perkins, it sounded like.

There was commotion downstairs - hammering and shouting fit to split his head right along the coronal suture - Green Jacket moved back out of the doorframe. Stephen stood up, drawing a ragged, hissing breath as pain shot through his leg. "What is happening?" He shouted in English, which Green Jacket had used.

That was what Sharpe wanted to know as well. He shouted the same question down the stairs, and followed it himself, taking the narrow steps two at a time and nearly falling over himself.

He was met by a scene of utter confusion.

They were opening the door. Dios mio but they were going to let him in. Calderón ceased pounding at the door and gathered himself for a quick spring at whomever appeared in the doorway. A young face came into view around the door, then Calderón was shoving forward, giving one last shout for the priest even as he seized hold of the boy. The blade of his knife flashed out of his sleeve and he pressed the sharp edge against the boy's throat, just below his Adam's apple.

"Out, all of you," Calderón snarled in French. Then he raised his voice to call up the stairs in Portuguese, "Father, Josefina is come back. She wishes to see you at once!"

A man came tumbling down the stairs and the situation was suddenly worse. It was not the padre but another of the strangers. Calderón kept his grip on the boy and tried to keep every man within sight.

"Out!" He repeated, again in French.

The person who'd been hammering at the door - at least that's who Sharpe thought it was - had a knife at Perkins' throat. Perkins looked as white as a sheet, and the rest of the Riflemen looked just as shocked.

"English!" Sharpe shouted. "English! Ingleses! Put him down for God's sake, you bastard!"

Stephen did not know what to do. His primary objective was to protect the papers, and Padstowe, but if Calderón were downstairs, and in trouble- He shook Padstowe again. "Jonathan! For God's love, wake up!"

There was no time. He dragged himself to the doorframe, now empty, his face taut and white with pain, and leaned out, his pistol first.

(OOC! Waah! I have to go to work... The rest of you can push Sharpe around as you like till I get back. It's no fair making you wait eight hours after all!)