Waiting to enter Óbidos

"The doctor thinks he'll be able to travel tonight, but I reckon we can stop here another day and go the night after, if need be. They've got a bunch of papers for Major Hogan that they need to look after." He looked over at Hagman. "And Dan can read the ground if it's pitch black. Which it ain't; we've got a moon for a few days more and we're following the road unless we find we've got the French behind us."

"That'd make life interesting." Harper downed the last of his tea before pouring another cup, offering Sharpe the same.

"Wouldn't it?" Sharpe held out his cup, accepting the Sergeant's offer. "We'll just have to make damn sure they don't find us, that's all." But how to do that with eight, possibly nine, men, two of whom were injured? And there were the horses to think about as well.

Sharpe did not like horses. Although he conceded that they might get back quicker if the two wounded men rode, horses were hard to conceal when the need arose, and apt to give themselves away even when the were out of sight.

"I don't suppose there's any food to be had," he said, deciding he'd had enough of his negative thoughts.

"Just what's left from the last few days." Harper passed the makeshift plate to Sharpe; the contents of it barely covered the surface. "We've had a bit, so tuck in."

A rest does a man good, Harper thought, but he'd much rather be on the move, with the French nearby.

"Thanks." He took the plate and settled down to start eating. It didn't feel right, being cooped up indoors, knowing that the French would be after them if the two officers upstairs and their Portuguese friend hadn't got away cleanly. In fact, if they were carrying the sort of papers Sharpe suspected they were, the French would be after them a damn sight too soon, wanting them back.

"We're goin' to have to plan for the worst case, Pat," he said. "They killed a man, and if those papers are for Major Hogan, the French are going to want them back urgent-like."

Harper knew better than to ask what these mysterious papers contained, but he was curious about whether or not the gentlemen had confided the information to Sharpe. Probably not.

"Might be best to move as soon as they're well to. Not that I don't fancy our chances against the French, but no doubt the odds won't be on our side."

Once again, he was outside the door of the bedchamber. The man called Sharpe had gone back outside and Calderón was quick to return to his self-detailed post. Of the plans for the next step in their mission he had heard little, but there would be time enough for planning later. Rest for the two wounded men was more important.

The padre came shuffling up the stairs, a plate of something warm in hand. Bread, freshly-baked by his housekeeper no doubt. Calderón shook his head when the priest held the plate out to him and stood aside to let the man enter the bedchamber. The two men within were in greater need of victuals, for they had to keep their strength somehow.

Sharpe looked around. "I don't fancy our chances against a regiment of Frogs, even with the Chosen Men."

He finished eating and handed the plate back before turning to shake out his own blanket. "Cooper, you can take over from Harris, then me, then Perkins, then Harper. If so much as a cat sneezes out there, I want to know about it. Got that?"

"Yes sir."

Harper slipped underneath his own blanket, keeping his hands curled around the cup for the last remnants of heat. It might be a long night, but he didn't doubt that tomorrow would be longer.

"You take the bed, Stephen," Padstowe said. He was disappointed that he had not had the opportunity to talk to Sharpe more, but he doubted the man would have doen so in the presenceof Maturin even if he had done. He was feeling slightly better now, and thought he might successfully negotiate the stairs.

He pulled himself up, then lumbered over to where he'd left his saddle bag ad pulled out a his uniform coat. Now might be a good time to put it back on.

"No, you ought to sleep yourself, though I am pleased to see you looking a little less pale. I need to discuss something with Father Miguel." Stephen had his own preparations to make for the journey - he did not want to risk the dangerous journey back with Prideaux on his soul.

"Then I'll leave you to it," Pastowe said, pulling his coat on over his left arm and then with some dfficulty over his right. "I'll go and rest downstairs."

Stephen's protestations died on his ears as he went out the door, down the stairs and out the back to where he knew he would find Sharpe and his men.

Sharpe wrapped himself in his blanket and paused to listen to the sounds of movement upstairs

It would have been good to speak with Captain Padstowe, but he wasn't sure how Doctor Maturin would have felt about things, even if the man didn't have a splitting headache. And if he didn't, he was the only man in Sharpe's acquaintance who could have that look in his eyes and not have.

It was tricky. He knew that Maturin didn't trust him, which was only to be expected. And yes, he would like to know what was in those papers, but he also knew that was not a good idea, and therefore he didn't want to. But explaining that would not help, and might even just muddy the waters more.

He made sure his rifle was to hand, laid his head on his knapsack and tried to sleep. After five minutes, however, he knew he wasn't go to be able to. He got up and crossed to Cooper. "You take my watch, and get your head down now."

"Mind if I join you?" Padstowe asked, coming up behind the two.

Though he tried to call him back, Padstowe swept out of the room, brushing past Father Miguel, carrying a plate of bread.

"Pater, confiteri egeo." The priest nodded and went to fetch his stole, and Stephen smiled at Calderón, standing outside the open door. "Are you well, José? Please, eat something."

Sharpe turned at the sound of Padstowe's voice. "Sure, sir," he said, using the proper mode of address in front of his men. He looked at his Rifleman. "Go on, Coops, you need to get some kip."

Padstowe waited for Cooper to disappear before speaking.

"I'm sorry about all this, Richard," he murmured quietly.

He glanced into the room but once, at Esteban's question. The smell of the bread teased his stomach, but he shook his head. "I have already broken my fast," was his reply. "I am well, too. It is you should eat."

Eat and rest, he thought. Once he was assured that Esteban was indeed sleeping, hopefully soon, Calderón intended to send the padre on an errand. Months spent roaming the Portuguese countryside had helped the scout cultivate a few contacts of his own. He'd need their help if the group of British were to make it safely back to Lisbon.

"I couldn't eat right now - I will take a third of it for later though. The rest I leave here, and you can eat it or let it go stale." He smiled teasingly at Calderón for a moment, before the effort of staving off his melancholy became too great. "I am so sorry about all of this, José."

[OOC: I, um, did a Maturin last night and I need to go out and get my glasses fixed. I shouldn't be long - an hour at the maximum. If anyone needs Stephen for anything, go ahead - he's your man. ^^]

The offer was generous, but he would not act to accept it. At least not directly. At most, he would carefully wrap the bread in cloth and save it for a later meal. He did not require much to sustain him anyway.

Esteban's next words confused him. Sorry? Calderón frowned at the staircase banister. What could Esteban possibly be sorry for? They had, despite unexpected troubles, completed the most pressing objective of their mission. In his view there was nothing to be sorry for.

"I must confess, I do not understand. What need is there to apologise?"


OOC - I'm going to attempt to sleep for a bit, before this afternoon strikes. Rest is not something I've been well-acquainted with these last couple days. The usual posting permissions for Calderón apply. I hope to be back for the weekend by Friday evening, US Central.

"For putting you in such danger. For slowing you all down, for making so many mistakes." Father Miguel came back into the room, kissing the back of the stole, and before Stephen could hear Calderón's response, the door had closed.

Stephen swallowed, a hard lump in his throat. Lachrymosity was a very common sequela of concussion, nothing to be ashamed of, thought Doctor Maturin, but Stephen was swept up in a haze of guilt and doubt, and the corners of his eyes were hot. He took a steadying breath as Father Miguel sat down, and began to speak, the Latin coming easier than breathing. "Ignosce mihi, Pater, quia peccavi." Prideaux's face floated in front of his eyes, his chest spasmed in pain, and he brought his hands to his face. "Virum necavi."

"Sorry about what?" Sharpe asked, hoping the question didn't sound too harsh. "Anyone can get themselves shot at in a war, Jonathan. You know that." He was pleased to see that Padstowe had pulled his red coat back on. Maybe that would help them; very few of the Proortuguese recognised that the Rifles were British, due to their green jacket

"No, not the bloody shoulder," he said, waving away the thought of the wound as if it were nothing. "This. Sorry for your shabby reception, for keeping you in the dark, for not letting on about... well, anything really. I'm sorry."

Oh. Right. Great going, Sharpie, jumping to conclusions with both feet. He sighed. "I'm used to bein' kept in the dark. Can't be in the army for sixteen years and come up from the ranks without bein' used to it." Didn't mean he liked it though, and he was pretty sure Padstowe wouldn't enlighten him any time soon, so he might as well put up with it.

"And I'm sure your friend with the bad attitude didn't expect to find half-a-dozen men camped out on your doorstep, either. Most of 'em think ll British soldiers wear red." It wouldn't be the first time Riflemen got mistaken for something other than British troop, and it wouldn't be the last.