Waiting to enter Óbidos

"It think in the confusion of our departure last night someone neglected to tell him we were going to be met by an escort," Padstowe said, staring down at his feet. "Else he would have been on the lookout for friendly troops as well as foe."

He paused for a moment. He felt exhausted, adn wondered if there was anywhere he might sit down.

"Is Perkins alright?"

"He'll be fine. It'll teach him to keep an eye out, anyway." Which wasn't to say he wouldn't keep a close eye on the lad for the next few days; they all would. "We won't let him beat himself up about it, and we won't tease him about it oursel's." At least, not till they were sure such teasing would be taken the way it was meant. "He's a good lad. They all are."

He suddenly noticed how tired Padstowe was and bent to drag a stool over for him. "Here, have a seat. You look about done in, Jon. Are you sure you're alright?"

Padstowe gratefully accepte the seat and sat down with a sigh.

"Probably not as bad as I look, and it doesn't hurt too much as long as I keep the arm still. It was fortunate for me that I was in such good hands though."

"We usually end up trusting Pat and his maggots," Sharpe said. "Never had a problem with anything after that." He glanced over to where Harper was, near the fire. He wasn't sure if the Sergeant was awake or not, and thought it would be easier to get up himself than to risk waking him if he was asleep.

"Would you like some tea, Jon?" he asked, crossing over to check the kettle.

Tea. Why was it that one little word could have such a remarkable affect of so many people? The captain smiled.

"If you please, Richard. I haven't had a cup for days."

Sharpe reckoned the way the French would bring Britain to its knees would be to cut off all tea supplies. But then Britain had the Royal Navy which wouldn't let such a thing happen.

"How did we survive without the stuff?" he asked, pouring Padstowe a cup. "It mightn't be what you're used to, being as it's only smouch, but it's better than nothing. Sorry if it tastes a bit too much of powder." Keeping tealeaves in with your cartridges ensured your tea would stay dry, but loose powder invariably got mixed in with it, leading to a fairly strong, bitter tasting tea.

"Probably just the thing I need," said Padstowe, gripping the mug as if it held the Elixir of Life itself and closed his eyes, inhaling deeply of the steam and sighing in esctasy. Oh, how he needed this...

"Don't you fall asleep there," Sharpe said, grinning at him before turning to watch out of the window again. If there was ever any doubt about a man's nationality, offer him tea and you knew he was British. Padstowe would fit right in with the Chosen Men, Sharpe had no doubt of that.

Padstowe opened one eye warily at Sharpe.

"Were I not so in need of this I would be tempted to throw it at you," he grumbled, before taking a sip. The brew was visciously strong and had a kick like a mule, and he gasped.

"Vile!"

Before swallowing down nearly half the mug. He sighed once more and shut his eyes. already he was feeling a lot less sick.

Sharpe grinned at the expression on Padstowe's face. "I did warn, you, Jon," he said. "Probably where the Army remedy for fever came from. Everyone knows soldiers are the healthiest men around, so it must be all the powder they end up mixin' wi' their tea."

Padstowe looked a lot better for it, anyway, which was something in their favour, at least.

Father Miguel had left Stephen alone. He felt somewhat comforted by the familiar sacramental element of the confession, and its technical absolution, but apart from that it had been not only unsatisfactory with regards to his mental wellbeing but damaging in itself. Stephen had tearfully described what he had done, only for Father Miguel to matter-of-factly say that as the murder had been not been deliberate, not been committed by a determined, consenting, pre-meditating man, the sin was venial. The Catholic was soothed by the distinction, but the man had riled, sickened by himself and the world, and when the priest had said that the man had been a French agent, and that this was war after all, Stephen had felt so disgusted that the absolution had a disturbing ringing to it, a ringing that had not left with the priest. Tinnitus, probably.

It was over, though, it was done. He knew that without laudanum he would be unable to sleep, and so he did not try - instead, limping across the room to where Padstowe had stashed the papers, he lay back on the bed and began to analyse the French codes. He felt that the sensation of being useful in something would be beneficial to him, but he battled both the jumble of letters and numbers and the fog of his own head.

The padre's return spared Calderón the effort of replying to Esteban's profession of guilt, which was just as well. His response would not have been gentle. Shaking his head as the door swung shut, he wondered just how it could be possible for a wounded man to not slow any group down.

Presently, the padre re-emerged from the room and Calderón drew him aside. A brief, hushed exchange of Portuguese later, the priest was hurrying down the stairs and Calderón was back at his place just outside the door, confident the padre would not fail him.

Calderón hadn't come in. Maybe he didn't have anything to say.

Giving the closed door a look of dejection, Stephen picked an encoded page at random from the sheath - after a minute of squinting, he identified it as a neatly printed letter from a banker by the name of Renard. That alone made Stephen roll his eyes. A list of received payments, but in a paragraph, and not columns? Normally Stephen would have been able to decipher such a simplistic sheet with little trouble, but today, the light reflecting off the dirty paper made his eyes water and blur further, the letters pulsed, the numbers swayed, faces kept intruding - so many faces, with such awful expressions - he laid the sheet back on his lap, telling himself that it was only frustration that made his hands shake. You ought to be put to pasture, Maturin, he thought bitterly. A child could solve this.

He closed his eyes - the light was so bright. When he opened them again, his breathing ragged, he had a visitor - a Six-spot Burnet had landed on the page. The name Zygaena filipendulae drifted across his mind - he cautiously reached out a finger to touch it. The Burnet took offence and flew off, and Stephen felt almost illogically wounded. He looked back at the corner where the insect had landed; it was almost as though it had left its shadow... He blinked, rubbed at his eyes, blinked again; he thumbed the mark - it did not come off. He considered calling Calderón into the room, but couldn't bring himself to; instead, he closed his left eye and brought the paper to within an inch of his right. With a monumental effort, he saw what he needed to - someone had scratched the number 14 beneath the 'a' of this word. He reached inside the folder, bringing out the cipher booklet, and tried number fourteen on a random word. A nonsensical jumble. He added a shift in his head, and then a double shift - the word "chemin" emerged. He fell back, exhausted, his strained eyes closed, but there was now the smallest feeling of triumph.

Perhaps foolishly, Calderón did not venture into the bedchamber after the padre's departure. He knew enough of Esteban's state of mind to know that his friend was mired in self-doubt and guilt. How to help dispel any of that, however, he did not know. Comforting friends was not a skill he possessed. Yet, as the minutes slipped past, he began to feel increasingly uneasy about leaving Esteban alone to his thoughts. A man could send himself into madness by becoming lost within his own mind.

The scout turned partially toward the door and lifted a hand, ready to knock, but paused a heartbeat before his knuckles could touch the wood. He would be barging in entirely unannounced and most likely unwelcome, which might only worsen Esteban's gloom. Calderón set his jaw and drew his hand back and let it fall against the door. He had learned that one could never succeed if one did not take risks.

Hearing the knock, Stephen looked up at the door. It was probably Padstowe or Father Miguel, if Calderón was letting them in without argument, but years of discretion made him return the letter to its place in the folder. "Come in."

The door creaked slightly as Calderón turned the knob and entered the small room. Esteban was sitting with the sheaf of papers close at hand and the half-Spaniard knew he'd been reading them closely.

"One man cannot do the work of all the world," Calderón said quietly, pushing the door shut. Nor should he. He took a couple of steps toward his friend and shook his head. "Your hands shake far too much, my friend."

"Sure, I fear it is about all the work I can do, at this moment." He smiled at his friend, though hesitantly. "The tremors will go soon; it is a passing weakness." In truth, Calderón's concern relieved him - he had worried that the scout's lack of answer had meant that he was angry with him.

"Sit down, José. You've been standing up outside for long enough. The bread is still here, though not so warm."

A passing weakness. Calderón chose not to rebut that statement and instead obeyed his friend's directive to sit. It was rather a relief to rest his feet though he would not take any of the bread that was offered.

"Rest might suit better." A fleeting smile passed across his face. Here, for a moment, he dared to lower his guard. "Though, t'ain't goin' 'zackly, is it?"

The Cornish saying would reveal him fully, if heard by the wrong ears. It was a small risk just then, however. It also reminded him of things he strove determinedly to forget, as much for his own safety as that of others.

Shrugging, Calderón picked half-heartedly at the hem of his shirt. Things were not going as they should, at all.

"You never spoke a truer word, my friend." Stephen smiled. He shaded his eyes with his hand. "If rest would suit you better, then pray take the bed. I offered it to Padstowe, but he ran out with never a word to talk to Lieutenant Sharpe." He lowered his voice. "What are they like, José? I met one, briefly, and the Lieutenant, but it pleases the Captain to be vague with me. What is the situation?"

Selective listening had become one of his stronger suits over the months. He heard but did not listen to Esteban's offering of the bed. It had been a long time since he had slept under a roof, never mind a proper bed. This day would not see him break that habit.

"They are a small band," he said in answer to the first question. "But quite close, if a few minutes' observation is any judge. They are also gathered now in the square and are at their own rest. I believe we shall be here at least until twilight."

Stephen snorted at Calderón's stubbornness. "Honestly, José..."

He shook his head, gently, sighed, and leant back against the wall. Calderón was splitting into two and remerging again - he closed his eyes, feeling nauseous. "I see - that confirms what Lieutenant Sharpe said. I feel that he would prefer it if we were to travel by night. How far will you be coming with us, if you have decided yet?"

"Travelling by night would be preferable," Calderón agreed, annoyed that he was seconding the green-jacketed officer. Esteban's question gave him pause and he frowned slightly. How far he went with this group depended in part on the route they chose. He could not help them along if they decided on a path that none of his contacts were close to. Neither should he go as far as Lisbon, at least not in such company. His guise was too important for such carelessness.

He glanced out the window for a moment, a delaying tactic to spare him an immediate reply. "Perhaps as far as Mafra, but no further. It is damage enough to have these men know me." But he could not leave it at that. Not in good conscience. "But I shall go as far as I am needed."

Stephen opened his eyes, smiling, understanding the offer. "Thank you. But of course you must only go as far as is safe for you, and your cover. I know that it is important that you are not seen to be too affiliated with one army or the other. I understand your reticence - I share it. I have less of a choice in this matter though - I will have much to discuss with Wellesley regarding it if and when I return. I am sorry to have embroiled you this far."

It was neatly done, the sidestepping of the subtle offer he'd made. Calderón simply nodded. It could be difficult enough avoiding the appearance of familiarity when he crossed paths with the same regiments or companies, never mind travelling with what amounted to a small foraging party. He was glad Esteban understood.

"You needn't apologise. There is little done that I could have turned blind eye to." The scout found himself again toying with the hem of his shirt and willed his fingers to be still. "Though I shall have to brave a journey to Lisbon before much longer anyway. You are not the only fellow who seeks to spirit important things away from the hands of the French."

He spoke the last with a slight, teasing smile at the corner of his mouth. It was partially true, his jibe, though he had never been tasked with stealing documents until now.




OOC - And this is where I leave you for now. I hope to be back tomorrow, in the afternoon. As before, Calderón is free to be moved about as needed. Night!

Stephen nodded, knowing better than to ask for details. They were not safe yet. "When you come, you know that anything I have to offer is yours. You need only ask, and I will help you in any way that I can."

[OOC: Good night! ]