Waiting to enter Óbidos

He expected nothing less. Calderón's dark face crinkled slightly as his smile broadened a little. An idea had come to him and he knew how he might take Esteban up on his offer. The next time he went to Lisbon, he would seek his friend out.

"Thank you." Calderón glanced down at the papers and quirked an eyebrow. "Have you enjoyed any success with those as yet?"

"A little. It is slow work - I have trouble reading the letters, even as close to as this, and then it takes longer to remember the uncoded words without pen and paper. One picked at random revealed the proposed route to be taken for the French artillery from Oporto to Portugal, however, which might give an indication to the wealth of information here."

Esteban's reply piqued his interest. French artillery was on the move, that much he'd known. But its route and destination hadn't been knowledge in his possession, until just now. He'd been devoting his efforts and energy of late to following the movements of infantry of late. Clearly he would have to change his focus a bit.

"What does that letter say for the artillery?" If he had a thread by which to begin tracking artillery trains, he could adjust his travels in the immediate future accordingly.

"It mentioned a particular... what is the word, gully? Not quite a ravine. It all depends on Wellesley's movements and whether they can move past Oporto - they are currently on their way from Vigo by way of Valença do Minho - they are following the Roman road. Damn, brute-headed, tyrannical Imperialists - you would think they would have learnt some sense in the intervening years." Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose - he had heard a quaver in his denouncement, and hoped that Calderón had not.

Not good. Valença do Minho was several days' ride from where they currently were. Calderón scowled at the papers, as if to blame them for the news. He would have to travel more swiftly than ever if he wished to reach the north of the country in time to gather any sort of usable information.

"I think... I may need to visit Lisbon sooner than expected." As keen as he was to know what the French artillery might be doing, he knew he should learn, if possible, how much was already known about their movements. If there was one thing he despised, it was wasting his time gathering information that was already known to his superiors.

"Very well. There are sure to be corresponding letters - once I have decoded them all, we will have a better understanding of what is happening. I for one am keen to know who the central agent in Portugal is; Prideaux was a knight, or a bishop at the most." He closed his eyes again - the sunlight was getting brighter by the minute, and the pain in his head increased in direct proportion. He was glad that they would be travelling by darkness, if for nothing else.

That made sense. There was always somebody higher-placed on the ladder. Discovering him would take a lot of work but that was not one of Calderón's concerns. He glanced at Esteban and frowned. His friend's eyes were closed again, for the sun was growing brighter outside. The scout came to his feet and crossed the room to the window, where he pulled the drapes shut.

"You might've said something," he said in a slightly accusing tone.

"Thank you, my dear." He opened his eyes in relief. "Said something about what? About Prideaux?"

About what. Really. Calderón shook his head in resigned acceptance. "Are all doctors so stubbornly against treating themselves properly?"

It was not an answer to Esteban's question, not completely. A question for a question seemed like a fair trade though. Prideaux was dead and therefore was no longer an object of much interest to him.

"Are all laymen so quick to criticise medical men? There is nothing to be done for it - the bone will knit, God willing, and the concussion will fade, in its own time, and so there is no use in talking about it. I worry more about Padstowe - he really needs to eat. As do you," he finished pointedly.

Calderón grinned. The tit-for-tat game was never ending.

"I will eat after you have rested," he replied. "Not all medical men are the most learned, you know."

"My dear José, in medical matters, I am omniscient." Stephen managed a grin at this. "I cannot sleep sleep without laudanum, and as I cannot take laudanum if the French are on our tail, I cannot sleep. I slept on the horse - the same cannot be said of yourself and eating."

He laughed outright at Esteban's declaration. At least his friend had not lost his humour.

"As it happens, I have eaten. I had gone to indulge in some porridge before the green-coats arrived." A cheeky grin couldn't be suppressed. "So you see... I, at least, am not incapable of seeing to my base needs."

"And what do you mean to imply by that, pray? Well, it is a relief to me in any case. I was beginning to wonder at just how stubborn you had grown - to determine whether it was a symptom or merely the result of increasing age." His smile was teasing. "Once the nausea has diminished, I will take some bread - we must save some for the Captain - and the rest we can wrap in a cloth and take with us."

"I prefer to consider it a side effect of my chosen profession." Glad to have that particular vein of conversation finished, for he had not been wholly honest, Calderón nodded at the rest of Esteban's remarks. Bread was good whether taken warm or cold. He preferred it with hard crust, actually.

"Will we travel with these others?" He asked, a light scowl coming back to his brow at the thought of sharing company with the green-jackets.

Outside Padstowe had lapsed into something of a silence, sitting there clutching his tea whilst watching the steadily climbing sun slowly brighten the sky. He had wated to come out here to talk to Sharpe, to enjoy the company of a friend and perhaps take his mind off the events of last night and the pain in his shoulder; but now he was stuck, and try as he might his ability to start a conversation seemed to have dried up.

Sharpe fiddled with his own cup, trying to think of something to say. He wasn't paying much attention to what he was doing, and gasped slightly as he slopped some tea onto his leg. Luckily the leather reinforcement of his overalls stopped most of it going through, but some landed on the green wool and stung.

"Clumsy bugger," he growled, brushing at it. "Reckon I should learn to be more careful."

Padstowe looked up and gave a small smile.

"I wouldn't do that too often," he said. "Patrick may take it as an insult to his tea-making skills."

"Well, it weren't like I meant to," Sharpe replied. "And it's a waste of good tea, chuckin' it around like that."

He had a mouthful. It was hot and strong, just the way he liked it. They never made it strong enough in the Mess. Mind you, they never had powder mixed in with their tea-leaves.

"Is the shoulder all right?" he asked. "You ain't goin' to find it hard to ride wi' it?"

Padstowe shrugged. And wished he hadn't.

"Some discomfort," he said, a moment or two later when the pain had flared down. "But I'll survive."

Sharpe bit back a sigh. That wasn't quite the question he'd asked, but he decided that if Padstowe was going to have problems with anything Padstowe would let him know.

He gestured at Padstowe's uniform coat. "You ain't got so much blood on that as you should. So they probably won't be looking for a redcoat officer and a bunch of Riflemen. I don't suppose Doctor Maturin has a uniform coat with him?"

He almost grinned. Using their uniforms as a disguise to throw the French off would be... different, to say the least.

"We will - the Captain suggested this Lieutenant, and I believe Hogan arranged it." Stephen frowned; Calderón did not look to be too pleased by the arrangement. "I know that you prefer to travel alone - as do I - but it is a necessary precaution. "

"Unfortunately, no," Padstowe said. He shifted slightly on the stool, lowering his voice.

"The problem is that the doctor is by trade a physician who lends his services to the Royal Navy. He therefore has a nominal rank and a uniform coat... but not one that will help him much on capture, and would be inclined to draw more suspicious glances on land than avert them."

He paused.

"Besides," he said, a smile coming to his face. "From what I am given to understand he seems to have an aversion to wearing uniform, even when it is required of him."

"Ah, bugger." He thought for a moment. There had to be some way of explaining - at least in appearance, for curious onlookers - two civilians and a bunch of soldiers heading across Portugal to Lisbon. A priest wouldn't do. "A physician?" He'd been under the impression that Maturin was a surgeon, but if he was a physician, that might help them.

There was a kernel of an idea there, but he wasn't sure how Maturin would take it.

"Your companion, the Portuguese cove," he said instead, thinking aloud. "Will he be comin' wi' us?"

Hogan had arranged it. Of course. Calderón made a mental note to have a word with that man about his idea of good arrangements.

"It is certainly a fine stroke of luck for you and the red-coat," he said. "The roads are slowly becoming safer to travel for any man with a red-coat, I'd be quite surprised if the rest of your journey were to be eventful."

Whether the roads were safe or not, Calderón would not be travelling with his friend and the others. He had more unobtrusive ways of getting into Lisbon, after all.