Waiting to enter Óbidos

Padstowe swore, very eloquently, and threw a piece of beef at the doctor's head.

"If you are going to waste food like a spoiled child, Jonathan, I will ask Marta for a bag of them, to be consumed at hourly intervals."

The look Padstowe directed at the doctor would have done Sir Arthur proud.

"I shall take my rest then, doctor," he said peevishly. "In order that I may be able to scrape myself into the saddle in an hour's time."

Stephen, still creaking harshly in amusement at the look on Padstowe's face, nodded and sat back, pulling the cipher booklet from his pocket. There were only 30 ciphers, but with that amount of shifts and locks that could be placed on them, the number of codes increased rapidly.

Now, a familiar locus... This was a major disadvantage of an unfixed, wandering life, the lack of architecture with which one is intimately familiar, and while reason prompted him to use his castle near Lleida, a locus of which the ancients would have approved, it was the main cabin of the Surprise to which his mind immediately leapt. Smiling slightly, he read the first page, and began to fix the code in shining, colourful letters around the doorknob...

With a final scowl Padstowe left Stephen to his study of the papers, finishing the stew as quickly as the heat would allow him. He was in honesty not that hungry, but he forced himself to clear the bowl, setting it aside and then settling back down on the straw to take his rest, sighing gently as he awkwardly lay back and pulled the blanket up about him.

Once he had memorised the booklet, Stephen checked himself by opening it to a random page. Code 27. That was... he closed his eyes: in the silver teapot. Essentially an encryption scheme along the lines of the Vigenère square using digraphs, keyword ENCRE. He checked himself against the booklet, and was correct. He tried again, and again - finally satisfied, he shook Padstowe's shoulder. "That will be near to an hour, Captain."

Moving out tonight would be best, of course. Sharpe didn't know how close the French were behind them, but he didn't know how fit to travel Padstowe was, either. He let the doctor fuss over him and turned to his men.

"Get ready to move out," he said, speaking quietly. "If the doctor decides the captain won't be strong enough to travel, we can just unpack again, but other wise I want to be ready to move as quick as possible."

Padstowe woke, somewhat groggily, and stared up at Stephen.

"Already?"

The protest slipped out before he realisedhe had made it. He hardly felt as if he had slept; no more than as if he had merely closed his eyes and dozed for a few seconds.

Stephen bit his lip. "Do you feel very cold? Weak? Do you need more time?"

Cold and not very with it, but somewhat stronger; and somewhat mindful of how much time they had wasted.

"No," he said, grunting as he levered himself up fro the straw to sit up. "And in any case there is no more time. Did you say you would put this in a sling for me?"

He gestured to his left arm, still loose by his side.

"Ah, yes..." He had little in the way of suitable fabric... until his eyes fell on the rust-coloured shirt, supple and fresh now that it had been washed. "You wouldn't mind this?""

Padstowe refrained from pointing out that it was the doctor's shirt, mainly because the doctor already knew that and apparently did not care.

"As long as it will stop it jolting the shoulder when I ride, I wouldn't care whether it were Bonaparte's old drawers."

Sharpe was chivying the Chosen men, not that they needed it, but there wasn't much else he could do and he hated feeling like a fifth leg on a donkey. And Padstowe was using his blanket, though the man was welcome to it, and he had very little else to pack.

He snorted as he overheard Padstowe. "You would after a couple of mile, I'm sure," he said.

"And you would be the authority on that subject, would you, Richard?" Padstowe said lightly, raising his eyebrows in amusement.

Ignoring Lieutenant Sharpe for the moment, Stephen assessed the size of Padstowe's torso - the sleeve would be too small. He pulled the long cord lacing the front of the shirt from it, and then wrapped the excess material around the area between the two sleeves, creating a long piece of material of a width of a little less than a foot. "It is not the sling of the world, but it will certainly do..." He efficiently tied the two sleeves behind Padstowe's neck in what Jack would have called a reef knot and then used the cord to tie Padstowe's arm to his chest. "That will not put you too off-balance?"

Padstowe considered, rocking his upper body back and forth to see how much it moved, and nodded.

"It will serve."

He then rolled onto his right side, supporting himself with his right hand as he pulled his knees in under his chest, then used his strength of his leghs to get him to his feet. Shall webe underway?"

"Do you want to hang on to my blanket, or will you be all right wi'out it?" Sharpe asked, wondering if Padstowe was going to cope with traveling in the state he was in.

His men - some of them anyway - were practically gawping from behind him; he could feel their eyes on his back.

Stephen smiled. "Sure, it even matches your uniform."

He pushed himself up, putting no weight onto his right leg. "Yes. I must go to thank the priest, and give him back his blanket - I will meet you all in front of the presbytery. Oh, bread and blood - I forgot - have the horses eaten?"

"I saw to that earlier today," said Padstowe. He had asked the priest before he had gone to sleep. He then turned to Sharpe.

"No, it will be more trouble riding with it," he said. "Thank you though. If I could have my overcoat that should suffice - and I shall still be wearing my uniform under it."

Stephen nodded, relieved, and began to make his slow way towards the building. The boy Perkins immediately ran over, with a backwards glance at Sharpe, and offered him his arm; Stephen gratefully took it. "Thank you, Perkins... Now, what's causing you to limp?"

Padstowe rolled his eyes. Did the man ever stop?

Sharpe glanced across at Cooper, who shot him back a hurt look.

"Yes, they have. Of course."

Right. "All right, lads, time to move out of this wonderful place and get back on the road. Harris and Cooper, you bring the horses out and help these two mount up. Hagman, you've got the best eyes of any of us. When we're out on the road, I want you to scout ahead, make sure the road's clear. You know the drill."

Only Perkins had taken Cooper's place. Probably just as well; he was more suited to the Doctor's size. Cooper clipped him round the head and received a scowl.

Sharpe moved closer to Stephen. "And while we're at it, you're General Wellesley's physician, you've just landed and we're escorting you to Lisbon." Which was no more than the truth; it just conveniently left out a few details...

"Perkins, did you sort your boots out or not?"

He got a worried look. "Yes, sir, but I ain't sure how long they'll hold up."

Bugger. Something else to slow them down.

Stephen nodded to Sharpe, impressed by the man's clear thinking. His own head was still throbbing. "Very well." He looked at Perkins. "If it is your boots that are playing up, sure, I have no need of the right shoe. The soles will be thinner than what you are used to, but if we are near to the same size, I would be happy to swap."

Well, it was a nice offer, but if they needed to go on foot or something, Maturin would need both shoes. He didn't say this though; there was no need to worry the doctor any more than necessary.

"If you're sure you don't mind them being worn to ribbons," he said instead. "Portuguese roads ain't like toll-roads in England, you know. But it's up to you two."

He left them to get on with it and went to reclaim his blanket.

After exchanging his words with the priest, Stephen and Perkins came out of the presbytery, Stephen wearing the less worn of the two boots on his left foot and a triumphant expression, Perkins looking henpecked, with his right boot tied to his pack and wearing Stephen's shoes.

Stephen still had the cloak that he had stolen from Prideaux's house, and was in two minds about whether to keep it; but he did not want to leave it in this village and unwittingly involve them further should a French patrol discover it, and it would be frightfully cold riding during the night wearing only a shirt and trousers. Perkins and the red-haired rifleman whom he had heard Sharpe call Harris helped him up onto his horse. He would have liked to have bid farewell to Marta, but they could delay not further - he had given Father Miquel one of his coins to pass on to her, and his thanks.