Lisbon Harbour

"More darns in his linen than original material, 'eh?"

"Something like that."

Down on the deck of the ship Sir Arthur leaned on the taffrail, studiously ignoring Henry's aimless chatter and thought on what would be his first course of action when he got ashore. The journey had taken just over a week - remarkably good time considering that damned storm - but it was long enough to mean that he may be out of touch with events on land. To that end he had asked a select band of officers to meet him at the quayside so that he would be able to get things moving as soon as he set foot on dry land.

A flash of light caught his eye and he glanced up to see the reflection off the end of a telescope on the outer ramparts of the fort of Belem. From what he could tell it was directed straight at him and he frowned, glaring with annoyance at the viewer. Well, at least they would know he wasn't sunk...

Padstowe flinched back from the telescope lens he had borrowed again from Sharpe as the General's eyes focussed in on him. Dear Lord, it was frightening how the man could do that! True, Sir Arthur couldn't possibly tell who was watching at this distance, but still... He shook his head and turned to watch the small party of officers assembling at the quayside to welcome the General and his entourage.

"I should get down there," he said thoughtfully.

Sharpe took the telescope back. "I'll come with you," he said, though not without some trepidation. He was, after all, merely a Lieutenant, and that without a regiment at the moment.

Padstowe heard the note of uncertainty and turned to his companion, smiling.

"I shouldn't worry," he said. "Sir Arthur doesn't bite. Much. And just stay nice and quiet and respectful and the other jack puddings will ignore you."

With that he turned and started down the steps from the ramparts.

"Oh ha ha." Other officers never ignored Sharpe, unless they could make him more uncomfortable by ignoring him than by speaking to him. Nice, quiet and respectful he could do, though. He'd had enough practice at that when in the ranks, after all.

He followed Padstowe down from the ramparts towards the quay.

"No, quite honestly, Richard," said Padstowe, as they passed through the gates. "They'll all be too busy trying to make a good impression on Sir Arthur to take a snipe at you."

Why did Cotton always manage to get lumbered with the awkward errands? "Go and find Captain Padstowe," he'd been told, with no explanation of what the Captain looked like or where he might be found. Apart from he could do worse than look at the fort at Belem.

He skidded round a corner straight into someone wearing the coat and sash of an officer.

Padstowe gave an astonished cry as he was knocked backwards by the impact of the very solid person who had just run into him, falling to the floor to land hard on his rear and back on the cobbles, sending his hat flying.

"Damn it, man!" he snapped, though somewhat dazed and winded. "Bloody well look where you're going!"

It took a second for Cotton to regain his breath, and then the full horror of what he'd done dawned on him.

"I...I beg pardon, sir," he said, offering his hand to help the officer up.

"Well that at least is something," Padstowe muttered, taking Cotton's hand and groaning as he was hauled up. He took a moment to steady himelf, blinking and rubbing his sore rear. He then glared at Cotton. "Name?"

Cotton's heart sank a little. He was in trouble now... He straightened to attention and gazed into the middle distance.

"Rifleman Cotton, 60th Rifles, sir," he said, wondering how the hell he was going to get out of this one.

"And is there any particular reason, Rifleman Cotton, that you have taken it upon yourself to career around corners without a thought for who might be going in the opposite direction?"

The captain's tone was not in the least bit jovial.

Trouble was right. He'd cop it now, and probably cop it again later from his Sergeant. If not from his own officer...

"N...no, sir. Only, I was lookin' for someone, sir."

"Who?"

"A, uh, Captain Padstowe, sir."

Padstowe's eyebrows inched a fraction upwards.

"Well," he said calmly. "You've found me. What is your business?"

"I was to tell you, sir, that, well," he faltered under the officer's glare. "Sir Arthur's about to land, and I was sent to let you know, sir."

Padstowe exchanged a blank look with Sharpe.

"Thank you," he said to Cotton. "My compliments to whoever sent you; they are obviously a very observant individual."

Cotton glanced from one officer to the other, and decided to risk saying it. "He didn't know you was up at the fort, sir, or he wouldn't've sent me."

"Never mind." Padstowe sighed. He would probably regret it, but he could not help asking. "Who was it that sent you?"

How the hell was he to know the name of the officer who'd grabbed him? Officers didn't introduce themselves to common soldiers before sending them off on unnecessary errands.

"Dunno, sir, but he was a Major. In the Engineers, I think." He glanced at the Rifle officer standing behind Captain Padstowe's shoulder, decided it was all right and felt in his pocket. "He gave me this for you," he said, holding out a piece of paper torn from a notebook.

Padstowe took the piece of paper and frowned at the handwriting scrawled across it in pencil. As he deciphered it he let out an amused snort.

"Still want to come with me, Richard?" he asked, turning to Sharpe.

"Yes." He bent for Padstowe's forgotten hat and held it out to him. "If that's from Hogan, I'm surprised he didn't know you'd be up at the fort."