Lisbon Harbour

Cotton glanced from one officer to the other and bit his lip uncertainly. "Beg pardon, sir," he said hesitantly, "but is there any answer?"

"No. No answer," said Padstowe. "We'll deliver it ourselves."

He turned back to Sharpe, waving the paper under his nose.

"He was fairly certain that he'd find us together, though - considering that he asks me to bring you along with me."

"Bloody hell."

He glanced at Padstowe, then looked back at Cotton. "All right, Rifleman. Bugger off."

"Sir." Cotton saluted, then thankfully turned to make his escape.

"And Cotton?" Padstowe called to the departing rifleman.

Cotton stopped, turned and waited. "Sir?"

"Careful how you go if you're heading for the quayside - it would not be in your best interests to go flattening Sir Arthur, albeit out of a sense of zealousness to do your duty."

Cotton gaped at him, before recollecting himself. "No, sir. Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

He hesitated, wondering if he could go or not.

"Glad to hear it. Don't let me detain you any further."

"Thank you, sir." He saluted again and left.

Sharpe watched him go. "Nice lad, that," he said. "We'd better get moving before you stiffen up, sir."

Padstowe frowned at the 'sir'. No matter how often he reminded him that he was free to use his first name, Sharpe still sometimes automatically slipped back to 'sir' when he was not concentrating. He gave another pained rub to the small of his back.

"Perhaps we should, Richard," he said pointedly. "After all, we don't want to keep Major Hogan waiting..."

Down at the quayside the Verity had just passed out her mooring lines and Sir Arthur peered over the starboard rail, his blue eyes keenly scanning the faces of those standing below. There was Hill and crauford he could see, along with what looked like some Portugeuse and maybe Spanish officials standing at their sides. A respectful distance away stood a small knot of officers - mostly colonels and captains - the sight of which lifted a weight off the General's soul. Yet as he scanned the keen-looking faces there were a few there he did not recognise, and one missing that he had particularly wished to see.

"Sorry. I were in the ranks too long." Sharpe looked along the street. "They'll be waitin' for us."

Padstowe swore under his breath and quickened his pace into a jog.

"I'll have some bloody explaining to do if I'm not there!"

"Don't you go runnin' into anyone." Privately he thought it was as well Cotton had buggered off, because if Padstowe was late due to their unfortunate collision, the redcoat officer would probably tear a strip off him, then report him to his officer.

Which he might yet do...

Meanwhile Padstowe had broken into a sprint, clutching his hat to his head to keep it in place as he bellowed at a band of muleteers to get out of his way, somehow managing to weave through the beasts and out the other side like a sheepdog on market day before the astonished Portugeuse had time to react. He skidded wide round a corner, came to what would have been a screaching halt, and then walked the final hundred paces or so to where the other officers were waiting, standing as upright as he could manage, his lean chest heaving as he attempted to slow his breathing to a more regular pace.

Sharpe followed at a slightly more sedate pace, hoping Padstowe wouldn't flatten anyone in his turn.

He finally managed to dodge round the last mule and get out onto the quay. "You looked like all the devils of Hell was after you. It ain't that bad, is it?"

"It would have been," Padstowe said, making an effort to speak as normally as possible. "And I don't know about all the devils of Hell, but I'd certainly have suffered the wrath of God. But he's not ashore yet," He nodded in the direction of the gangway being run out from the ship. "So that means we're neither blessed nor damned... though I'll damn that fellow of a rifleman if he ever runs into me again!"

"I'm sure he didn't mean to run into you in the first place. He looked as though you were going to have him flogged and strung up." Sharpe sighed and straightened his shako.

"I think both would be a little excessive, Richard," Padstowe said, frowning. "I just hope that next time the fool looks where he's going."

"I'm sure he will," Sharpe said, though he was sure of nothing of the sort. He just hoped the Rifleman would manage to keep out of Padstowe's way for a couple of days.

"Padstowe! Sharpe!"

Both officers heads turned as Major Hogan detached himself from the small huddle on the quayside and strode over to them, a genial look on his face.

"So you finally made it then? Cutting it a bit fine, weren't you?"

"My apologies, sir," said Padstowe, dusting down his jacket. "We would have been on time, had I not had a run-in with a rifleman on the way here."

"A run-in?" Hogan queried.

"More that he ran into me. Damned fellow sent me flying."

"Dear me," Hogan raised his eyebrows at Sharpe with a hint of amusement. "You should learn to keep better control of your fellows, Richard. Can't have them knocking down officers left, right and centre."

Sharpe just looked at Hogan. "And who says he was one of mine, sir? There are rather more Riflemen in Lisbon thank just my lads, you know." He shot a look at Padstowe. "Besides, it was an accident, and he did apologise."

Padstowe attempted to supress the grin that was spreading across his face, but failed miserably.

"I'm sorry, Richard. I didn't mean to cause offence."