Lisbon Harbour

Sharpe smiled. "None taken. Only you managed to put the fear of God into the lad despite that."

He looked along the quay to where the ship was slowly coming to rest along the quayside. There were sailors bustling about with ropes and all sorts, getting her moored.

"We'd best be on our best behaviour. The General's goin' to be coming ashore any minute now, by the looks o' things."

"Best behaviour?" Padstowe queried. "That's novel to hear those words from your mouth, Richard."

"Indeed," said Hogan, smiling. "It's usually me who's telling him to behave - and not often successfully."

Sharpe looked from one to the other. "I'm always on my best behaviour where the General's concerned."

He pulled his jacket straight and settled his sword slightly more comfortably on his hip, and noticed the others smiling.

"What's so funny?"

Padstowe quirked an eyebrow at Sharpe.

"Are you nervous, Richard?"

Sharpe opened his mouth to deny it, closed it again and sighed.

"I reckon I might be, at that."

"But why?" Padstowe dropped his voice. "You've known him longer than any of us. Christ, you saved his life! He gave you your promotion."

Why did people always think that just because he'd saved the General's life they must somehow be great friends? It probably made it worse, in fact.

"He don't like being beholden to a gutter-born bastard," he said, trying to keep the words from sounding too abrupt. "I'll be lucky if I get more than a 'Good morning' out of him."

Padstowe opened his mouth to reply but was cut short by the sudden commotion at the dockside as the Verity, finally secured in her berth, ran out her gangplank and the first of the passengers began to disembark.

"I have a feeling you'll find out soon enough," Hogan muttered.

"Friendly-looking mob, Caesar," Henry murmured into his brother's ear as they made their way onto dry land, for which he earned a sidelong glare from the General. But perhaps Henry did have a point, Sir Arthur thought as the higher-ranking officers came to greet him. Crauford didn't look exactly happy to see him, and the Spaniard seemed positively thrilled.

Behind Sharpe, somebody muttered, "Ave Imperator, morituri te salutant," which drew a reproving glare from Hogan, who pushed forward a little so he could be seen.

It was at times like this that Sharpe felt most out of place, and he tried not to fidget.

"Hail emperor, those who are about to die salute you." Padstowe translated in a whisper for Sharpe's benefit. He shrugged. "That's the rough translation anyway."

"Oh?" Sharpe was grateful that, since they'd first met, Padstowe had never been condescending or patronising to him, though he wondered how much more explaining the man would do before finally snapping.

Padstowe shrugged.

"I think someone is being a tad facetious."

Whatever the hell that meant... only it was too late to ask as the General was ashore, greeting the Spanish and Portuguese who'd shown up, before turning his attention to the British.

Hopefully, he'd require nothing more from Sharpe than a 'Good afternoon, sir.' Especially if the Generals were going to put him into a bad temper.

Sir Arthur gritted his teeth as he was paid compliments by the Spanish and Portuguese officials, making the necessary pleasantries and bowing his head civilly. He could not bring himself to smile though, and his eyes kept flicking anxiously towards the officers.General Hill picked up on his C-in-C's obvious impatience, and the way the Spaniard was going on he decided to intervene before Sir Arthur lost his patience. He cleared his throat delicately.

"Thank you, senor. Sir Arthur is most flattered by your words of welcome - however we must get on with the preparations for the forthcoming campaign." Then to Sir Arthur. "If you would follow me, sir."

Sir Arthur cast Hill a look of thanks as he excused himself from the officials. However, he had not gone more than a few paces before he stopped dead, a look of astonishment on his face.

"God in Heaven!" he murmured.

Sharpe. Sharpe was standing amongst the officers next to Padstowe and an engineer he did not know. But... how...?

Sharpe felt extremely out of place, as the most junior soldier there, and far older than anyone else his rank anyway. He was wondering if it was possible to make his escape when he realised it was too late; the General was bearing down on Hogan, Padstowe and himself. The look on the General's face did not bode well...

"Something makes me think you've been noticed, Richard," Padstowe murmured into his companion's ears.

"I saw. Remind me why I'm here?"

"You asked to come..."

"So I did. I knew there was a reason..."

"What the devil is he doing here?" the General hissed, striding towards a very apprehensive-looking Sharpe.

"Sir?"

"Him, Hill! Sharpe!"

"Sharpe?" Henry asked, trotting to keep up with his brother. "Isn't that the fellow that -"

"Yes, it bloody well was! Don't make it any worse than it is, Henry!" Sir Arthur growled under his breath. "But what in God's name is he doing here?"

Sharpe found himself praying that the earth would open and swallow him up. This was not a good idea. Unfortunately, there as nothing he could do about it... Sir Arthur Wellesley was bearing down on him fast, and he looked most displeased.

If he looked like that when he'd only just got here, God knew what he was going to be like after two weeks here...

"Arthur," Henry whispered hurriedly. "Arthur, don't do anything foolish. I'm sure he has a perfectly good reason to be here."

The General slowed his pace somewhat, realising that Henry's words bore some sense, and that he was dangerously close to losing his dignity in public. He stepped through the huddle, the other officers parting quickly to get out of his way and he stopped in front of Padstowe, the engineer, and Sharpe, a thunder-cloud sitting over his head.

"Padstowe," he said, acknowledging the captain, who replied with a salute. He turned to glare at the rifleman. "Sharpe."

Sharpe saluted. His mouth had gone very dry, and he kept his gaze fixed on the middle distance.

He felt, in fact, exactly how that Rifleman must've felt earlier. At least he knew Sir Arthur, if an acquaintance of several years' standing could be called knowing.

Sharpe did not seem to be any happier to see him than he did to see Sharpe, Wellesley reflected. Perhaps Sharpe was equally as unhappy as he... It was not that he disliked Sharpe - though he would never admit it to anyone. Sharpe had surpassed all his expectations, had become a fine officer despite his prediction that he would waste away on drink, and had even kept the telescope... But whether Sharpe turned up Sir Arthur felt uneasy; felt that there was something more to that long-ago incident at Assaye when a humble sergeant saved a General's life, somehow felt that he was looking at a corner of a masterpiece but was unable to see the bigger picture. It had begun when his words of thanks had stuck in his throat. It was still happening now.

"I thought the 95th were in England," he said tersely.