Padstowe's Lodgings

"You shall have to write fast if that is to be achieved; the army moves out the day after tomorrow."

"So soon?" Stephen looked down at the papers in dismay; it could never be done. Even with the cipher booklet, to crack which cipher to use, then to decode, then encode using the Admiralty's ciphers, and then to copy other, some of them up to three times, as well as all his other duties, and some sleep, for the love of God, was impossible - he needed five times that amount of time. But he suspected that some of the papers were written in a new, yet unbroken code, or more than one, and they would have to be attempted from scratch. He shook his head, then looked at Padstowe's folder. "Those pertaining to military matters are of the highest priority - Wellesley will need the information soon if he is to use it against the French in Porto."

The captain nodded.

"Then let us begin with those."

He extracted the cypher booklet and passed it to Stephen.

Stephen took the top piece of papers and squinted at it. "Could I trouble you for some more light?" He looked around for a spare candle.

Padstowe got up and fetched theother candle from his desk, along with the tinderbox. he struggled, unsuccesfully to get a light from the charred linen, and eventually just picked up the candle and lit it from the other.

Padstowe took the pen and ink; Stephen picked up a pencil, sharpened it, brushed the shavings aside and pulled a blank piece of paper towards him. This paper was long, unusually long - it was probably one of the homophonic ciphers of which the French were so fond. Wandering through the great cabin of the Surprise, he examined the homophonic ciphers: the booklet had contained four. Taking the first line, he began to work.

Padstowe began work on the uncoded papers - things he had glanced at on their way back - digesting the letters and reports, collating the essential information. Had he been less absorbed in his work he probably would have thought to change out of he dressing gown and at least put on shirt and trousers. He did not, however, and so remained a half-dressed figure next to an exceedingly grubby one, both heads bent over paper, working away ceaselessly and silently.

When his eyes couldn't bear darting from original to workings to copy and back any longer, Stephen put his fifth completed piece to the side and sat back. He rubbed at his eyes, pressing hard, and watched the dark corruscations for a minute. "Anything useful in yours?"

"A fair bit," Padstowe said, leaning back and stretching. "Mostly troop numbers and movements, distribution, artillery and cavalry... nothing sensational as of yet. You?"

Stephen pushed the papers towards him. "Possibly. I am shockingly ignorant when it come to the state of our two armies - I see the information, and I know it is significant, but I cannot place it within the larger picture without a more thorough understanding of the situation."

Padstowe took the pages and read down Stephen's notes, frowning as he struggled to decipher a few words of the doctor's handwriting, then his eyes widened.

"What is it?" Stephen looked at the upside down piece of paper, glancing at his notes in the margin. "That was a difficult one - they used a triple shifted Caesar lock. Can I know?"

"You can," Padstowe murmured, re-reading the line. "Because if it comes true then it shall effect the navy. According to this Bonaparte is encouraging Soult to complete the pacification of Portugal, as he is considering giving him command of a new Army of England in light of his recent achievements."

"Mother of God," said Stephen, reaching for his pencil and a penknife. "I must send this to the Admiralty. I thought he would not dare after Trafalgar, the monster."

"If we keep Soult busy in Portugal it may be a different story," Padstowe murmured. "If Sir Arthur wins back Oporto as he intends to do, then is able to push the French back towards Spain, Bonaparte shall have a new threat to think about before he thinks of turning his attention to England again. If."

"Then we must keep Soult busy in Portugal. Would any of this be useful in an offensive against Porto?"

"It might be useful if it means that Soult may be getting complacent," Padstowe said. "It gives us an idea of numbers as well. Beyond that, not much really. Only to remind us of the importance of speed."

Stephen nodded. "I won't be able to do the rest of the decoding alone, not before I need to... Would you mind attempting one? The booklet has many of the ciphers."

"Certainly."

Padstowe took hold of the book, flicking through the pages and comparing the sheet handed to him to try and find thecorrect cypher. He was a little out of practice, but he sould not have much of a problem.

Stephen was beginning to nod off by the end of the eighth decoded sheet, and the letters swam gently in the candlelight. He shook his head, the stabbing pain useful for something, and began the ninth. They were more than half way through the coded sheets now, and then he could rest, finally.

Padstowe looked up at that time and caught the nod of Stephen's head, then the shakes. He bit his lips for a moment, recalling the importance of speed, but also the practicalities of health; they had both been through a lot quite recently.

"It os getting quite late. Shouldyou like to retire after you've finished that sheet, doctor?"

[OOC: Because I'm tired too, and shall probably crawl off upstairs soon.]

"No, no. You need sleep more than me - since you got none last night." A disapproving look. "This needs to be finished before Wellesley leaves." Stephen sighed and finished his sentence. "I don't think I could bear it if the information became useless because we didn't decode it in time, after all we went through to get it. Will the General be leaving with the rest of the army?"

"He shall be," Padstowe said. He sorely needed his bed, but equally he did not wish frailties of the flesh to cause him to delay his duties. "That is why Headquarters is emptying; the Beau and his court will be going north with the army, which means there'll only be a third of the personnel there now left to hold the fort."

Stephen looked up from his sheet. "The Beau? I think I remember you called him that before..."

"Well, yes," Padstowe mumbled. It had been a slip of the tongue, considering he was used to bandying about the nickname with practically every other officer in Lisbon. "It's one of the names he's acquired - one of the politer ones."