An Officer's Room in Belem

Stephen bent down by the bed as the orderlies carried the stretcher in. "It is very soon, Jonathan - are you sure you can be moved now?"

"Yes."

He was not sure, but he was determined that he should be moved from the public ward. Admittedly the numbers of other patients had dropped after the hurts of two days ago had healed, but it meant that those remaining were more seriously injured, and he grew tired of the groans and almost continual foul language. His head still felt fragile and he wanted peace and quiet.

At Stephen's nod, he and the orderlies slid their hands beneath Padstowe's body, while another, and the man Stephen recognised as the guard who had failed to stop Moreau held the stretcher.

"Handsomely, handsomely... now."

Padstowe steeled himself against the pain the move might cause, and forced himself to keep his features blank as he was lifted. He could not help a sharp intake of breath through his nose though, as he was lifted as his damaged shoulder shifted slightly.

"Good man, well done," Stephen muttered to Padstowe as the stretcher moved off. He had been woken than morning by Jonathan asking if he might be moved into a separate room, and Stephen had allowed himself to be convinced that the benefits would outweigh the brief pain of moving. He had thus splashed some water on his face and gone to kick up a fuss (but a friendly fuss, for he had a great respect for Mister Whiting, and the surgeon had said that he would check on the Captain personally in the afternoon), and now there was the short walk to the made-up room.

Padstowe did not trust himself to say anything as the stretcher was carried up the short flight of stairs into the room that had been prepared for him. He was transferred carefully over to the bed, and he gave a sigh of relief as the orderlies left.

Stephen looked around in satisfaction - it was almost exactly the same as the room he and Capitaine des Sablières had spent so much time in, less than two days ago, save for the table he had requested paced in the corner. It was light and airy, and it was private, which he suspected Padstowe cared more about. "A lovely little room, upon my word," he said to himself with a smile. "How are you feeling for that, Captain?"

"Better already." The captain gave Stephen a watery smile. It had been worth the discomfort.

"Sure, if we can move you on a stretcher in two days, in two weeks you'll be charging into battle, sword in one hand and axe in the other," Stephen said with a smile in return, leaning back in his chair. "Eat your stew, now. Once I've finished nagging you I can carry on with the papers."

It was also a small victory of Padstowe's that he had permitted stew so soon as well. Having regained his appetite that morning he had fast wanted to move onto something more substantial than soup, and now propped up slightly against the pillows, he eyed the bowl Stephen was holding eagerly.

Stephen handed the spoon to Padstowe, pleased by the return of his patient's appetite. The sleep had left him a little less raw, a little more distant, and more able to cope with that day. "Will you need help?"

Padstowe tried an experimental movement, lifting the spoon in his right hand up and down. A little sore, but bearable.

"No, I should be alright. If you could put the bowl on my lap?"

He could not yet twist, that caused too much pain; but small, simple up and down movements he could manage.

"It is hot - mind." Stephen folded up a blanket, and laid that across Padstowe's lap before he put the bowl down. "There you go, so."

"Thank you."

Padstowe dug his spoon in, blowing on the meat before chewing it and swallowing.

"How are you today?" He enquired, after the first three or four mouthfuls.

"Me?" Stephen's eyebrows went up in surprise. "Grand." He glanced over to make sure the door was shut. "I decoded about four pages last night, but that hardly makes a dent. Between them and you, I shall have a busy time of it."

"Yes," Padstowe swallowed what was in his mouth, looking guiltily down at the blanket. "I'm sorry for that. But if you were to bring some work here, I might...?"

He trailed off before the 'be able to help' - because it was a ridiculous suggestion and he knew it; there were far too many security risks involved, for both the papers and the doctor.

"Have you managed to see Captaine des Sablières yet?" he asked instead, changing the subject.

"Do not be sorry at all - you did your bit with the military sheets." He patted his pockets in vain; he could not smoke in the room for fear of making Padstowe cough. He'd allow himself a cheroot when he next went to relieve himself. "I have not seen him since I made the delivery to Wellesley - I last saw him the night I found you here. I will have to soon, though." In truth, Stephen dreaded going to see des Sablières, considering the news he would have to give him when he did.

"Best that he knows soon before he hears from another source," he said. Padstowe's next question was slightly hesitant in coming. "Do you think he will be able to be exchanged?"

"I doubt there will be many sources - a small number of men know, and even if they gossip, it would be difficult indeed for that knowledge to come back to Lisbon - most of your people are leaving the city, not coming back to it. I will go to him soon nonetheless. As to your question..." He sighed, looking up out of the window. "Do you have a genuine desire to know?"

"Yes, I do."

It was mainly his fault that Raoul was here in the process, and his honour was bound in Raoul's fair treatment. He was very much concerned for the outcome of the affair.

Stephen's eyes met Padstowe's. "I will delay his exchange for as long as I am able - I included a letter detailed my request and reasons to the General along with the papers."

"I see."

He had suspected that might be the case; the captain knew too much, though the longer he hung around the more he might find out.

"And his men?"

"One of them, Moreau, cannot be trusted. He attacked des Sablières, and hit me, so it might be that the army will solve that particular problem. The other four: Corbeille, Broussard, Aucoin, and Thierry," he said, counting them off on his fingers, "I think that they could be exchanged. The only one who has any understanding of our role, and what we were really doing, is the last, and if he survives he will immediately be sent back as a cripple."

He hoped that Padstowe understood that to release des Sablières would mean torture and death, for duty and loyalty would oblige the young soldier to share everything he knew, and to delay the exchange was the only choice available to him apart from killing him. He did not like it, he hated it, but it was the least of the evils presented to him.

"That is something, then."

At least the men would not be sent to rot in the prison hulks on the Medway. He also believed that if his men were seen right, des Sablières may forgive them. May.

Stephen did not reply, but looked out of the window again.

"Eat, Captain," he finally said, quietly. "Or it will be cold."