Under guard in Lisbon

"About - early afternoon, I would have said. I had eaten luncheon, not long before they came, and ...." Raoul grimaced. "I was trying to sketch the view from the window, and the light was still very good, long afterwards."

"They were very good, you know," said Stephen, distracted. No new information. He would check Padstowe's lodgings again once he returned to Lisbon, to put his mind at ease.

"What were?" Raoul asked without thinking, and then, as he remembered his rifled sketchpad: "Oh, yes, thank you. It was Adrienne who was supposed to be taught drawing, but ... " Maturin was not thinking of the stork's nest, or the pictures of his horse and men. But on the other hand, he did not seem to be thinking about Raoul at all.

Stephen looked at des Sablières. "Hmm? Oh. No, I draw myself, a little, to complement my notes..." As did des Sablières, actually. "Dissections, specimens, that kind of..." He trailed off.

Would he draw Thierry's arm, dissect it and ... Raoul rejected the thought. It would be indecent, like cannibalism.

"It is a useful tool for so many trades - for a scout, of course." He glanced briefly at the doctor, then down again, "A builder of ships, an architect. How else will they get others to follow their designs? And for pleasure, of course. I would send them to my sister - people, places I had been to."

"Of course, of course... Your sister - Adrienne, yes?" They were walking through the cloisters now that ran around the courtyard, leading them into the hospital half of the Torre.

"Yes - of course, I wrote also to my parents, but I could speak more freely to Adrienne. I have not heard from them since August of last year. I have been writing, but whether the letters have reached home, I cannot say. But soon they will know at least that I am safe."

They paused at the door into the Torre. "Will I able to speak to Dr Whiting before I see them. If there is any bad news - any other bad news - I would wish to know it."

Stephen nodded. "I will introduce you." The two men stepped inside, blinking as their eyes grew used to the gloom again. "It is not crowded at all, nowhere near. They will be well cared for."

Raoul had not been sure what he had been expecting inside the Torre - something dark, cramped and damp, more of a prison than a hospital. But it was more like a monastery - airy, the warm sun diffused into a cool light from the high windows. It would be pleasant here, in the summer heat.

An orderly emerged from one of the room leading off this central hall, and stared at them. Raoul thought they made a strange pair - himself in the grey uniform of the French Hussars, hatless and swordless, but carrying a leather doctor's bag, and the doctor himself, in an old black coat crossed by a sword belt, with a rather disreputable wig, and a crutch.

Stephen waved to attract the orderly's attention. "Might I ask to be conducted to Mr. Whiting? He is here, I hope?"

The orderly nodded, staring at the Frenchman suspiciously. "He is just through here."

The man in the room was looking quite relaxed, measuring out some pink powder. He looked up and beamed when Stephen and des Sablières entered, and stood up, dusting off his hands. "Dr. Maturin, I presume? Dr. McGrigor wrote ahead to inform me that you would be coming - an honour, sir, honour," he said, enthusiastically pumping Stephen's hand up and down.

Stephen bowed in response. "Your servant, sir. May I introduce Capitaine des Sablières, of the Troisième Hussars?"

Raoul gave a brief military bow. Mr Whiting looked at him curiously, but then offered his hand, though with less enthusiasm that he had taken Maturin's.

He was quite happy to tell Raoul about his four wounded men - if there was such a thing as patient confidentiality, it clearly did not include withholding details from the patient's officer, French or British. Whiting glanced frequently at Maturin for approval or confirmation, but the news was as expected. Young Aucoin was making an excellent recovery, but Whiting would not have been in any hurry to transfer him to the other accommodation in the Torre, finding him pleasant and helpful. But Moreau had proved sullen and unco-operative. "His wound is healing, and he can walk. I should prefer to transfer him to the prison at once, and I think I cannot then let Aucoin stay. I was waiting only for Dr Maturin to see him, to give me his professional opinion."

As for Corbeille, Whiting was most hopeful. Mobility was fully restored and the wound was healing well. Because of its position the risk of infection meant that he would prefer the man to remain in his care for some time longer, to increase his chances of total recovery. It was, he said, one of the most remarkable case histories - an operation carried out in field conditions, a display of enormous knowledge and skill - he was full of admiration for Dr Maturin, and was determined that the hospital at Belem should not jeopardise the success of the operation. He hoped the doctor would be pleased with their care for his patient.

That news was good, but Whiting could be less positive about Thierry. There were signs of improvement, he hoped that any day now he would be able to announce that the corner had been turned, but it was still touch and go. And the arm was showing signs of infection, which, if allowed to spread, would assuredly kill him. Although he would be guided by Dr Maturin, he would suggest that they prepare the man for the operation as soon as possible - would Dr Maturin wish to perform it himself...

Raoul followed the two men as they entered the ward set aside for the French prisoners, with a guard sitting inside, a musket balanced across his knees.

Stephen bowed to Whiting's compliments, and told him that was certain of the excellent standard of care that McGrigor's recommendation of Whiting had led him to believe in.

They spoke to Aucoin first, who, despite a little shyness was holding up admirably - the pallor had disappeared and he was much more lively. The same could be said of Moreau, who noticeably snarled when he saw des Sablières with Maturin. Stephen examined him in silence - the bullet had missed the pelvis to be lodged in the flesh, and he could see where it had been removed. He looked up at Whiting and said "A wonderful piece of surgery, on my word. Very neatly done. Eum movete." Whiting bowed, then nodded to show he understood, and Stephen sadly bade farewell to Aucoin.

Raoul had visited his sick and wounded men in other circumstances. It was not always possible - if they were advancing, the sick were left behind to be cared for as well as possible, or they were sent to the rear, and he had had to wait until a lull to find out how they did. But then, recovery meant a return to the Company, which might not be what the man had hoped for, but at least could be treated as unalloyed good news.

He had to tell Aucoin that he had made an excellent recovery, thanks to the care of the British doctors, who were very pleased with his progress. The youngster smiled shyly, and said how kind they had been to him, so that he would be sorry to leave - when would that be, Capitaine? Moreau sat on the edge of his bed, listening unashamedly, a sneer on his mouth, and at this he forestalled Raoul's reply.

Leave here? You'll leave here for one of their stinking prisons, my lad, and you'll not be so grateful to them then."

Raoul's reply was addressed to Aucoin, who glanced at the man next to him with pain in his eyes. "Yes, you will have to be transferred to a prison, but it is in this building, and I am told it is not unpleasant. Broussard is there already..."

Moreau had stood up, glaring at Raoul across Aucoin's bed. "But not you, eh, mon Capitaine. You're not locked in a cell, but free to come and go. Got a nice billet, have you?" He spat, only just missing the bed. "Until it's time for you to be exchanged for another officer. Or do you plan to sit the war out in England?" His voice was rising, and the sentry, probably unable to understand the words, had risen to his feet warned by the tone of Moreau's voice.

Whiting did not understand French, but he was perfectly capable of understanding Moreau's tone, posture and actions - Stephen held him back, stepping forward. He was reluctant to interfere in an argument between des Sablières and one of his men, but he was thinking of the mutiny, and the danger Moreau still posed. Aucoin was becoming distressed; Stephen put a hand on his shoulder and patted it, ignoring Moreau and des Sablières. "Never fear, Aucoin. I have been in a number of prisons in my time, and this one is clean and even comfortable. You will be in much the same condition as you are here, but with slightly less space and a little more security. It will not be so bad, hm?"

Raoul moved round the foot of Aucoin's bed to confront Moreau. His words had stung because there was an element of truth in them. As an officer, he might hope to be paroled, to live a fairly free life bound only by his word, and his chances of exchange were better than those of his men. But exchanges for other ranks were not unknown. And if they were to be arranged, he would do what he could for them. He glanced Maturin, but felt reassured when he saw how he responded to Aucoin's distress. He would do what he could for them, no matter what.

"Sit down, Moreau!" he said. "You are being treated better than most prisoners of war - better than an English prisoner could expect. And you will continue to be treated well, thanks to the kindness of the staff here. And in gratitude for that, you will behave yourself." Or find yourself not being treated well - a prisoner could be charged with mutiny, and punished. "I hope that we will all be able to be exchanged - maybe not immediately, but soon." And if the British advance failed, there might be a chance. "And that, Trooper Moreau, will be as welcome to me as it is to you."

It was unlikely to be his words, but Moreau sat back down, saying: "We'll see, Captain, what happens then."

Raoul ignored him and asked Maturin: "Thierry and Corbeille, you have examined them?"

"No, captain - I thought you might like to be present." Stephen stared at Moreau. As soon as they went north, Maturin would relinquish all control over his patients to Whiting. And Moreau would no longer be his patient. "Your captain offers sage advice, Moreau. You would do well to heed it, and behave."

"He will not - or perhaps he will understand being in prison better than the softness of being in hospital," Raoul said softly. "I realize now that only some of the men followed me, men like Thierry and Corbeille and Samson I can swear to - others followed the Sergeant. While he obeyed me, all was well - I thought I had my men's loyalty, but when Brissac went, those men turned against me. I had never seen it like that before."

Corbeille was sitting up with a reassuring smile on his face, which warmed Raoul. Beyond him, the pale face of Thierry, with dark eyes that looked towards him in silent enquiry. Raoul smiled at him as confidently as he could, and touched his shoulder before turning back to Corbeille, whose first words were, characteristically, about the other man: "He is better, Captain. We were really worried there for a time, poor old fellow. But you can see it now, he's going to make a fight of it, and even Death won't win a fight Thierry wants to win."

Raoul smiled gratefully at him. "And I can see how much better you are. The doctor has come with me from Lisbon to see you for himself. Doctor Maturin?"

Stephen smile at Corbeille, pleased both by the man's return to health and his concern for his comrade. "Monsieur Corbeille, I am amazed: a grand recovery, upon my word - I give you joy of it. I have always said that I would be out of a job if we could prescribe cheerfulness, and I have the living proof before me. Would you sit up for me now, and swing your legs?"

Corbeille shifted round on the bed, and sat with his legs dangling. He kicked out first one and then the other, and then, grinning, swung them from side to side. "See, doctor. I'll be as right as rain in a few days. I thought I'd bought it when it happened, so you could say you did prescribe cheerfulness for me, getting that damned ball out." He looked up at Raoul and then added, turning to the doctor: "And if you could give some to our young Captain here - he looks as if he could do with it."

Raoul avoided looking at Maturin. "I am cheerful enough - it does me good to see you better, and ... "

Corbeille nodded sympathetically. "Of course, it's a rough time, and you've still much to worry you. But we'll do well now - won't we, doctor? The legs are fine now."

Watching the strong swing like a child studying a pendulum, Stephen said "You may stop; I am delighted. You will be walking in a few days." Stephen paused for a moment before nodding with a smile. "I will do my best for your Captain, Monsieur Corbeille. I owe him a great deal. And you will do very well indeed, I hope. You legs were never damaged at all - the pain and paralysis was due to the ball pressing down on your sciatic nerve. In medicine, as in life, sometimes the true evil is not where it appears to be, creating unwarranted pressure, pain and paralysis on a seemingly unrelated limb."

His eyes flickered to des Sablières. He was sure there was some detail in the man's words, particularly those concerning Ickx, the significance of which he had not fully realised.

Raoul spent a few more minutes with Corbeille, promising to take a message to Broussard, to bring back any messages from him, to reassure him that he, Corbeille, would be joining him shortly, that he was well, that the others were... Then Corbeille pushed at him, smiling: "But the doctor is wanting to look at Thierry, and he is waiting for you. He's not here much of the time, poor soul, but he'll hear you. He asked about you earlier, when he first came round, and I said - "The Captain's well, don't you fret." And now he can see it for himself."

Thierry was watching him, and a smile could be seen behind the moustaches. Speaking was difficult for him, his breath still short and painful. "Captain," he said, as if to reassure himself. "Yes, I'm here, old chap - and you're doing fine." He looked up at Maturin. "Let the doctor look at you. He is a worker of miracles, and you are here to prove it." He slipped back into English to say: "If it must be, Doctor, I will tell him."

Stephen bent low, moving the arm as little as possible, but examining in detail, and sniffing where the wound was open. "It must."

Mr. Whiting nodded. "I thought so - the characteristic necrosis. I will assist, if you wish."

"Thank you. I think we might get away with transhumeral." Stephen turned to des Sablières. "I am very sorry, Captain, but this is his best chance for life." He was perfectly capable to telling Thierry what must be done, and in far more technical vocabulary that des Sablières would manage, but he stood back.

Raoul crouched down by the bed, so that he could look directly into Thierry's eyes. There was understanding in them, and affection.

"Listen, my friend. I owe you my life, and I would do anything for you." He took the man's good hand in his. "You are going to live, understand, because I forbid you to die. But the arm - the arm will kill you." Thierry frowned in concentration and the further shoulder twitched. His mouth twisted in pain. "Hurts. Useless." His good hand gripped Raoul's. "It hurt," he said clearly. "Yes," Raoul glanced up towards Maturin, and then down. "The doctor must take the arm, Thierry. Do you understand?" Thierry nodded, then closed his eyes for a moment. "Like Dassin?" Dassin's arm had been shot away by an artillery ball, just below the shoulder. Thierry had been there when he died from loss of blood. "No. You will not die. The doctor will make all neat for you. And then you can concentrate on getting well, and going home."

Thierry's dark eyes studied his for a moment and then he nodded, and seemed to drift away. Raoul laid his hand down and stood up. He was not sure what Thierry had to return to, but that was for the future.

"We are ready," he said.

Stephen nodded. "Mr Whiting, if you have the laudanum, we shall start with thirty drachms." He had amputated many limbs in his past, but usually the patient was lying on his back - the reversal caused him a moment's pause. "I have ligatures, catling and saw, but we will need the iron. The chains also."

He bent down beside the bed so that his face was level with Thierry's, and switched to French. "Now, Thierry, we are about to attack the malignancy. There will be pain, but only for two minutes, and the liquid you are drinking now will diminish it greatly. Your capitaine will hold you hand - we are holding you down with these chains here to minimise your movement. Be of good heart." He took his coat off and rolled his shirt sleeves up past the elbow, taking the second leather apron, Whiting having taken the first before giving the laudanum to Thierry. His catling was sharp, but while the drug came into effect he put an even more wicked edge on it.

Raoul knelt down again, and Thierry fixed his eyes on him. He took his hand, as Whiting passed chains across the bed and Thierry's body, avoiding the wound on the back. He was aware of Corbeille behind him murmuring a prayer, and it seemed like a good idea, but Thierry would only be embarrassed. So he merely tightened his grip, and watched as the laudanum dulled the brightness in the dark eyes.

When the activity started on the other side of the bed he spoke, attempting to distract Thierry, and himself, saying how it would soon be done, that Thierry should not worry, all would be well, how bravely he was bearing in. At first he had been restraining Thierry's hand, but by the end Thierry was gripping his so tightly that he could not move. Eventually the heated irons were applied, a burning, and sizzling, and Thierry blinked, then grimaced and closed his eyes.